Free Losing Mum and Pup by Christopher Buckley Page B

who replied that he had returned from Washington “in kind of bad shape” but was “doing better now.” I’d
     be home in three days. Pup and I had dinner planned for the night I got back.
    J UST AS I WAS PULLING OFF the Stamford exit on I-95, my cell phone trilled. I was jet-lagged and a bit sticky from the flight. I didn’t recognize the
     number, a 203 area code.
    Chris?
    Yes?
    It’s Gavin McLeod, your dad’s doctor.
    Gavin had never called. No, not a good sign.
    Your dad is at the hospital here. He came here by ambulance. We’re doing tests. We’re not sure what it is, but he really needs
     to stay here. But he keeps insisting to leave. He says he’s having dinner with you tonight.
    So it was back to Stamford Hospital. The scene, on my arrival on the fourth floor, was—looking back on it—mildly comical.
     Gavin had called me again, this time his normally equable voice pitched to a higher octave of urgency:
He’s insisting on trying to leave, and… you need to get here as quickly as you can
. I reported that I was driving through downtown Stamford as fast as the law would permit. But I did feel Gavin’s pain, for
     when William F. Buckley Jr. “was insisting” on something, attention must be paid.
    I arrived on Four South. There, at the end of the hallway, he was: wearing a green-and-white-striped polo shirt and his blue
     Greek yachting cap, holding a cane and—weirdly—the Alexander Waugh book
Fathers and Sons
that I’d sent him for Father’s Day. He was in a wheelchair and being gently restrained from rotating himself down the hall
     by 1) Gavin, 2) two nurses, 3) the unit head, 4) the deputy administrator of Stamford Hospital, and 5) a large black orderly
     named Maurice.
    Gavin, seeing me scurry toward this mobile levee, looked vastly relieved. He leaned over and said to Pup in the singsong child
     tone that suggests the listener isn’t working off a full mental deck,
Bill—here’s Christopher. It’s Christopher. Christopher is here. Isn’t that wonderful?

CHAPTER 8
We’re Terribly Late as It Is

    P up was smiling. He
was
pleased to see me, and though his love for me was deep and abiding, I knew very well that his maniacal grin might be more
     eloquent of my utility to him as an escape vehicle than of paternal affection.
    I was entirely sympathetic—who wants to stay in the hospital?—but the situation was plain: He was in seriously awful shape.
     Maurice—sweet, kind Maurice—kept saying,
Mr. Buckley, we’re gonna take you back to your room now, okay?
But the Lion of the Right was having none of that. No, no. Pup merely smiled and shook his head at Maurice, declaring firmly,
No! I’m going to have dinner with my son. He’s right here. Christo is taking me home. Let’s go, Christo.
    Christo looked at Gavin. Gavin looked at Christo. Good, earnest Gavin tried gamely, in his best
Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood
voice, to explain to his (im)patient that leaving the hospital was not a viable option.
Bill, we need to monitor your kidneys. Your kidneys.
    Pup grinned his mad grin at him and gently shook his head, as if Gavin were trying to pull a fast one.
    Gavin tried again.
There’s something going
on
with your
KIDNEYS.
    I didn’t like the sound of this. It’s one thing when doctors talk about the heart. We all know about the heart. It’s a pump,
     basically, and it needs to keep pumping and doing its other hearty-pumpy things. But when doctors start muttering about your
     kidneys—organs—it has an unsettling sound.
    Pup waved away the kidney talk.
No, no, I’m going home.
He grinned triumphantly.
Christo and I have a dinner date! Don’t we, Christo?
    Christo had no thought other than to make his beloved Pup happy. At the same time, Christo sensed that wheeling beloved Pup
     out of the hospital, with half a dozen pairs of hands clinging to the wheelchair, heels making skidmarks in the hall… would
     not an elegant exit make. And what then? Was I to stop at Barnes & Noble on the