Free The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel by Nick Trout

walks out the front door, leaving me to work on that imaginary itch at the back of my neck.
    Before I head off to Harry Carp’s, I check in on my desperado retriever. I find Frieda in the living room, sprawled across the couch. Presumably her disregard for getting up on furniture is a relic of her former life with Mr. Charcoal Suit. I ignore her greeting—rooting snout, wagging tail, and tap dance moves that are more Tin Man than Fred Astaire—brush golden tumbleweeds off the cushions, and scrutinize their surface for evidence of any accidents. Not a wet patch in sight. Why does she go crazy when I try to stop petting her?
    Fearing a repeat of last night’s unwanted publicity I take her out for a covert pee via the small deck off the second-floor kitchen and a wooden outdoor stairway that leads down to the backyard. Instinctively Frieda goes all mountain goat on me, negotiating the icy steps, cautious with her footing, perforating the crusty layer of frost topping the snow like she’s traversing crisp meringue. It’s obvious Frieda loves being off leash, bounding around and digging to China. I, on the other hand, am miserable—shivering as the biting wind paralyzes my face, convinced the tip of my nose has already succumbed to frostbite. What I wouldn’t give for a warm, briny breeze, the sound of lapping waves, or the smell of magnolias. I admit it: I’m weak, indoctrinated by a climate that doesn’t require you to put on enough clothes for thirty minutes so that you can withstand the elements for thirty seconds. Sure, all this snow can be pretty to look at and festive for the holidays, but what do you do when your barren white world refuses to turn green for another five months? Give me the stifling humidity of a Charleston July any day.
    Once again it takes Frieda forever to find the perfect spot, but once again she performs her ablutions without a flaw. There’s been no evidence of excessive or inappropriate urination whatsoever. In different circumstances I’d suggest a blood test, analyze a sample of urine, but I don’t have the time, the money, or the inclination. Taking her to a retriever rescue group is the best I can do. And here’s the kicker—I have to do it anonymously, which means no chance of any business-boosting chitchat from fanatical dog lovers touched by the dedication of the new vet in town. At most I get a little good karma, and last time I checked, good karma won’t pay my bills.
    Clearly old Doc Cobb didn’t care for his truck. It’s mostly rust with patches of black paint here and there. The muffler is held in place by bungee cords, and there are 178,000 miles on the clock. It does boast four-wheel drive, but as I climb into the cab I’m forced to acknowledge how I don’t have to adjust the position of the seat or the steering wheel—a perfect fit. The engine turns over first time. I haven’t driven a stick in years and as I depress the clutch and slip it into first, I note the letter R . How will I ever remember this vehicle can only move forward?
    Turning left out of the practice’s lot I head toward town, passing a bullet-ridden sign that confirms I have entered Eden Falls. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the name Eden Falls is a glaring misnomer. For starters, there’s nothing remotely divine, idyllic, or biblical about the place (not counting a white wooden Rockwellian church). There’s not a park or a playing field let alone a fabled garden. And technically speaking the word Falls , plural, is incorrect, thanks to a rockslide nearly eighty years ago, which reduced a mediocre tourist attraction to a disappointing and forgettable “Fall,” singular.
    Main Street is a twenty-five-mile-per-hour two-lane without a single traffic light or stop sign. In a vehicle, keeping to the speed limit, a driver can sneeze, wipe his nose, and cruise straight through, missing it all and missing nothing. This is the first time I’ve driven through town since coming back and I doubt