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The Check-up

John Duncklee

    George Armbruster glanced away from the front page of the WALL STREET JOURNAL just as Herman, his wife’s Miniature Schnauzer, leaped to Marge’s chair, stole an English muffin from her plate on the breakfast table, and jumped back down to race into the living room to take refuge on the flower-patterned couch facing the large stone fireplace. Marge stopped in her tracks with coffee-pot in hand.
    “Herman, you naughty boy!” she said.
    “Chrisakes, Marge, put that unruly sonofabitch outside while we’re eating.”
    “George, why do insist on calling Herman a sonofabitch? You know he is very sensitive.”
    “If that flea-bag isn’t a sonofabitch, what the hell is he?”
    “Herman is not a flea-bag, Doctor Diefendorfor shampoos him once a week, and both of us would appreciate your not referring to Herman as a sonofabitch. You remember what Doctor Diefendorfor said about his feelings of being unloved.”
    Herman continued to devour the English muffin from his crouching position on the couch. Whenever his name, Herman or sonofabitch or flea-bag was mentioned he glanced furtively toward the couple in the next room.
    “Flea-bag or not, he’s getting buttered crumbs all over the couch, Marge.”
    “You know very well that the couch is Herman’s favorite place. We can replace the couch but we can’t possibly replace Herman.”
    “I like the couch. The couch doesn’t eat, doesn’t growl at me, doesn’t crap on the rugs, and doesn’t run up gigantic vet bills. I only wish I could enjoy it.”
    “You have your recliner, George.”
    Exasperated, George folded up the WALL STREET JOURNAL, took a gulp from his coffee mug, and rose from the his chair. “Please don’t forget to pick up my suits from the dry-cleaners today, Dear.”
    “I have to take Herman to Doctor Diefendorfor’s for his quarterly check-up, Darling. I’ll try, but the dry-cleaner is across town.”
    “Chrisakes, Marge, I have a board meeting tomorrow. I need a clean suit. That little bastard can’t be as important as my board meeting.”
    “Please, George, Herman is not a bastard. He is an American Kennel Club registered, purebred Miniature Schnauzer.”
    Anxious to leave for his day’s work at the office, George tapped the folded WALL STREET JOURNAL on the breakfast table. Hearing the familiar noise from the couch, Herman put his head between his front paws and closed his eyes. George was nearing the end of what patience he had remaining.
    “I’ll try to simplify matters for my benefit and Herman’s. Leave the dog with the vet, go get the dry-cleaning, and go back to the vet’s after you have picked up my suits.”
    “Oh, George, you know I can’t leave Herman there alone. Besides, I can’t miss Doctor Diefendorfor’s consultation after the quarterly check-up.”
    “That’s another thing we need to discuss before I leave for the office. I examine the bills very carefully before paying them, and I notice that this Diefendorfor charges a hundred bucks for these goddam consultation periods. Tell him to send you a written report on Herman.”
    “George, be reasonable. Those consultations are extremely important to my understanding of Herman’s health conditions. As Doctor Diefendorfor has repeatedly suggested, you should attend the consultations for both your and Herman’s good.”
    “Who is going to earn the money to pay the vet bills if I take time away from the office to consult with that arrogant dog shrink?”
    “Doctor Diefendorfor is a canine psychologist besides being a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. I feel very fortunate to have found him for Herman. He is very particular about the patients he sees.”
    George put the paper under his arm, picked up his briefcase and gave his wife a smirk as he shook his head slowly. “Do be a good girl, Darling, and pick up the dry-cleaning sometime before they close for the day.”
    When the door closed behind George, Herman opened his eyes and lifted his head from between his paws. After seeing that he was alone with Marge he jumped down from the couch and bounded toward the breakfast table, panting a canine smile with his pink tongue dripping saliva onto the floor, his entire hindquarters rapidly wiggling his cropped tail back and forth. Marge handed him the last bite from the remaining half of her English muffin. He gobbled it down in an instant of joy.
    “Good boy, Herman, she said. “Now that Daddy’s gone, we have to get ready for our trip to see Doctor Diefendorfor.”
    Herman had remained looking up at Marge. His hindquarters were still moving and his tongue continued dripping saliva. At her mention of Doctor Diefendorfor, the little Schnauzer stopped his wiggling posterior, pulled in his pink tongue and cocked his head.
    Marge stood up and carried the breakfast dishes to the sink. From the refrigerator she took a package of ground beef and spooned half of it into the dog dish that displayed the name, “Herman”, on its outer edge. Putting it on the floor, she patted the dog on his head as he began devouring the meat. “You eat your breakfast while Mommy gets ready,” she said.
    Marge left Herman in the kitchen while she dressed for the quarterly check-up at the veterinary clinic. Herman finished licking the plate clean and shortly retreated to the living room to his favorite spot on the rug where he evacuated his bowels.
    Finished dressing, Marge came carefully down the stairs to keep from getting her spike heeled shoes caught in the carpet. Reaching the threshold, she took the leather leash from the hook by the front door. “Come, little man, it’s time to go.”
    Herman trotted docilely toward her. She reached down and snapped the leash into the ring on the rhinestone decorated collar. Herman followed her out the front door and around to the green Jeep Cherokee parked in the circular driveway. The Armbrusters, at Marge’s insistance, had purchased the vehicle after acquiring Herman six months before. On the front bumper, a sign the size of a license plate proclaimed, “Herman’s Chariot”.
    Marge opened the door to the driver’s side, and Herman leaped in. He jumped to his place on the front passenger’s seat, and perched there authoritatively.

    The ample parking lot in front of the veterinary clinic had designated spaces for “Patient Parking”, “Deliveries Only” and “Doctors Only”. In front of a sign painted in gold lettering saying “Doctor Diefendorfor” a new red Farrari Sports coupe sat sparkling in the morning sun. Next to it a BMW and a Mercedes were parked sedately in front of the more inconspicuous “Doctors Only” section.
    Marge parked the Cherokee and led Herman to the entrance. In antique brass lettering on the mauve-colored stuccoed wall next to the door, the names of three veterinarians, complete with their academic degrees, greeted visitors and patients. Recognizing the surroundings, Herman balked, planting his short hairy legs firmly on the Italian tiled walkway. “Come, now, Herman,” Marge said. “You know you like Doctor Diefendorfor.”
    Herman remained in his adamant position until Marge bent over, picked him up, and carried him through the automatic sliding, glass door into the waiting room. She went directly to the counter, behind which a white uniformed girl in her twenties with bleached blond hair and dark eyebrows looked up with a forced smile on her round face with no make-up except purple eye-shadow. “Well, Herman, how are we this morning?”
    Herman answered with a low guttural growl.
    “Herman, be nice to Mary,” Marge said. “Mary’s your friend.”
    “Doctor will be with you in a few minutes,” Mary replied. “Please have a seat.”
    Marge carried Herman to a green naugahyde chair, keeping him on her lap. Across the room a middle-aged woman with a cold stare and pursed lips sat with a spitting, arched back Angora cat. Herman tried leaping from Marge’s lap to attack the cat, but Marge’s grip contained him. Stoically, Marge avoided the woman’s icey stare. Five minutes later the door to the inner sanctum of the clinic opened and a woman in a green smock and surgeon’s cap faced Marge. “Doctor is ready for Herman.”
    With a muzzle in her hand she approached Marge and Herman. Herman growled again. “We must take this precaution,” she said, holding the muzzle toward the dog. “Last time he was here, Herman grabbed my hand with his teeth.”
    The woman deftly had the muzzle over Herman’s mouth before he knew what was happening. She swooped him into her arms and left Marge sitting in half shock on the naugehyde chair, watching Herman as he looked back at her with baffled, pleading eyes. Before closing the door, the woman turned back to Marge. “Herman will be ready this afternoon unless something unexpected arises.”
    “About what time should I come back for him?” Marge asked, hoping she could wait for Herman.
    “Doctor should be finished around four.”

    Marge left the clinic, picked up the dry-cleaning, and went to her tennis club for lunch where she spent the afternoon chatting with her best friend, Harriet, mostly about their respective dogs.

    Returning to the clinic shortly before four o’clock, Marge asked the girl behind the counter if Herman was ready.
    “Doctor will be with you in just a minute. He is in surgery right now,” the girl answered.
    After fifteen minutes in the naugahyde chair, Marge was relieved when the woman in the green smock appeared at the door. “Doctor will see you now, Mrs. Armbruster.”
    Marge followed the woman to a spacious office where she sat down, as directed, in a brown, leather arm-chair. She looked at the ornately framed diplomas on the wall. Shortly, the veterinarian, in green smock and cap with a stethoscope draped around his neck, entered the office, and slid into the cordovan-brown, high-backed leather chair behind a large, walnut desk piled with neatly stacked manila folders. Deifendorfor, a stockily built man of fifty odd years with piercing blue eyes and shaved head reminded Marge of some actor she had seen in a World War II movie portraying a Nazi general.
    Diefendorfor opened the manila folder he had brought with him, glanced at the top sheet of paper and looked up with wrinkled brow and a serious look on his teutonic face. “Mrs. Armbruster, I am not totally pleased with the results of Herman’s quarterly examination. While cleaning his teeth, Doctor Rushkin noticed some slight gum inflammation that could lead to a more serious condition. He suggests you bring Herman in for weekly check-ups and treatments until that condition is cleared up.”
    Marge felt a twinge af guilt that she had not inspected Herman’s gums.
    “In addition to the gums, I have found that Herman is suffering from A.D.D. and recommend regular treatment sessions. However, before I begin this therapy, I must see you and your husband with Herman for consultation and observation.”
    “What is A.D.D., Doctor?”
    “A.D.D. stands for Attention Deficit Disorder, Mrs. Armbruster.”
    “Doctor, I don’t think George has time for this.”
    “For the good of Herman, Mr. Armbruster must find the time. It is imperative that I consult with those involved with the dog. When I have completed the therapy I will enroll Herman in our Obedience Training Academy.”
    Marge sat silently, trying to understand what the veterinarian was telling her.
    “He is also showing symptoms of an overactive adrenal gland. The condition is treatable with injections of attenuated botulism. I am recommending this in order that the condition does not advance any further, Mrs. Armbruster. Before you leave, you can make the necessary appointments with my receptionist at the desk. Oh, one more thing. Doctor Rushkin mentioned that Herman may need a root canal in one of his molars. This can be done when Doctor Rushkin takes another set of x-rays in a month. Do you have any questions?”
    “No, Doctor, I appreciate your taking care of Herman.”
    “Herman is a fine Schnauzer, Mrs. Armbruster. Have you given any thought to standing him?”
    “I don’t know what you mean, Doctor.”
    “At stud, Mrs. Armbruster. I can make all the arrangements and supervise the breeding.”
    “I hadn’t given that any thought. I will discuss it with George.”
    Diefendorfor cracked a faint smile. “Then we will see Herman and your husband next week.”
     After Mary had presented Marge with a copy of the bill and made appointments for the various treatments and therapy. Opening the door to the inside the woman in the green smock led Herman into the waiting room and dropped the leash. Herman dashed toward Marge skidding on the slippery linoleumed floor, peeing as he went. Marge made like she didn’t notice the trail of urine and picked Herman up and held him in her arms. “Are you glad to see me, Herman,” she said, and left the clinic.
    Having parked the Cherokee at home in the driveway, Marge reached around for the dry-cleaning just as George parked his BMW behind her. “Hi, George, you’re home early.”
    Herman fled to the front door dragging his leash.
    “I left the office early to make sure I have a clean suit for tomorrow’s board meeting.”
    “I picked up the cleaning, Darling.”
    “So I discovered. Thank you for remembering.”
    They entered the house after Herman squirmed his way through the opening door, still dragging his leash.
    Once inside, Marge hung the dry-cleaning on a hook inside the coat closet door. “Come, Herman,” she said. “Let’s take off your leash, Sweetie Boy.”
    Herman had sought his favorite place on the couch and remained there.
    “Goddamit, Marge, this house smells like dogshit,” George said after he had put his briefcase on a chair in the hall.
    “Herman must have had an accident. I’ll go find it and clean it up while you make us both a drink. This has not been one of my better days.”
    Before getting the dustpan and paper towels, Marge put Diefendorfor’s bill on the breakfast table, intending to discuss the quarterly examination with George after she had cleaned up Herman’s accident.
    George went about making two vodka martinis. Placing the drinks on the breakfast table, he glanced at the bill. “Chrisakes, Marge, what the hell did that bandit do that’s worth eight hundred and forty dollars?”
    Marge came into the kitchen with the accident wrapped in paper towels. “Herman was there most of the day, George. You can read what Doctor Diefendorfor found out.”
    “What the hell is A.D.D. ?”
    “Doctor said it was Attention Deficit Deficiency and he wants to see all three of us before he starts therapy.”
    “Jeezus,” George exclaimed as he continued reading. “Dental prophylaxsis, a hundred and two bucks?”
    “Doctor Ruskin said Herman may need a root canal and his gums are in bad shape.”
    “What’s all this crap about an overactive adrenal gland.”
    “I don’t think it’s serious. Doctor also wanted to know if we had thought about standing Herman.”
    “What the hell is that?”
    “At stud, George. You know, breeding him. Doctor Diefendorfor thinks Herman is a very fine Schnauzer and said he would make all the arrangements and supervise the breeding.”
    “I’ll bet he would. The sonofabitch is not only a goddam Freudian fraud, he’s a goddam pimp!”
    “George, Doctor Diefendorfor is the finest veterinarian in Westchester County.”
    “Listen carefully to me, Marge. I don’t give a rat’s ass if Diefendorfor is the finest veterinarian in the United States of America. I don’t want you taking that goddam flea-bag to him again. It only costs me fifty bucks to have my teeth cleaned and all that crap about Attention Deficit something or other is so much bullshit. I have had it with the bullshit and with the bills. Your precious Herman gets more attention than a baby.”
    “George, Darling, you’re not jealous of Herman, are you?”
    “Jealous? Jealous of that rug-crapping neurotic mutt? No, Marge, I am just really tired of sharing my house with him. In fact, I have decided to expand that expensive doghouse in the back yard. Since Herman refuses to go in the door, I am having it remodeled into a study.”
    “Are you planning on living in the doghouse, George?”
    “Yes. It will not smell like dogshit and I can get a full night’s sleep without having to wake up with Herman humping my legs.”



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