Free Ever by My Side by Nick Trout Page B

as our family veterinarian, Ryan James. I’ve written about this fateful day elsewhere, how James took an ambivalent schoolboy and somehow made him feel important, made him feel instantly and profoundly connected, and integral to his work of healing sick animals. The effect was both intoxicating and overpowering, though I cringed during my first few introductions to coworkers when Ryan said, “This is Nick. His dad brings in Patch.”
    My fear of being negatively associated with my pet’s disposition was completely unwarranted. Sure, that one word,
Patch
, was all it took for some staff members, including Arthur Stone (whose initial failure to recognize me reinforced my conviction that I must be in the throes of a dramatic pubescent transformation), to give me a look that ranged from knowing to withering. And yes, Patch’s notoriety may have been more Manson than Monroe and clearly he had made a lasting impression, with folkloric staying power. But, more telling than any unwanted recognition and in keeping with that wonderful day was the way in which neither my father nor I was ever made to feel irresponsible or negligent. Patch was never criticized for his behavior. He was simply another facet of the veterinarian’s challenge, a difficult dog who misunderstood our intent. From that very first day I was already beginning to see Patch’s societal failings in a different light.
    As a parent, it doesn’t get much sweeter than having a child who believes he or she has found a calling in life. Aimless drifting,speculation, or passing interest is suddenly replaced by direction, motivation, and a clear-cut goal. For my dad, with his lifelong desire for me to discover a meaningful path, it appeared to be a dream come true. As evidence of his overwhelming support for my fledgling career path, he underwent a bizarre metamorphosis from which he has never truly recovered.
    It began innocently enough with the sudden appearance of two new accoutrements for his walks with Patch. Both items consistently bothered me. They seemed so affected and unnecessary for a man about to turn forty. I’m talking about a flat cloth cap and a simple wooden walking stick. It was as if Dad sought an air of working-class practicality, a rural motif, despite his tendency to use the stick like a London gentleman uses an umbrella, snapping his wrists and striking out with the metal tip at every stride.
    There followed the appearance of numerous James Herriot books conspicuously placed on bedside tables, kitchen counters, and sofa arms, spines split and pages well thumbed. And when my father sensed I was ignoring his bait, he switched mediums from paper to television, watching countless hours of the highly acclaimed BBC TV series
All Creatures Great and Small
.
    “I don’t think you’ve seen this one, son. I’ve recorded it, so no rush. Mum and I can wait until you’re finished with your homework.”
    Eventually this sixteen-year-old boy gave in and one night I joined them on the sofa with Patch at our feet, stretched out across the carpet. I couldn’t help but notice how the opening theme music seemed to cue up a sense of relaxation and contentment in my father and as the show progressed, I would glance over at him, studying his face in the flickering light, a witness to a phenomenon akin to hypnotism. The man sat mesmerized, entranced by the location and the characters, by the big moody skies and the even moodier big farmers. It was a wonderful show but for my father it appearedto be much more than entertainment. Sitting in front of the screen, the tired VHS tape rolling across the heads one more time, I would watch as his lips synchronized with the dialogue, as if he were participating in an evangelical service. Herriot’s books had become his bible, the author’s veterinary lifestyle revered like a new religion. As the hour-long period of worship drew to a close, I wondered if I recognized another possibility in his facial expressions. Was he