Free Give the Dog a Bone by Leslie O'Kane Page A

I spotted a sign for an “animal clinic” and headed down the long gravel driveway.
    The small, older, two-story white-painted building at the end of the drive was obviously a home that had been converted into a business. From the layout, it was clear that the office was in front. The lights were on upstairs, though not in the office area. I parked, reached back and reassured Maggie for a minute or two, then went to the door. A plaque on the door read: Joanne Palmer, DVM. I pushed a button and a buzzer resounded.
    While waiting for Dr. Palmer, I kept an eye on the windows of the car. Maggie whimpered and raised up as much as the seatbelt would allow, no doubt hoping that Ken would be here.
    A woman came to the door, keeping a chain in place and opening it only a couple of inches. “Can I help you?” she asked.
    I was startled at her appearance, or at least by what little I could view through the crack in the door. She was a petite, strawberry blonde, who bore a slight resemblance to the picture of Mary that Ken had shown me. “Are you Dr. Palmer?”
    “Yes.”
    “I have a badly distressed patient of yours in my car. She’s experiencing severe separation anxiety.”
    “Just a moment.” She unfastened the chain and swung the door fully open. The illusion that she looked like Mary Martin Culberson was lost. Though she had roughly the same short stature and slight frame as Mary, facially they were quite different. This woman had a hawk nose, thinner lips, and a rounder shape to her face. Even though she’d opened the door, she held up her palms and said, “Ma’am, my office is closed. Is this something that can wait till morning?”
    “No. I’m sorry. It really can’t.”
    She peered at me, wiped her hands on her jeans, and said, “Let me take a quick look.”
    We had only taken a couple of steps, when she caught sight of the golden through the window and said, “Maggie? How did you get
her
?” She turned toward me. “Are you a friend of Ken Culberson’s or something?”
    “Not exactly a friend, no. He hired me to work with Maggie.” I said purposefully, “My name’s Allida Babcock.”
    “
You’re
Allida Babcock?” she asked in surprise.
    “Yes, and I’ve heard you have a negative opinion about me.”
    “It’s nothing personal. It’s that you’re purporting to be a dog therapist when you don’t have the medical credentials.”
    “I’ve made no bones about that.” I winced a bit at my inadvertent pun, but went on. “In fact, I’ve teamed with several of your colleagues to help dogs on Clomicalm make effective use of the drug.”
    She opened the back door of my Subaru. Maggie struggled to get closer to her. “That’s a good doggie, hey sweetie,” Dr. Palmer murmured soothingly, scooting onto the seat beside the dog.
    Though impressed by her rapport with Maggie, I was now pretty agitated myself. Having a local veterinarian assume that I’d been trying to pass myself off as a veterinarian needed to be resolved; my business depended upon referrals. I leaned inside the car myself and said, “I know
you
prescribe Clomicalm for your patients.”
    “Of course. I’m sure you’re aware that separation anxiety is suffered by as many as ten percent of all dogs. And forty percent of all canine visits to the veterinarian are related to separation anxiety.”
    “Right, but don’t you recommend dog trainers, if not behaviorists, to help the dogs adjust?”
    “No. That strikes me as an unnecessary expense to my patients.” Still petting Maggie, she gestured with her chin in the direction of the trailer park. “A percentage of my clients can’t afford tacked-on services.”
    “But why
dissuade
your clients from getting professional help in the dog’s behavior modification? Without behavior modification, the medicine doesn’t work.”
    “That’s
your
opinion.”
    Through a tight jaw, I replied, “It’s an opinion that’s been backed up and documented in years of studies at various