Free Ever by My Side by Nick Trout

greeting, hesitating, and backing off, since any attempt to shake hands would have forced his own hand into the strike zone, a maneuver guaranteed to produce the same response from Patch as dangling a T-bone steak in the air between us.
    “Any problems since your last visit?” asked Mr. Jones.
    “No. Not really,” said Dad. “He seems a little stiff first thing in the morning when we go on our walks. Otherwise I think he’s fine.”
    Mr. Jones nodded, scratching a note on an index card.
    Patch continued to talk over their dialogue, but his listing of grievances began to slow down, becoming more muttering than shouting, the cranky gripes of an aging dog who resented being ignored. His posture had also changed, his hackles became less prominent, his ears flattened a little, and his tail relaxed into an enormous hairy question mark. Oh, he was still wired and Mr. Jones was obviously keeping his distance, but Patch seemed like he was prepared to accept this state of play, this standoff—no fast moves and nobody gets hurt.
    “I’m not sure I’m going to get to perform a meaningful examination,” said Mr. Jones. “But I’m happy to try.”
    These days, this is precisely the kind of line I might employ, the “cover your ass” offer to wrestle with a powerful dog high on adrenaline while praying the owner has a modicum of understanding.
    Dad did the right thing and shook his head, saying, “Might be best if you just give him his shot and then we’ll be on our way.”
    To Mr. Jones’s credit he managed not to look relieved or disappointed.
    “Now, how best to do this?” said the doctor, more to himself, though this question had been foremost on my mind for some time. I didn’t know a thing about veterinary medicine but I was pretty sure Patch was not about to sit still, roll up his sleeve, and look away when the needle pierced his skin.
    Funny how sometimes the littlest details stay with you. I remember two posters pinned to the wall, one showing the anatomy of the dog, the other, the cat. All the internal organs were labeled and I wanted to find them fascinating and distracting, but the scrimmage that ensued kept vying for my attention. Patch seemed so afraid,completely unable to comprehend why he was being put through this ordeal, insensible to every attempt my father made to keep him calm. It was like my best friend was getting picked on by a gang of bigger kids in the schoolyard and I was standing there, watching it unfold and doing nothing to help. At the same time there was this overwhelming sense of frustration caused by our collective inability to convey trust and goodwill. I was too close to the action to feel this helpless.
    Dad tried to place a leather muzzle over Patch’s snout, failed, then tried to place it while offering a bribe in the form of a dog treat. Mr. Jones proposed a muzzle formed from a long single loop of bandage material, but it was like trying to lasso displaced air and moving teeth. My father recalled previous success with something akin to a “rabies pole,” a long rod through which a thick, stainless-steel lanyard was passed, to be secured around Patch’s neck in the manner of a snare. Fortunately, Mr. Jones had a better suggestion.
    “Why don’t you walk him out of the room and I’ll carefully close the door on him, leaving his head outside so I can get to his backside?”
    Frozen in fear, I stayed on the business side of the door, watching the action. Mr. Jones worked quickly, offering me a wink and an “all done” as my father rode Patch’s momentum from the jab, the dog scampering straight through the now busy waiting room and out to the car.
    “You all right?” said Mr. Jones.
    “Yes,” I said, thinking how Patch’s fur had masked the site of steel piercing skin, an observation that made me cower and look away every time I was the victim.
    “You sure?”
    Obviously my pallor had not convinced him.
    “Don’t worry,” he said, “Patch will be fine. He’s not