on Todd.
“What’s wrong with you, boy?”
Todd went down on his haunches in front of the dog, and stroked his ears. Dempsey growled appreciatively. But he felt unsteady in Todd’s arms; as though at any moment he might keel over.
Todd called Maxine and told her he’d be at the vet’s for the next few hours.
“Something wrong with that flatulent old dog of yours?”
“You’ll be flatulent when you get to his age,” Todd said. “And yeah.
There is something wrong. He keeps falling over.”
•
•
•
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CLIVE BARKER
He’d had Dempsey eleven years. He’d bought the dog as a pup just before he’d started to shoot Gunner . As a consequence the dog’s first real experience of life beyond his mother’s teat was being carried around a movie studio by his owner and adored ; all of which he thereafter took as his God-given right. Dempsey had been with Todd on every set since; the two were inseparable. Todd and Dempsey; Dempsey and Todd. Thanks to those early experiences of universal affection he was a confident dog; afraid of nobody, and—unless somebody was afraid of him—predisposed to be friendly.
The vet’s name was Doctor Spenser; an ebullient black woman who’d been looking after Dempsey since puppyhood. She did a few tests and told Todd that yes, there were definitive signs that Dempsey was having cognitive difficulties.
“How old is he now?”
“He’ll be twelve next March.”
“Oh that’s right—we didn’t know his birthday so we said—”
“—Oscar Night.”
“What’s wrong, boy?” Doctor Spenser said to Dempsey, ruffling him under the chin. “He’s certainly not his usual happy self, is he?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I’d like to keep him in here for a few tests.”
“I brought a stool sample like you asked.”
“Thanks.”
Todd produced a small Tupperware container of dog poop. “Well we’ll have that analyzed. You want the container back? Just kidding. Don’t look so grim, Todd—”
“I don’t like seeing him like this.”
“It’s probably a virus he’s picked up. We’ll give him a few antibiotics and he’ll be good as new.”
“But there’s something weird about his eyes. Look. He’s not even focussing on us.”
Dempsey had raised his head, knowing full well he was being talked CC[001-347] 9/10/01 2:26 PM Page 79
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about, but plainly he was having some difficulty fixing his gaze on whoever was doing the talking.
“This couldn’t just be old age, could it?”
“I doubt it. He’s been a very healthy dog so far, and it’s my experience that a mutt like Dempsey is going to last a lot longer than some over-bred hound. You leave him with me. Check in with me at the end of the day.”
Todd did that. The news was there was no news. The stool sample had gone to the lab to be analyzed, and meanwhile Dempsey was looking weak, perhaps a little disoriented, but there’d been no noticeable deterioration in his condition.
“You can either take him home tonight or leave him here. He’ll be perfectly fine here. We don’t actually have anybody monitoring the dogs from eleven p.m. till six in the morning, but the chances of—”
“I’m going to come and collect him.”
Despite Doctor Spenser’s reassurances that there had been no deterioration, Todd disagreed. Usually when he arrived at the vet’s after Dempsey had stayed in for a couple of hours, either for a shot, or his six-month check-up, he was greeted by the dog in crazy mode, yapping his delight at seeing his boss again, and ready to be out of the door before they could stick another damn needle in his backside. But today, when Dempsey came round the corner it seemed to take a moment before the dog even realized it was his master at the door, calling to him. And when he came, though some of his old enthusiasm returned, he was a shadow of his former self. Doctor Spenser had already gone off-duty for the night.
Todd asked if he could
“What’s wrong with you, boy?”
Todd went down on his haunches in front of the dog, and stroked his ears. Dempsey growled appreciatively. But he felt unsteady in Todd’s arms; as though at any moment he might keel over.
Todd called Maxine and told her he’d be at the vet’s for the next few hours.
“Something wrong with that flatulent old dog of yours?”
“You’ll be flatulent when you get to his age,” Todd said. “And yeah.
There is something wrong. He keeps falling over.”
•
•
•
CC[001-347] 9/10/01 2:26 PM Page 78
78
CLIVE BARKER
He’d had Dempsey eleven years. He’d bought the dog as a pup just before he’d started to shoot Gunner . As a consequence the dog’s first real experience of life beyond his mother’s teat was being carried around a movie studio by his owner and adored ; all of which he thereafter took as his God-given right. Dempsey had been with Todd on every set since; the two were inseparable. Todd and Dempsey; Dempsey and Todd. Thanks to those early experiences of universal affection he was a confident dog; afraid of nobody, and—unless somebody was afraid of him—predisposed to be friendly.
The vet’s name was Doctor Spenser; an ebullient black woman who’d been looking after Dempsey since puppyhood. She did a few tests and told Todd that yes, there were definitive signs that Dempsey was having cognitive difficulties.
“How old is he now?”
“He’ll be twelve next March.”
“Oh that’s right—we didn’t know his birthday so we said—”
“—Oscar Night.”
“What’s wrong, boy?” Doctor Spenser said to Dempsey, ruffling him under the chin. “He’s certainly not his usual happy self, is he?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I’d like to keep him in here for a few tests.”
“I brought a stool sample like you asked.”
“Thanks.”
Todd produced a small Tupperware container of dog poop. “Well we’ll have that analyzed. You want the container back? Just kidding. Don’t look so grim, Todd—”
“I don’t like seeing him like this.”
“It’s probably a virus he’s picked up. We’ll give him a few antibiotics and he’ll be good as new.”
“But there’s something weird about his eyes. Look. He’s not even focussing on us.”
Dempsey had raised his head, knowing full well he was being talked CC[001-347] 9/10/01 2:26 PM Page 79
COLDHEART CANYON
79
about, but plainly he was having some difficulty fixing his gaze on whoever was doing the talking.
“This couldn’t just be old age, could it?”
“I doubt it. He’s been a very healthy dog so far, and it’s my experience that a mutt like Dempsey is going to last a lot longer than some over-bred hound. You leave him with me. Check in with me at the end of the day.”
Todd did that. The news was there was no news. The stool sample had gone to the lab to be analyzed, and meanwhile Dempsey was looking weak, perhaps a little disoriented, but there’d been no noticeable deterioration in his condition.
“You can either take him home tonight or leave him here. He’ll be perfectly fine here. We don’t actually have anybody monitoring the dogs from eleven p.m. till six in the morning, but the chances of—”
“I’m going to come and collect him.”
Despite Doctor Spenser’s reassurances that there had been no deterioration, Todd disagreed. Usually when he arrived at the vet’s after Dempsey had stayed in for a couple of hours, either for a shot, or his six-month check-up, he was greeted by the dog in crazy mode, yapping his delight at seeing his boss again, and ready to be out of the door before they could stick another damn needle in his backside. But today, when Dempsey came round the corner it seemed to take a moment before the dog even realized it was his master at the door, calling to him. And when he came, though some of his old enthusiasm returned, he was a shadow of his former self. Doctor Spenser had already gone off-duty for the night.
Todd asked if he could
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