FICTION: The Dog-Leg

I see now that it is story time. Very well, then. Here we go: a story. A sort of “once upon a time” thing. Right.

So, I suppose it needs, if not deserves, a title, don’t you? Let us see…how about something with the name of an animal in it? OK. The story about to be told during story time today is called this: A Visit to the Doctor.

Wait, there’s no animal name there. Yes, this story is entitled simply, The Dog-Leg. Enjoy. The story, that is, which is so very aptly named because…

Once upon a time –

He simply had no choice. That was all, what recourse did he have?
Oh, such grave misfortune, thought Hyde. Why? he asked himself as he hobbled awkwardly down Burnside Boulevard, his trench coat wrapped tightly around his beleaguered, sulky body. In his thoughts, he repeated the major events of his life -- or as his memory had preserved them, anyway. But they all seemed to him major events only insofar as they were all, down to the last, catastrophes.

He rounded the corner onto the broad, bleak patch of park; he considered this a shortcut only because he avoided the streetlights. His leg certainly was not feeling right. That was for rotting sure. Of course, who would not feel a pang of indignant confusion at being in such a state as that of our poor Hyde?

“I just hope it remains asleep until we get into the office,” said Hyde to no one in particular, limping doggedly through the snowy path through Windsor Park. His nose was nearly frozen, as it was very cold, and even windier than usual. He spotted the door to the medical office as he emerged onto Evans Street, and looking carefully both left and right, Hyde ambled as quickly as he could, and with great effort to be gentle, proceeded across the street and threw open the door to Doctor Craven’s office.

He was dismayed when he closed the street door behind him and turned to look upon a long, steep staircase leading, presumably, to Dr. Craven’s practice. Hyde became suddenly aware of the stuffiness and oppressive heat of the foyer. He realized that he was still clutching his trench coat over his chest, and opened the front and took off his scarf. His poor nose was stinging like an angry jellyfish as it thawed, and as he gingerly touched it with a gloved finger, he muttered all sorts of unmentionable imprecations, which are surely not fit for story time.

Hyde began the arduous ascent up the mountain of steps, barely breathing for fear of his dog-leg acting up suddenly. After a few dozen steps, which carried him barely even one-third of the way up, Hyde decided that he was faint and sat down heavily upon the twenty-fifth step. He pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket,wiped his damp forehead, and replaced it to said pocket, which had a large hole in it. The handkerchief poked stupidly out of the bottom of the faulty pocket, but Hyde did not notice that. He was, at that moment, staring tenuously at his right leg, eyes full of dread and animal fear.

“Damn!” he thought, “Just when I get on the stai
rs!” and he watched his pant leg writhe and pant miserably, emitting a whine which can only be characterized as canine in nature.

Hyde jumped up with renewed vigor and struggled mightily to navigate the rest of the little ledges. As he reached the top with a victorious puff of air from his cheeks, his leg began to whimper more plaintively, cutting short his celebration.

Straightening his hair with his hands, he hobbled into the small, clean office of the good Rothschild A. Craven, M.D. Hyde approached the receptionist’s desk and there met with the sight of a slender young woman with golden hair over her shoulders and slate blue eyes, which seemed to penetrate his very being. He straightened himself up, cleared his throat, and addressed her:

“Excuse me, miss, I have an appointment with the doctor at one o’clock. My name is Hyde. Getting to be a bit of an emergency, to be frank, miss. Is he – can he see me now?”

“Just a moment, Mr. Hyde, I’ll tell him you’re here,” and she stood up, turned around, and walked through a door with a sign on it that read WET PAINT.

Now, this seems, to the story time reader, a suspect detail. “Why would he mention the sign on the door?” you ask, wondering if it is merely a descriptive yet trivial detail or if it is the prelude to some paint-related hijinks. Well, dear reader, I assure you that story time frowns on such insouciance and you can read on safely without any fear of such simpleminded lowbrow humor. This is not going to turn into some lurid vaudeville act…

Hyde sat down in an uncomfortable plastic chair to wait. He noticed no details at all about the room, nor does yours truly care to impart these details to you, the story time reader. However, in defense of the chair’s designer, we should note that the discomfort seemingly caused by an inferior chair was actually due to the distressed state of mind and repine nature of our unfortunate Mr. Hyde.

He thought back to his carefree days of youth; his mind drifted desultorily through events in the distant past. He recalled the week he spent in a toolbox at summer camp, the result of a game of hide-and-seek which ended abruptly just as Hyde realized he was locked in. He despaired that no one knew his whereabouts; but even more devastating was the realization that, apparently, no one cared, because no one came looking for him at all. Hyde’s imprisonment wasn’t discovered until the seventh day, when the drunken handyman went looking for his largest wrench for use as a bludgeoning weapon against a rabid possum that had stormed the camp, its poisonous lips stippled with the foam of madness.

The painful resurfacing of the toolbox memory quickly reminded him of his poor leg, as did most unhappy thoughts since the amputation. He would replay the bizarre events over and over in his mind, vainly searching for some illumination as to the cosmic meaning of so cruel a joke. Hyde recalled walking into the savings and loan that fateful spring morning not too many years ago and interrupting a lone bank robber – a desperado, really – and this interruption led very quickly to the loss of his right leg from just above the knee down. It seems the culprit, a very nervous and heavily armed man whose identity shall remain unknown, let fly three rather improbable shots from his two pistols out of sheer fright; these bullets, though fired accidentally and not at any specific target, managed all to ricochet haphazardly around the lobby in disparate trajectories and yet still find their way into the truly unlucky right leg of our dear Mr. Hyde. He got one in the foot, one in the shin, and one in the kneecap, poor bastard.

Thinking of how painful and traumatic that was, Hyde turned deathly pale right where he sat. The whole episode at the savings and loan could certainly be called a --freak accident -- n’est-ce pas? He blanched just then and, making a sour face, stuck his tongue out slightly in disgust and absentmindedly rubbed his dog-leg.

He was preparing to break into a cold sweat when the receptionist returned through the door -- yes, the door with the aforementioned sign on it.

“The doctor will see you now, Mr. Hyde. Just go through the door, down the hall and to the left. Examination Room One,” said she, and she smiled and sat down.

He awoke from the nightmarish stupor of his bad memories and hastily rose from his chair. The whimpering had gotten louder as he sat, and he sincerely hoped that the receptionist didn’t notice.

As he passed her neat little desk and opened the door with the WET PAINT sign on it, he noticed that she was engrossed in something that she seemed to be working on with utmost concentration. He craned his neck discreetly and caught a glimpse of the paper upon which she was writing. On it were lengthy, complex mathematical equations of some kind, complete with beautifully rendered graphs, which she had obviously designed herself with loving attention to detail. She was furtively scribbling out a jumbled sequence of numbers, letters, and little Greek symbols, appearing to be thinking it all up as fast as she could write it down on paper.

Hyde was astonished, not to mention very impressed, for he understood none of what it meant, which for him gave her a mystical, Gnostic sort of charm. He crossed himself distractedly and pushed through the door, not realizing that his shoulder and arm were now besmeared with none other than – wet paint.

All right, so I’ve had my fun. Just when you had given up on an encounter with the hilarious, freshly painted door, I have sprung it upon you suddenly, unexpectedly. Well, let that be a lesson to those who haughtily assert that story time is boring and pointless!

Hyde trudged miserably down the hallway and found the left turn that brought him face-to-door with Examination Room One. He cautiously tried the ceramic handle of the door, shaking his whimpering leg slightly, like a mother rocking her child. The door gave way to a tidy little white room with a padded table, a scale, some bottles near the sink, and a tasteful though diminutive still life on the left-hand wall depicting two bananas, a tomato, and what Hyde assumed to be a pomegranate but what was actually a persimmon.

Cringing a little, Hyde sat gingerly down in a stainless steel chair and wriggled out of his tattered coat and his gloves, spreading the still-tacky paint onto his collar and into his hair. The paint left a streak in his hair on the left side of his head, which perhaps might have passed for a mark of distinction had it not been for the bright yellow hue of the paint. It rather resembled the aftermath of a botched dye-job. However, Hyde was busy adjusting his handkerchief, which, he noticed with acute dismay, was sticking stupidly out of a large hole in his shirt pocket.

Then, as if it had been premeditated, his leg burst forth with a dolorous and mournful baying, the type heard often during full moons in the country, just as Doctor Craven walked in while reading over a medical chart. The good doctor stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide, mouth open, no longer looking at his notes but instead focused solely on Hyde’s right pant leg, which was now producing a rather unpleasant odor as well as the terrible howls.

For a long time, perhaps over a minute, the two men remained rooted to their respective places in the world, listening and watching as the leg gave off its multisensory emanations. Finally, Dr. Craven broke out of his trance, straightened his spectacles, and looked Hyde directly in the eye.

“Would you please show me, Mr. Hyde?” inquired the physician, and he leaned in slightly for a better look. Hyde began rolling his right pant leg up, slowly, deliberately, taking care to avoid the drool as much as possible, and revealed to the doctor the source of his chronic bouts with melancholy: dog-leg.

“My, it certainly is well along in growth and development, isn’t it? Tell me, Mr. Hyde, for I know nothing of animal husbandry, what breed is it?” spoke the doctor with no sign of trembling in his voice.

“Er – I believe it is Irish wolfhound, Doctor,” replied Hyde with a little embarrassment, shifting restlessly in his seat.

“Your file indicates the amputation of part of your right leg just over two years ago…complications after surgery. Hmmm…very curious circumstances…tell me, Mr. Hyde, how long has it been there?” asked Dr. Craven, with a very interested expression. He had gotten a pen and paper ready and was poised to record any relevant facts of the case, however minute. This was, not surprisingly, the first case of its kind that the good doctor had ever seen. Of course, he had read of the condition in medical school, made jokes about it with his chums over beers, but never had he seen one with his own two eyes. It was significant, not just to the doctor personally, but to all medical science, and he wasn’t about to miss any detail.

“Well, doctor,” said Hyde with an ironic look on his face, “about a week. I thought it was only going to last a few days, like usual, but instead it’s just been growing. I finally realized that it was the worst case yet.”

“I see,” said Dr. Craven thoughtfully, and scrawled some notes to himself in his little notebook. “So, you’ve experienced this kind of thing before, have you?”

“Yes, but nothing as serious as this. I would have simply seen a veterinarian, but you came highly recommended by my landlady. Besides, I would very much like to put an end to this problem once and for all,” stated Hyde, and he watched the doctor deftly pull on his latex examination gloves. He then began to peel back the lips of the beast in order to ascertain the health of its teeth and gums. He lifted up an eyelid, for the animal had fallen into a doze, its rough tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. A small puddle of saliva had formed under it, collecting upon the white linoleum floor. The doctor nodded a few times as he inspected Hyde’s dog-leg, musing to himself while jotting down notes.

Hyde took this moment to begin anew: “You see, doctor, I had just come to terms with the unfortunate bank robbery attempt and the subsequent amputation; I spent time getting accustomed to my prosthetic attachment. But ever since last year, I’ve been having this -- animal problem -- which has made my life quite unbearable, I’m afraid.

“The first time, I awoke early in the morning due to an inexplicable sensation in the region where my leg used to be. To my chagrin, I peeled back the sheets to find the abhorrent beginnings of a Boston terrier sprouting from the stump area. Certainly bad enough, to be sure, but I have a particular distaste for that breed of dog. So you can imagine, doctor, my alarm,” he said, and then he paused to scratch behind the ear of the dog-leg. It emitted a low, satisfied groan and yawned heartily.

Hyde continued: “It cleared up in just over a day, much to my great relief, and all was back to normal, or so I believed. But just six months later, I experienced the same strange and disquieting feeling in my leg, only this time the symptoms were worse. The dog had grown into a beagle of some mongrel sort, and took to gnawing the bedpost in a most persistent and annoying manner. I have a veterinarian friend who looked at it, and he recommended an herbal tea, which took care of the problem in three days’ time.

That was last spring. Now, this abominable beast has taken the place of those lesser breeds, but it seems also less willing to clear up. The tea hasn’t worked at all, and I fear I will have a fully grown house-pet on my leg if you don’t find a way to cure me,” and with that, Hyde uttered a curse and sighed wearily.

“Yes, yes,” breathed the doctor as he scratched the back of his neck. He pulled from a drawer next to the sink a large hardbound medical anthology of some kind and began leafing through it rapidly.

“Ah, here it is,” he said with self-satisfaction, “dog-leg. I’ve never treated this before, Mr. Hyde, but I have been keeping up on the latest therapies and medications offered for treatment. He squinted, showing his immaculate teeth, and continued: “I am going to prescribe you three things. The first is heartworm medication. Over-the-counter stuff. You can never be too careful, Mr. Hyde, that’s how medicine goes. Secondly, you must take these antibiotics twice a day with food. After a week, you can stop. And lastly, I want you to stay home from work for a couple of days if you’ve not planned to do so already. Rest. Get plenty of sleep, drink a gallon of water a day, and eat raw vegetables. No red meat, that will just exacerbate the problem. You should be dog-free in five or six days. I would like you to come back in a week for a follow-up as well. Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Hyde. May I photograph it? For archival purposes, you see.”

“Well…okay, but don’t get my face in the picture,” replied Hyde uneasily.

“Splendid! Let me just run and get the camera –” said Dr. Craven, and bolted from the room almost instantaneously.

Hyde looked at his dog-leg with reproach, but he could not maintain his stern façade in the face of that poor, wretched beast. His heart melted, he was filled with remorse, and he felt a great wave of compassion flood over him as he beheld the abject creature. So pitiable was it that Hyde even had to choke back a tear.

The doctor came rushing back in, camera in hand, out of breath and sweating.

“Got it!” he cried, and his excitement was such that he did not notice the anguished face of Hyde. He instructed his patient to sit on the examining table and be still while he snapped several pictures of the dog-leg from various angles.

Hyde, meanwhile, had begun to wonder if his curatives might constitute some measure of cruelty to animals. He dreaded that notion that the dog remain there, helplessly pullulating from his right leg, but he dreaded equally the idea of killing any kind of animal. He wrung his hands as the doctor finished the photo shoot, and decided he would think it over for a day. So Hyde took his prescriptions, bade the doctor good day, nodded politely to the pretty mathematician, smudged his finger with paint, and began the descent to the street.

On his way down the stairs, his dog-leg began to bark faintly, as if beckoning his attention. Confused, Hyde paused on the steps and rolled up his pant leg. The dog’s eyes seemed illuminated, and he felt the beastly gaze meet his own.

“Listen, buddy,” barked the dog, “I’m not any happier about this predicament than you are. I mean, look at it from my point of view. Here I am, a normal, healthy adult dog, and all of a sudden there’s this bloody human growing from my hindquarters!

“Think of my shock! One minute I’m frolicking in the park, carefree and happy, and the next minute finds me barely a dog – damn it!” finished the dog, obviously very agitated.

“Great scott! I honestly never thought of it that way…I just didn’t think – that is, I had no idea you were so – evolved –”

“Well, there you go. Now you know. And kindly keep the fact to yourself, please. I’ve been compromised enough as it is. Now, perhaps we should get back home and discuss this in a more – comfortable – environment, what do you say?” proposed the dog-leg.

“Um – sure, yes, of course. We’ll get a move on then,” and with that he resumed his hobbling descent to the cold, furious streets…

But this is where our story time ends for the time being. Next time, God willing, story time will bring you up to date on this unlikely pair of creatures, one canine and one human, who by chance of fate are drawn into the same cloudy destiny. Will they learn to live together in peace and harmony? Or will one banish the other in a desperate struggle for independence?

Alas, my dear reader, some mysteries are never meant to be solved quickly, just as some stories are never meant to end neatly.

FIN>

Copyright 2010

E.W. Borg