“To Put It To Sleep?” I Asked.
“Yes,” replied the owner. “I don’t need him.”
The puppy was tugging at my apron with its sharp teeth. In its bright, mischievous eyes, there was no trace of concern. The strange smells of the office didn’t scare it, nor did the unfamiliar man in the white coat, nor its owner who had decided to dispose of it in the most radical way.
“But he doesn’t have any health or aggression issues,” I tried to convince the woman.
“So what?” she snapped. “I don’t need him.”
The truth was, the puppy did have a problem. And a big one. It turned out to be a mutt, and not an attractive one. At six months old, all puppies are a bit awkward, because they lose their infant shapes but aren’t yet fully grown. This little dog had been bought at the market as a griffon: a small dog with a short snout, rough coat, and cheerful temperament.
He had those characteristics, but he had already surpassed the typical griffon size and was inching toward the size of a medium schnauzer. His protruding lower jaw gave him a boxer-like appearance, while one ear stood up and the other flopped, reminiscent of a German shepherd. His stiff coat stood up at unexpected angles. I think if he entered a “world’s ugliest dog” contest, he’d certainly make the top five.
“I wanted a small dog,” the owner lamented. “And they gave me this monster.”
“Purebred dogs aren’t bought at the market,” I responded, uttering the cliché with a heavy tone.
“I know! Do you know how much they cost from breeders?” she shot back.
“I know,” I said, anger creeping into my voice.
I began thinking. There were three solutions. The first, the most tempting: throw a jar of green paint at the woman and make her suffer for a week. But the consequences would be severe: a police call and problems for the clinic. The second option was less drastic: simply tell her coldly that we don’t euthanize healthy animals. But that would make her either look for another clinic or abandon the dog in the street. And it was January… The third option was the most complicated. I sighed heavily and called the animal shelter.
“Hello, Święto. Can you find a new owner for this puppy? He’s six months old, looks like a mix of a boxer and terrier, ugly as I do after a night shift, but friendly.”
I sent a photo. Can you take him? What? Do you have space again? Alright, he can stay with me for now. Just hurry up, okay? The clinic boss can’t stand him.
I hung up. I looked at the owner, who was watching me, surprised. I thought, “She’s just not going to give up the dog.” We had to find another way.
“Well,” my voice was colder than ice, “I can’t euthanize him, but since it’s Christmas, the fee will be double. Also, there’s a charge for body transport and cremation. We have to store the body in the fridge too. The transport arrives on Monday, you know, with the holidays.”
“What? What insolence is this?” her lips twisted in a grimace.
“I agree, it’s insolence,” I replied. “But I’m not the one who sets the prices. To save you money, I suggest you sign a waiver to give the dog up. I’ll take him to the shelter, where they’ll find him a new owner.”
“A new owner?” Her eyes almost popped out of her head. “Who would want such an ugly dog?”
“Or maybe,” a flicker of suspicion crossed her face, “it’s a rare breed? And you’re going to sell him for a lot of money?”
I thought about the jar of green paint, but a voice inside me stopped me: “Calm down… calm down… you can’t throw paint on clients, or push them out the window, or speak rudely. I am a professional! I am a professional!”
“You can sell him at the market,” I said. “Has he had his vaccinations?”
“What vaccinations?” The woman was already dizzy.
She couldn’t understand that I wanted to save the puppy simply out of compassion and was looking for a trick. “Do I have to pay for vaccinations? And without them, I can’t sell him?”
“Try it,” I responded indifferently. “They’ll fine you if something happens.”
“No!” She took off the collar and stuffed it in a bag, pushing the dog toward me. “Take that monster. He already chewed up all my furniture. What do I have to sign?”
I took the photo of the puppy and sent it to Święta. He promised to post it online right away. I fed him and put him in a cage at the hospital. No more visits. I sat back to watch the door and started singing. I have the habit of cheering myself up with music. Two or three songs with my slow baritone, and life becomes bearable. The key is watching the door to avoid scaring the clients.
“U-u-utro tuma – a – noe, u – u – tro siedo – o – oe,” I sang.
“Wow!” I heard from the cage.
“Marvel, you can sing?” I was surprised. “Ah, I know your name now: Marvel! Let’s sing together.”
We sang “Utro,” then “Czarny wron,” and in “Wyjdę w pole z koniem,” we did so well that I didn’t notice the door opening. At the sound of applause, I jumped in terror.
“Bravo, bravo,” laughed the elderly man who entered without me seeing him. He was my friend, a client, and a doctor, Aleksander Iwanowicz, to his friends, Szurik.
“Szurik, you scared me!”
“You scared me! I was passing by and heard howling. I thought you had collapsed. I came in to see if you needed professional help.”
“I need it! Can you take the dog for a week or two? The shelter has no space.”
“Oh, how clumsy I’ve been… You know, after Muchtar’s death, I don’t take any more dogs…”
Muchtar we buried last year, Szurik and I. The dog took half of his owner’s heart. But I had to place this puppy, so I put a little pleading in my voice.
“Just for a while, imagine it’s a patient you place until there’s a bed in therapy!”
“Don’t remind me of beds! Don’t remind me of work, Aybolit, oh, illustrious vet. What breed is he? He’s ugly…”
“Rare breed! A unique specimen. He was brought here to be euthanized.”
“And you let him go again?”
“Again.”
“You’re a good person, Aybolit!”
“Not much. I almost threw the green paint on that old lady.”
“No acid, no. Well, take your dog. Just for a day or two, no more. What’s his name?”
“Just Marvel. But you can come up with another one.”
“Why? Good name. It fits him well. Do you have a leash?”
“We’ll make something up. She took everything.”
“That woman is a case. Well, put the collar on while I dignify myself. What were you singing together?”
“‘I’ll go out at night with my horse!’”
“I’ll try it too. But remember, a week at most. As soon as something frees up, call!”
A few days later, when there was space, I called Szurik.
“You know what, I’ll keep the dog,” my friend replied. “I won’t sell him for anything now. We make concerts at night. My wife laughs again, and since Muchtar died, she hasn’t laughed much. The dog, though ugly, is a show. He brings shoes, dances, understands everything. Too bad he chewed up all the stools, but it doesn’t matter. The grandkids come almost every day, used to come once a month. Thanks, buddy!”
I hung up the phone and looked out the window. It was snowing, and the New Year lights flickered dimly. Miracles happen when you least expect them… The rescued puppy, Szurik laughing again, and me, the vet, an accidental intermediary between those two fates. How well it turned out! The landline phone rang. My assistant Mila picked up the receiver.
“Veterinary clinic, good morning. Yes, we’re open today. Sure, bring him in. I can’t say anything on the phone; we’ll see him in person.”
I looked away from the snow and glanced at Mila.
“Accident. Dog. Probably a fracture.”
“Prepare the operating room, Mikołaj. Today is a good day. Let’s try not to ruin it.”