Lawyer for the Dog (11 page)

She didn't disappear all of a sudden; it's more like she dissolved little by little, so slowly I hardly noticed—like an old color photo gradually fading until one day you can't see it at all—and yet I still expect to see her when I look in the mirror.

This afternoon, as I drive to the vet's office, I try to let her go, try to concentrate on the traffic. It's bumper to bumper across the Ashley River and down Folly Road, but it eases up after I cross the Wappoo Cut and turn onto Maybank Highway, over the Stono River Bridge and then onto Johns Island.

The island isn't what it used to be. The developers have chopped up the old farms, turned them into places with faux antebellum houses and ostentatious names—“Palmetto Plantation,” “Eagle Landing,” “The Estates at Mackay's Point”—but eventually these give way to stubbled fields and brick bungalows, rundown roadside restaurants.
Turn right at Buzzy's Barbecue
, he'd said,
and come on down about a quarter mile. You'll see my building, one story, concrete block, kind of beige. I should be finishing up about five.
The sign out front,
VETERINARY
CLINIC
, is small and plain, a sort of anti-advertisement, half-hidden behind a bush.

Inside, the smell of disinfectant can't mask the odor of animal, a rich olfactory mix both ancient and fresh, that seems to have permeated the whole place. I imagine the thousands of dogs and cats who've come and gone in this place, the young and healthy who were brought for their shots, the injured and sick and old, the ones who'll be put to sleep, but this close to closing time there's only one dog—a dachshund—who jerks against her leash when I come in.

“Hillary! Sit!” says the owner, a woman slumped in one of the green plastic chairs as if she's been here a while.

The receptionist slides the glass window open when she sees me. “You're Ms. Baynard, right? He's with an emergency right now, and then he's got one more patient.”

“Fine,” I say, though I'm annoyed. The stack of magazines isn't promising:
Cat World
,
Sporting Dog
,
Able's Veterinary Supply
, and
People
.

The woman with the dachshund leans toward me. “Here, I'm finished with this one,” she says, handing me a catalogue,
PetStuff.
“It's old, but they got some neat things in here.”

“Thanks.”

“You picking up your pet?”

“No.” I don't want to tell her I'm a lawyer. That can be dangerous, because the next question will be,
What kind of lawyer
? And if I tell the truth,
I wonder if you'd mind answering a question? I have this girlfriend who's not happy in her marriage …
It's amazing how many girlfriends have trouble in their marriages.

“Dr. Borden's been taking care of my Hillary for years. He's just the sweetest, kindest man. So sad, what happened.”

I have no idea what she's talking about. I flip through the catalogue. There's a dog ski jacket on sale for $39.95. Pink or blue. I wonder what kind of person buys a ski jacket for a dog.

She continues: “His ex-wife moved to California, took their son. The doc hardly sees him anymore.”

I'm about to mumble a noncommittal answer when the receptionist calls out, “Hillary, we're ready for you.” The dachshund jumps to attention, then remembers where she is and freezes until her owner coaxes her through a door leading back into the clinic.

I open my briefcase, get out a legal pad, and start a to-do list.

Work:

Prepare for Vogel trial

Draft motion to bifurcate in
Hart v. Hart

Send out discovery requests, Silber case

Schedule meeting of Pro Bono Committee

Revise Follett brief

Write letter to J. Johnson re: past due bill

Other:

Schedule Mom's appt with Dr. Payne

Refill prescriptions

Call dishwasher repair guy

Haircut

Dry cleaning

I keep a to-do list on my phone, but it's always so long that it discourages me. This handwritten list seems less threatening, though I always feel there's something I'm forgetting.

In the early days of her Alzheimer's, my mother kept lots of lists. When she started to include things like “brush teeth” and “wash face” I knew there was something really wrong. And then she began to lose the lists. I'd try to console her: “Mom, don't worry about it. If you forget something, I'll remind you.” But she panicked. She'd roam from room to room, tearing through piles of papers, looking under magazines, even through the underwear in her dresser, for the lost lists. She'd cry. Sometimes she'd scream. That's when I hired Delores.

The receptionist opens her window again. “I'll be leaving now,” she says. “But he shouldn't be much longer. You want a Coke or some water or something?”

“No thanks.” I look at my watch. I've been here an hour already.

I go back to the catalogue
,
skim through the pages of dog food choices, move on to the toys. There's a “bone” that floats on water, a special line of “fitness toys,” and then a page of Martha Stewart toys for pets. “Unbelievable!” I say aloud, just as the vet opens the door. He looks exhausted, his blue scrubs covered with stains and animal hair.

“I told you that stuff is really neat, huh?” says the lady to me. “If you go online you can get coupons.” Her dog is eager to leave the clinic and pulls her out the door.

“Sorry you had to wait,” says the vet. “Just give me a minute to wash up and change.”

“No problem.”

He comes back in a plaid shirt and blue jeans. He's tall, trim. “I haven't eaten all day. Mind if we talk over dinner?”

I've already arranged for the night sitter to take over when Delores leaves. “Okay.”

“There's a pretty good seafood place not far down the road.”

“That's fine.” No need to go into the vegetarian thing.

“I can drive you over there and bring you back. Provided you don't mind a messy truck.” It's an old pickup. “Just throw your stuff in the backseat. You might have to yank on the seat belt a little.” I feel way overdressed in my black suit and matching black heels. “The place has great fried oysters,” he says. “Only trouble is, you have to watch where you park. At high tide half the parking lot goes under.”

He turns onto the main road for maybe half a mile, then we bump along a rut-ridden dirt road that winds over the marsh. “Sorry about the shocks. Truck's not much to look at, but it's dependable. And my girls like to ride in the back.”

“How old are they?”

“Six and seven. Susie and Sheba.” He laughs. “Oh, you think … no, they're retrievers. Here we are.” He comes around to open the door, takes my hand to help me down. “Watch your step. It's a swamp out here.”

Inside the place looks more like a fishing shack than a restaurant: four or five tables covered with red-and-white canvas tablecloths, a hand-drawn sign,
RESTROOM OUT BACK
, but it's clean. We take a table near the window over the creek. When I order a salad, the waitress looks at me as if I'm an alien.

“You can't come here unless you try the fried oysters,” the vet says. “Best seafood in Charleston County. Right, Caroline?”

“Right, Doc.”

“Okay, I'll try them.” At least it's not beef.

“Fries or baked potato?”

“Baked potato, please.”

“Beer, Doc?” asks Caroline.

“Sure.” He looks my way, “What's your pleasure?” He gestures toward the sign over the cooler which lists, along with the seafood offerings, the beverage choices: iced tea, coffee, a selection of beers.

“I have to drive home.”

“Don't make me drink alone.”

“A Dos Equis, then.”

“We're outta them,” says the waitress.

“Then bring us a couple of Coronas,” he says.

“None of them today, either.”

He orders two Buds, and when she leaves he leans toward me. “I always forget. The beer list is a fiction. It's Bud or Bud Lite. Unless they're out of Bud Lite.” He brushes a stray strand of hair off his forehead, and even in the dim light of the restaurant I can see how nice his eyes are, brown, deep-set, behind glasses held together with a safety pin at the temple. “So, you said you had some questions.”

“You understand what my role is, right?” I say.

“I think so, but this is the first time one of my dogs has had a lawyer!” He smiles, but even with the smile there's something sad about him.

“It's the first time I've served as lawyer for a dog, so we're even.”

“I guess I shouldn't say
my
dogs, but I feel like they're all mine, in a way.” He plays with his paper napkin, unfolding it, folding it. Maybe he's nervous around lawyers.

I take a sip of my beer. “This is a lot like a custody case, or at least Judge Baynard is treating it like a custody case. He—”

“Baynard. Any kin?”

“Distant.” I don't want to explain. “Anyway, the judge is treating this like a child custody case, despite the fact that in South Carolina the law is pretty clear that a dog is just property, like a piece of furniture.”

“Well, Sherman's a good deal livelier than a piece of furniture.”

“He certainly is. But what I'm trying to say is that I don't have any experience representing animals, because as far as I can tell this is the first time any court in South Carolina has appointed a lawyer to look after the best interests of an animal. There aren't any precedents except from other states.”

“I'm sure you'll do fine.” I like the sound of his voice, reassuring without being condescending. The waitress brings our food. I start with the baked potato, a few bites of slaw. “Don't let your oysters get cold,” he says. “They're fresh, right out of the creek.”

I cut an oyster in half, take a bite. I'd forgotten how good fresh oysters can be. After I left Joe I embarked on a routine of self-purification—maybe self-punishment—running five miles a day, going vegan. I've since given up the running and compromised the veganism with eggs and cheese. I've stayed away from meat and even seafood, but these oysters remind me of good times, of Sally Bright Baynard with the lively green eyes and an appetite for life. They're succulent, salty with a hint of sweetness. “So if this were a child custody case, I'd talk to the pediatrician, and I'd arrange for a psychologist to interview the child and the parents. In this case, you're kind of like the pediatrician and the psychologist all rolled into one.”

“Never thought of myself as a psychologist. I take care of some neurotic animals, but it's usually because their owners are a little crazy themselves.” He laughs. He's relaxing now, and so am I.

“Do you have a copy of Judge Baynard's temporary order?” I ask.

“Mrs. Hart told me about it.”

“What do you think about the schedule? It seems to me like there's a lot of back and forth for Sherman.”

“He's a spunky little guy. He can cope with it.”

“The Harts seem to have very different styles of parenting.”

“Yeah,” he says, wiping a spot of sour cream off his lower lip. “Rusty's pretty laid back. Maryann's a little uptight. But they've always been a good team, at least for Sherman.”

“But they're not a team anymore.”

“True.”

“If you had to choose between them, could you do that?”

“I'd hate to. You need me to decide that now?”

“No, we have some time.”

“Want dessert? Coffee?” he asks. “They have some great blackberry cobbler.”

“Just coffee, thanks. Anyway, I think it would be better for Sherman not to delay a final decision longer than absolutely necessary.”

“He seems to be doing okay,” the vet says. This isn't what I want to hear.

“Judge Baynard will probably go along with my report, and I'll probably go along with what
you
recommend.”

“You think I'll have to testify?” He looks worried. “I try to stay away from courtrooms.”

“If the case goes to trial, you'll have to testify.”

“Any idea when that will be?”

“Well, a case like this, with significant assets, the alimony issue, and question of who gets Sherman, could take six to nine months, maybe longer, to get to trial. And before that they'll take your deposition, and there'll be a number of pretrial motions.”

“Wow, I had no idea.”

“Divorces can be really complicated when they're contested.”

“I wouldn't know,” he says.

Normally I'd let this drop, but the beer makes me curious. “I thought someone told me you were divorced.”

“Yes, but I didn't want to fight.” He swallows. “I let her have pretty much everything except the clinic.”

I can tell he's uncomfortable. “Sorry. It's none of my business.”

“So, you were saying it could take six to nine months before the case goes to trial. Maybe they'll settle. Don't most of the cases settle?”

“Yes, but this one doesn't seem likely to. At least that's my impression after talking to both parties. They've already been to mediation and that didn't work. But I have an idea about how to move it along faster and keep your involvement to a minimum. I can make a motion to bifurcate.”

“What does that mean?”

“If the judge grants the motion, the trial would have two parts. The first part would be restricted to the question of what's going to happen with Sherman. That would probably take half a day or so, a day at the most. Then once the judge makes a decision about who gets him, the Harts will probably settle the rest of the case. At least that's my gut feeling: what they're really fighting about is the dog. Without a bifurcation, the trial could take weeks.”