Doctor Gunther, a large jovial woman with a long face and ample mouth, guided them to the closet–sized
examining room. Jeb eased Limpy down on the aluminum table. Luke shuffled along
behind.
Doctor Gunther lifted Limpy’s head and studied her eyes. “What’s the problem?”
“She’s been like this for two days,” Luke said. “She was fine Monday.”
Doctor Gunther cooed to Limpy as she listened to the dog’s heart and worked
her limbs.
“She’s deaf,” Luke said.
Doctor Gunther gave Luke a quick smile “I know that, Luke.” She rolled Limpy
over and felt her stomach. Luke tensed, but Limpy only whimpered.
For twenty minutes, Doctor Gunther prodded Limpy, listened to her heart, peered
into her ears and mouth, and finally gave her a rectal examination. She stripped off her
latex gloves, washed her hands thoroughly, and sat in one of the folding chairs. “Let’s
talk.” She patted the chair next to her.
Luke maneuvered himself into the chair. He hadn’t taken his ibuprofen. Jeb
stood by the table, his fingers stroking the top of Limpy’s head.
“I can’t tell what brought it on,” Doctor Gunther said. “Might
have been a stroke or heart attack. When you’re that old, it can be anything.”
“What can you do for her?” Luke said.
Doctor Gunther took a deep breath. “She’s seventeen. It’s miraculous
she’s lived this long, a dog her size.”
“Maybe a stronger pain killer—”
Doctor Gunther shook her head.
“Last time,” Luke said, “the steroids worked. Snapped her right out of it.”
“I don’t think—”
“Even a change of diet. We don’t have to worry about fat at her age. If I could get
her to eat—”
“She’s dying, Luke.”
Luke opened his mouth, then closed it.
“She’s in pain,” Doctor Gunther said. “She could drag on like this for days.”
TOM'S TALES