As usual, Spike went crazy when the pack loped in, which gave me the opening I needed to tackle Doc.
“Could you send them out?” I called out over Spike’s hysterical barking and the good-natured barks and yaps of the others. Doc complied, gently shooing out the other dogs.
“About this aggression reduction thing,” I said when the reception room was quiet again, except for Spike’s occasional triumphant bark at having caused his foes to flee.
“He isn’t going to learn to interact peacefully with the other dogs as long as he’s locked up like that,” Doc said.
“If business is slow, I’d be happy to let him out,” I said. “On one condition, though: you have to give the dog owners on staff a group discount on patching up any damage he inflicts.”
Doc chuckled as if he thought I were kidding. “Let me talk to him,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small chunk of soy burger. He squatted down in front of Spike’s cage and held it out in his right hand. “There’s a good boy,” he cooed.
Spike cowered in the back of his cage as if terrified by the sudden appearance of food-bearing fingers at the door of his prison. Doc waggled the soy burger enticingly until Spike condescended to creep forward far enough to sniff at the food. I noticed he wasn’t in any hurry to gobble it up.
“You see,” Doc said, looking up at me. “He’s really a very - arrrrrrr!”
As soon as he realized Doc wasn’t watching him, Spike lunged forward to snap, not at the food, but at Doc’s left hand - he’d carelessly curled his fingers through the wire mesh to balance himself.
“Sorry about that,” I said, opening the drawer where we kept one of the office first aid kits.
“He needs… a great deal of work,” Doc said, holding out his hand so blood wouldn’t drip on his clothes. Of course, this meant he was dripping on the carpet.
“Maybe you could hold it over the newspapers?” I suggested.
“Blood can be washed out very easily,” Doc said, frowning. “I’m sure whoever cleans your offices kncfws how.”
“Yes, but it would almost be easier to do it myself than to get them to do it,” I said, offering him the Band-Aid selection. “Not to mention the fact that you’re bleeding along the mail cart’s path.”
“Given all that, maybe this isn’t die best place to keep a dog with an aggression problem,” he said. I noticed he wasn’t calling Spike a poor little diing anymore.
“Speaking of aggression reduction,” I said. “Your program sounds like a good idea to me, but I’m not the one who has to make the decision. Do you have any information I can send to his owner? A brochure, maybe some credentials?”
He opened his black bag and began pulling out papers, including a framed copy of his veterinary school diploma. Fifteen minutes and a trip to the copy room later, I had all the information I wanted about Doc’s aggression-reduction program, and, more important, about Doc himself. Although he was either older than me or much more weathered, he’d graduated from veterinary school only two years ago. Definitely a midlife career change - and he was cagey about what he’d done before going to veterinary school.
“I’ll get back to you after I check with Mrs. Waterston,” I said as Doc hoisted his black bag.
“Wonderful,” Doc said. “I’m sure the aggression-reduction therapy will be just the thing.”
With that, he exited.
“Aggression-reduction therapy? Who’s that?”
I looked up to see one of the therapists looming over my desk: the assertiveness guru who was always feuding with Dr. Brown. Though perhaps they weren’t feuding any longer; he was holding a pink Affirmation Bear in one large hamlike hand.
“Dr. Clarence Rutledge,” I said. “He does aggression-reduction therapy for - “
“Nonsense!” the therapist snapped. “I know everyone in the field, and I’ve never heard of him. What kind of credentials does he have?”
I handed over my photocopy of Doc’s diploma.
“This man’s not a psychotherapist!” he shouted, ripping the diploma in quarters and throwing the pieces in my face. “He’s a bloody horse doctor! He has no business tinkering with the human mind!”