Dog Days

(July-August 2016)

3: TLC

Dr. Julius Setter had become a veterinarian in spite of his parents' insistence that he was born to be a doctor, part of a family tradition. His father had been a notable physician, Chief of Surgery at a Los Angeles hospital, internist to the stars, socially and financially a spectacular success. His older brother, Augustus, had followed in their father's path, to a certain extent, and was now one of the top plastic surgeons in southern California. Both Gus and the senior Dr. Setter gave every impression of being well-satisfied with their lot in life.

But Julius . . . was different. From early childhood on, he had always been an animal lover. When at the age of eight, he rescued an injured squirrel from the street beside the park, his father advised him: "I can inject it and kill it painlessly."

Julius had resisted. The squirrel could get better, he just knew it.

His dad had shrugged. "When it dies, I'll supervise and you can dissect it."

In fact, with Julius's help and constant attention, the squirrel had lived, had healed, and had gone back to its life in the park near their big house. Julius recognized it now and again for two or three years afterward, healthy and, as far as one can tell with a squirrel, happy.

However, through it all, his dad and mom never gave up on pushing Julius to become a doctor—financial security, they said. Prestige, they said. Reputation, they said. Opportunities to advance, they said.

But helping people—if they'd ever once mentioned that, Julius didn't recall the occasion. Maybe they sensed that Julius, a big but shy kid, sensitive and easily bullied, held an innate distrust of most people. But animals, now—he loved them. In high school he did not like English at all, a subject boring and useless, but in the tenth grade, one teacher did turn him on to a poem by Walt Whitman:

I think I could turn and live with animals,

they are so placid and self-contain'd,

I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition,

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,

They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,

Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,

Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,

Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

And just because the poem touched him and because he understood it and agreed with it, he did well in Mrs. Anstruther's English class. From there he went on to do well in college, because he was not stupid. Even his father admitted that: "Julie, you're not stupid, just too damned stubborn for your own good!"

The elder Dr. Setter, his dad, had more or less given up on him when he switched his major from pre-med to veterinary medicine. They remained at least cordial for years after that, but never were close. Julius didn't like people all that much, that was the problem. He didn't like flattering wealthy patients or indulging their whims or treating them for illnesses they imagined but did not actually have. On the other hand, his father took all that in stride and also took the income that went with it. Finally, Julius didn't much care for L.A., where even as a veterinarian he could have made a lot of money treating poodles and poms and Persians and other pampered pets of the movie stars.

Nah. Not for him.

He moved north, first to a small town north of Portland, where he was an assistant to an older vet for three years, and then east to Gravity Falls, where the farmers had no big-animal vet within fifty miles, and there he settled in, building a practice and gradually becoming aware of the strange nature of the valley. As his father had observed, Dr. Setter wasn't stupid, after all, but he was quite observant and curious about what seemed to be . . . unusual creatures. Fortunately for him, Dr. Setter did not spook easily, and because he made no very close friends to swap gossip with, what he saw of strangeness he kept to himself, and so the Society of the Blind Eye had never once "helped" him.

Quietly, without making a big deal of it, Dr. Setter had once splinted a fairy's bent wing. Another time he had removed a deeply embedded splinter from a Gnome's calf. The Gnome possibly thanked him. At least it said, "Shmebulock," and before it limped away, it gave him a mushroom, which he quietly accepted as payment. In a way, Dr. Setter was just a little bit too young. Had he come to the Falls roughly twenty-five years before he actually did arrive there, he might possibly have met Stanford Pines, with whom he would have had some things in common. That ship, though, not only sailed, but passed him in the night before his own ship had launched. The year that Ford vanished was the same year that young Julius had helped the squirrel.

Two years after Julius arrived in the Falls, down in L.A. his father had suddenly died, a shock to his younger son. His dad had known his days were numbered but had never bothered to tell either him or brother Gus. Julius barely even made it down to the funeral.

His mother already had a new romantic interest, a younger man, an internist at the hospital where his father had ruled the surgical roost and in which he had passed away. A month later, to Julius's mild surprise, he learned that under his father's will he had inherited something over a million dollars. That was peanuts compared to the amounts left to his brother Gus and to his mother, but Julius never once thought of complaining.

Dr. Setter used some of his inheritance to buy an old farm and fix up the house as his dwelling and office space and the barn as an animal hospital. Even after that, he had plenty of money left over, which he invested, quietly and wisely. And he settled in to do work he loved with the placid, self-contained animals. He charged reasonable rates, did a fine job, and made a comfortable living. Wealth never interested or tempted him. Within his narrow confines, he felt contented and happy enough.

Though he had never married, Julius had something of a mild social and romantic life. Not a spectacular version of either, but . . . comfortable. Rarely, he encountered people who made a favorable impression on him. He remembered them as exceptions to his general rule of not liking people very much.

Two of them were Dipper and Mabel Pines. Dipper had been instrumental in bringing an injured young Manotaur to him for treatment—and if his father had been Surgeon to the Stars, now Julius was Physician to the Manotaurs. He tended their illnesses (they were prone to tapeworm infections, among other things) and wounds (they were prone to, well, all kinds of these). In return, they gave him their deep respect and paid him in little bags of gold nuggets, which they tended to find in stream beds. They collected the gold because they liked its glitter, though they didn't hold it of especially high value—jerky, now, that was treasure.

As for Mabel, not all that long before, she had brought him a pregnant mountain sheep—and the animal had given birth to a geep, of all things, a hybrid with a cantankerous goat as its father. Her handling of the animals had impressed Setter, and he liked her for it. He also tended to any ailment that Waddles or Widdles came down with—not very many—but he'd gotten to know her that way, too.

Now he gave the quivering, apprehensive dog its last injection and patted the animal's neck. "That's all, boy. You've been a good dog." Setter reached in the pocket of his lab coat and produced a snack, which the dog gratefully ate. Its shaking subsided.

"How is he?" Mabel asked.

"I think he'll do." Setter gently lifted the dog off the examining table and said, "Let's go sit. I'll be on my feet most of the day, and in ten minutes, I've got to work on a sick calf."

They went into the adjoining waiting room. Mabel sat, and the dog tried to leap up into her lap but didn't make it. She had to pick him up. "All right," Setter said, scribbling something on a pad and then ripping it off. "Here you go. This is the food I recommend. I gave your dog a flea and tick treatment, good for a month. Fill the prescription online and remember to give him the flea and tick preventative once every three months, beginning in the last week of October this year. The limp is muscular, not a bone issue. The poor guy must've run himself lame. If the dog's not over it in a week, bring him back. He's not chipped, and I'd say he's a stray, so—finders, keepers. He's at least six months old, no more than eight—all his adult teeth are in. He's seriously underweight. He's at eleven pounds and should be fifteen or sixteen. Feed him generously, but be careful when he starts to gain. He'll top out between twenty and thirty, and don't let him get fat. See that he gets lots of running in. No evidence of worms, which for a stray dog is a minor miracle, but the blood tests will show if he has any other parasites or problems. I will let you know. Any questions?"

"Um—what breed of dog is he?" asked Mabel.

Dr. Setter chuckled. "Given the mulligan stew that is the ancestry of most stray dogs, that's a hard one. However, for a change I've got a pretty good idea from his coloring, long neck, wedge-shaped head, and fishhook-shaped tail. He's a Carolina dog."

Mabel blinked. "A what now?"

"Carolina dog," the doctor repeated. "Also known as a yaller dog or American Dingo. That's not accurate, though—not much of a relationship between the Australian dog and this little guy. Near as anybody can figure, the Carolina Dog originated eons ago in India, offspring of the native wolves—smaller than their European cousins—and much, much later, as domesticated animals, they crossed the Bering Strait land bridge with the very first Native Americans. They are what is known as primitive dogs, meaning only they're a lot like their ancient ancestors. A few packs of them still run wild in South Carolina and Georgia. They have good senses of smell, but as hunters they rely on sight, not scent. They're intelligent and adaptable and can usually survive in the wild, though this one hasn't flourished. It's sort of rare to find one on the West Coast, but not unheard of. They make good pets, smart, independent, loyal, and gentle. Give me your email address, and I'll send you a brochure about them."

"I hear a car pulling up," Mabel said as she wrote out her addy.

Dr. Setter pushed up from his chair. "Yes, that'll be Mr. Athelny with his calf that doesn't like her mother's cooking. I've got to persuade her to drink her milk. You want me to bill you?"

"I've got the money with me," Mabel said. "What's the damage?"

The doctor stooped and entered some figures on the computer, and it printed out a statement. "With the immunizations—by the way, here's your rabies certificate and tag, be sure to get him a collar and attach the tag to it—it comes to, um. Ninety-five dollars even."

Mabel gave him five twenties, and he handed her a five and stamped the statement PAID. As they headed for the door, he asked, "What are you going to call him?"

"I haven't decided," Mabel said, urging the dog back into the carrier.

"Lucky," the doctor suggested with a broad smile. "He must be, to find an animal lover like you."

"Lucky." Mabel shook her head. "Somehow doesn't sound exactly right. I'll know it when it hits me. Thank you!"

"Thank you," Dr. Setter said, carrying the pet carrier and the dog out to her car. Nearby a farmer that Mabel didn't recognize was leading a black-and-white calf down a ramp from an animal trailer towed by a pickup. Setter put the pet carrier in the front seat of Helen Wheels and said, "Now, you be sure to call if that limp doesn't improve."

"I will! Thanks bunches!"

"You're welcome heaps," Setter said with a laugh. He closed the car door and turned, calling out, "Well, Sam, how long's this little lady been off her feed?"

Mabel made it back to the Shack at ten-thirty and found the place busy, but not as slammed as it had been back around Independence Day. She had time to talk to Dipper at the cash register. He asked, "How's the dog?"

"He's hungry but seems to be OK otherwise," Mabel said. "I'm working on trying to pick out a name for him."

"Any change?"

"I haven't even come with a name, let alone change it—ooh, sorry, you mean money change. The vet's bill was ninety-five, but then I had to buy some dog food, and I had to pay for some flea-control and heartworm preventative medicine, and he needed a collar for his rabies tag, and I got him some chew toys. You owe me fifteen dollars."

Dipper rolled his eyes. "I owe you? See me on payday," he said. Like Lewis Carroll's twinkle-twinkling little bat, the sarcasm flew right over her head.

Wendy, in from the Museum with a small crowd of tourists, had overheard some of this, and she sauntered over and leaned on the counter. "So where is the little guy?"

"I put him up in Dipper's room," Mabel said. "I gave him a nice bowl of dog food and a bowl of water and his squeaky bone and left the crate up there with the door open. It's private, and I think he's worn out and needs to rest."

"I hope he doesn't pee all over everything," Dipper muttered.

"Don't worry, Brobro, I walked him on the lawn, and I'll do it again right after the lunch rush. Oh, the doctor says he thinks the limp comes from a minor sprain. We have to watch him and if it doesn't get better, we call the vet and take him in again. But there's no broken bones."

"That's good," Wendy said. She smiled wistfully. "You know, when I was a kid, I always wanted a dog of my own, but Dad said we weren't home enough to take care of one. So what are you going to name him?"

"Haven't decided," Mabel said.

"Dogwood," Wendy teased.

"Not gonna name him after a tree!" Mabel said firmly.

"Our cat," Dipper told Wendy, "is Jerk the Ripper."

"We just use Ripper, though," Mabel said.

Wendy grinned. "Let me guess—habit of shredding things?"

"Yep," Dipper said. "The sofa, the drapes, Mom's bras from the laundry basket, you name it."

"Well," Wendy said, pushing off from the counter, "a good name'll come to you. Hey, kid! Those are not supposed to bounce!" She went to take a human skull away from a tourist boy. The skulls weren't real, but they weren't made of rubber, either.

The dog knew a word now: DOG. The humans had used that word around him, and he got the idea that DOG meant ME and that he was a DOG. The girl human had given him some tasty, crunchy food and some clear water and had left him a warm bed in a peaceful room. After the shots and the excitement, he felt sleepy.

Curiously, he was not particularly anxious about being confined. The room had a comfortable, homey smell. The girl had been here many times, and she had put his carrier in the floor beside a bed where her scent lingered especially strong. The similar smell of the young male human (the girl's litter mate?) hung more strongly in the air, but with a doggy sort of sixth sense, the dog knew that the boy was, like the girl, essentially kind. For the moment, all was well: hunger sated and he had a chance to rest and heal.

Then, too, the fear that had long pursued him now itself stood at bay. The people of this house had treated him with kindness. He even liked the private, warm darkness of the carrier, and he crept into it, turned around three times, and lay down on the folded towels to consider things.

Odd that he had never pondered things before. Now it seemed natural to think about the world and his small place in it. Other words he had heard circled in his mind, without yet having a meaning attached to them—he knew the sounds, but not what the sounds signified: MABEL. DIPPER. WENDY. SHACK. A few others.

He remembered the older human male who had put him up on a metal table and had handled him gently but had prodded him, had taken his temperature (uncomfortably) who had stuck him with needles (not so bad), but who also seemed interested in him and concerned with his well-being. In a misty, vague way, the dog realized he had fooled the man once.

The man had felt his, well, private region. He had said something to the girl. The dog didn't know what it meant: "He's been neutered."

Actually, no. The dog had instinctively drawn his, um, equipment, up into his body, out of some protective instinct. He had not been neutered. Not yet, anyway.

He yawned. He had been on the run too much lately, and weariness had seeped into his bones. He nuzzled the squeaky bone and lay his chin down on it. It was dark and quiet in the little cage on the soft towels.

A good place for a puppy to nap.

He fell asleep and, as the changes that had begun in his brain back on the grassy hill continued, he had some vivid and very strange dreams.