MARIO WASHED HIS hands, working the chemical soap between his fingers and under his fingernails. His operating room was warm, the air sluggish and thick beneath the open skylight. Sweat glistened on his forehead and dripped from his top lip.
“Another day, another dog,” he said to himself, wiping his face with his sleeve.
The morning had already been busy: a series of routine injections and ear baths followed by the timely end of Barkley, Mrs. Adamczyk’s cheese-smelling Labrador. He looked at the heavy ball of fur lying on the trolley beneath a rubber sheet.
“No more chasing of sticks, my friend—you have licked the testicles of death,” he said, tucking Barkley’s tongue back into his mouth.
The bell sounded. Mario dried his hands quickly, and went out into the cool of the shaded reception. A bar of sunlight cut the room in half, framing a little figure in shadow.
“Hello? Oh, Mrs. . . . Mrs. . . .”
“Hutchison,” said an elderly lady.
“Of course, and how is little . . .”
“Mr. Snuggles,” said Mrs. Hutchison.
“Mr. Snuggles,” said Mario, drawing the appointments book across the desk. “Yes, of course, he is one of my favorite . . . cats?”
“Iguanas.”
“The cats of the reptile world,” said Mario smoothly. “And how is Mr. Snuggles on this hot and sunny day?”
“Dead,” wobbled Mrs. Hutchison. She pressed a hanky to her mouth.
Mario looked into the crate, a thin green tail hanging limply from its bars. When he saw that the iguana was wearing a little pair of trousers and a stovepipe hat, he remembered exactly who Mrs. Hutchison was.
“Ah,” he said. “I am sorry. He was a very fine lizard. Well, if you would like to—”
“No, you don’t understand,” said Mrs. Hutchison quickly, grabbing Mario’s arm with surprisingly strong fingers. “He died yesterday, but today he’s . . . moving again.”
“Then is not dead!” said Mario brightly. “Wonderful news! The consultation fee is—”
“But he is dead!” said Mrs. Hutchison, and Mario noticed for the first time how raw she looked—how pale her lips were, and how pink the whites of her eyes. “He died yesterday afternoon, and I know he was dead last night because I was taking some memorial photographs of him in his favorite costumes—then this morning he was moving. Not opening his eyes but, well . . . moving. Is it just nerves?”
“Could be, could be,” said Mario, lifting the little tail. “Have you tried drinking herbal tea?”
“Not my nerves! His! The nerves in his body, or—”
“Well,” said Mario, “is not like headless chicken, you know. Lizard is dead—it looks dead. Maybe you could leave him here today. I keep very close eye on him.”
She nodded, lifted the crate onto the counter.
“It’s so upsetting,” she said. “I was just getting myself accustomed to . . . I mean, he never even wore the Charlie Chaplin costume. It took so long to knit the little mustache, and—”
“Leave him with me,” said Mario, leading her out by the shoulder. “I will see what is what and I will let you know. Perhaps he is in coma? I will check to see if big lizards can go into comas.”
“Do you think that’s what it is?” said Mrs. Hutchison, nodding tearfully.
“I have no idea,” said Mario, blinking in the sunshine as the bell chimed her exit. “I will investigate. Good-bye for now.”
The wind from the closing door dislodged one of the notices, and he bent to retrieve it. He had difficulty finding space for the pin: the bulletin board—normally a few tacked pamphlets for pet food—was covered in handwritten notes. And every scribbled message was about a different missing cat.
The door opened again.
“As soon as I can, Mrs. Hutchie, I promise— Oh—”
“It’s my parakeet,” said a tearstained man in an apron.
Mario looked over his shoulder, and saw a line of people clutching cages and crates. “Ah,” he said. “One moment, my people—I must examine this animal first. Please come into waiting area, and I will be only a moment.”
The crowd gathered in the small space, and Mario took the iguana into the operating room.
“So many dead pets, Mr. Snuggles,” he said, gently nudging the lizard’s tail. “And you are one of them, I’m afraid. As dead as our friend Mr. Barkley, and he is—”
Mario froze in the doorway.
The trolley was empty, the rubber sheet crumpled on the floor.
Barkley was gone.
Mario crouched to follow the trail of wet paw prints, and the crate began to swing in his hand.