“Euthanize him?” I asked.
“Well, yes,” replied the owner, “I don’t need him.”
The puppy was tugging at my robe with his sharp little teeth. In his bright, mischievous eyes, there wasn’t a trace of worry. He wasn’t scared by the strange smells of the examination room, the unfamiliar person in a white coat, or his own owner, who had decided to dispose of him in the most radical way.
“But he has no health problems, nor is he aggressive,” I tried to convince the woman.
“So what? I don’t need him!”
The puppy did have a problem. A big one. He turned out to be mongrel and ugly. At six months, all puppies look a bit awkward because they lose their cute baby shapes but haven’t yet grown into adult proportions. This little dog had been bought at the market as a griffon—a snub-nosed, small dog with rough fur and a playful temperament.
The puppy showed all the signs of the breed, but by now, he had outgrown the largest griffon and was steadily approaching the size of a schnauzer. His large lower jaw with an overbite gave him a resemblance to a boxer, and his huge ears—one standing, one drooping—looked like they belonged to a shepherd dog. His stiff fur stuck out in unexpected angles. I think if he were entered in a “Most Ugly Dog” contest, he would’ve made the top five.
“I wanted a small dog,” the disgruntled woman continued to whine, “and I got this freak.”
“Pedigree dogs aren’t bought at the market,” I gloomily stated the obvious truth.
“Well, yes! Do you know how much they cost at a kennel?”
“I know,” I said bitterly.
And then I thought. There were three ways out of this situation. The first one was highly tempting: pour a bottle of brilliant green on her so that she’d be scrubbing it off for a week. The only thing holding me back was the consequences of calling the police and the clinic getting into trouble. The second option was less radical: simply tell the woman, in the coldest tone, that we don’t euthanize healthy animals. The consequences wouldn’t be pleasant either—she’d likely find another clinic or just throw the dog out on the street. And it was a frosty January… The third option was the most troublesome. I sighed heavily and called the animal shelter.
“Hi, Svet. Can you find an owner for a puppy? Male, six months old, looks like a mix of bulldog and terrier, ugly as I am after a night shift, but friendly. I’ll send a picture. Can’t take him in? What, your box is full again? Okay, he’ll stay with me for now. But hurry, okay? The clinic owner doesn’t approve.”
After hanging up, I looked at the owner. She was looking at me with a surprised expression. “She won’t just give up the dog like that,” I thought. “I’ll have to find an approach.”
“Alright then,” I said, my voice colder than the frozen window outside, “I can’t euthanize him, but since it’s the holidays, the price will be doubled. You’ll also need to pay extra for the removal of the body and cremation. And for storing the body in the fridge, too. The removal truck will only come on Monday. You understand, it’s New Year’s break.”
“What’s this? What nonsense?” the woman’s face twisted in disgust.
“I agree: it’s nonsense,” I replied. “But I don’t set the prices. So, to save you money, I suggest you sign a waiver of the dog. I’ll transfer it to the shelter where they’ll find him a new owner.”
“A new owner?” The woman’s eyes bulged. “Who needs him, looking like that?”
“Maybe,” I said, “it’s a rare breed? You could sell him for a high price.”
I mentally slapped my hand away from the bottle of brilliant green. The thought came to me: “Calm… calm… you can’t pour green stuff on clients, throw them out the window, or swear. I’m a professional! I’m a professional!”
“You can sell him at the market,” I said. “Has he had his vaccinations?”
“What vaccinations?” The woman’s head was spinning.
She couldn’t understand that I was saving the puppy purely out of humanitarian concern, and she was looking for a catch. “Do I have to pay for the vaccinations too? Can’t I just sell him without them?”
“Try it,” I said indifferently. “You’ll pay a fine if anything happens.”
“No way!” The woman took the collar off the puppy, shoved it into her bag, and pushed the dog toward me.
“Take this miracle. He’s already chewed up all the furniture. What do I need to sign?”
I took a photo of the puppy and sent it to Svet. She promised to post it on the website immediately. I fed the dog and put him in a cage in the ward. There were no more visitors, so I sat comfortably, keeping an eye on the door, and started to sing. I have this habit of improving my mood with a song. Two or three romantic ballads sung in my thick baritone, and life became bearable again. The key was to keep an eye on the door so I wouldn’t scare off clients.
“O-o-o, morning foggy, o-o-o, morning pale,” I sang.
“Wow!” came from the cage.
“You can sing, huh?” I was surprised. “Well, I’ve got an idea for your name. Miracle! Alright… let’s do a duet!”
We sang “Morning,” then “Black Raven,” and by the time we got to “I’ll Go Out in the Field with My Horse,” we harmonized so well that I didn’t notice the door opening. So, when applause erupted, I jumped in shock.
“Bravo, bravo!” a breathless, elderly man said, laughing uncontrollably as he stepped into the room. It was my friend, client, and doctor Alexander Ivanovich, whom everyone called Shurik.
“Shurik, you scared me!”
“You scared me! I was passing by, and I heard howling! I thought you’d finally lost it. I just stopped by to see if you needed professional help.”
“I do need help! Can you take this beast in for a week or two? The shelter is full again.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t have offered… You know, after Mukhhtar’s death, I don’t take in any dogs.”
Mukhhtar had been buried last year. The dog had taken half of his owner’s heart with him. But the puppy had to go somewhere, and I added a pleading note to my voice.
“But it’s just temporary! Until a spot opens up. Think of it like a patient who was shoved into your ward until a therapy bed becomes available.”
“Don’t mention beds! Don’t remind me of work, Dr. Aibolit. What breed is this, anyway? It’s some kind of scary dog…”
“This is a rare breed! A one-of-a-kind. I haven’t come up with a name for it yet, so feel free to make one up. It was brought in to be euthanized.”
“You left it again?”
“Yep.”
“You’re a good guy, Aibolit!”
“Not really. I almost splashed that woman with green dye.”
“Well, it’s not acid. Alright, I’ll take your dog for a day or two, no more. What did you two sing, anyway?”
“We’ll go out at night with my horse!”
“I’ll try too. But remember, only a week! As soon as something frees up, call me!”
When a few days later a spot became available, I called Shurik.
“You know what? Forget about your shelter,” Shurik said. “I won’t sell this dog for any money now. We have concerts every evening! My wife is laughing so hard, she’s about to die. After Mukhhtar died, she barely smiled. This dog, though, is so funny! He brings slippers, dances, understands every word! Sure, he chewed up all the stools, but who cares? The grandkids come over almost every day now, and they used to visit once a month! Thanks, buddy!”
I put the phone down and looked out the window. Snow was falling outside, and the New Year’s lights glowed dimly in the window frame. Miracles happen when you least expect them… The saved puppy, Shurik laughing again, and I—the veterinarian—were just a random link between their two fates. How wonderfully it all turned out! The phone rang. My assistant Mila picked it up.
“Vet clinic, hello. Yes, we’re open today. Of course, bring him in. No, I can’t tell you anything over the phone, we’ll check it out on the spot.”
I looked up from watching the falling snow and glanced at Mila.
“Car accident. Dog. Likely a fracture.”
“Prepare the operating room, Mila. It’s going to be a good day. Let’s not spoil it.”