Puppy Love

Angie saw it first. "It's number 142 … his coat, it winked at me!" The coat winked, and then, just so that we got the message, it stuck out its tongue.

It must have been about 1985 or '86, during the period of the first studies of AZT, which has since been renamed zidovudine with the brand name Retrovir. It was a busy time. Suddenly we had more than 150 active patients, each with their own drug supplies and paperwork to match. We set up a computer database and labeling system and pulled people from other areas of the pharmacy. At some point it began to bother me that I wasn't keeping up: too many patients had become numbers without names, names without identities.

Even so, 142 stood out. Although he lacked the charm of number 87 or the tragedy of number 53, he still stood out in the crowd with his slouch hat, Mexican bandit's moustache, and the unshorn sheepskin coat, with the wool outside. It was under the coat that he hid Ted, a tiny toy poodle that seemed to blend in perfectly with the dirty wool, becoming a sort of Cheshire cat with only the eyes remaining. Or sometimes the tiny pink tongue.

There were clear rules about patients bringing pets into the hospital and good reasons for them. We knew the rules well enough, and we were wrong to disregard them – arguing that it was the job of security or the clinic staff to be the enforcers – but Ted was cute. Toy poodles can be difficult, no matter how cute they look, but Ted was well trained and never barked. Instead, he seemed to have an instinctive liking for people, and the feeling was returned. Even Mitch, who could carry on for hours about the superiority of cats to dogs, was charmed by the tiny dog. Ted would smile, if dogs can smile, and anyone who came within range got a licking from the tiny tongue. The days when 142 was due for a prescription refill were good days – almost the equal of when a drug salesman brought in a Continuing Education program and a free lunch.

It lasted until Angie came to me, almost in tears. "142 had his dose increased," she said. We both knew what that meant. The virus was showing resistance, and there was no plan B, no alternative therapy to try. "What's going to happen to Ted?" Angie asked, and I didn't know. There were a lot of volunteer organizations helping AIDS patients, including one that provided dog-walking services so patients could keep their pets, but I didn't know of anybody who found homes for the pets after the patients had died.

And so, we started looking for a home for Ted. At first we assumed Morrie could find a home, since he was very good at finding homes for kittens – but cats are less demanding than dogs, and the people he knew simply didn't have the time.

Meanwhile, 142 was getting sicker. You could see it in his face. Most of our AIDS patients looked perfectly healthy; the wasted, gaunt look only appeared in the very last stages. Some of us spoke of taking Ted ourselves, but we all had good reasons not to. Angie loved Ted, but she had a lease that prohibited dogs. I thought of it myself, but my own dog wouldn't have accepted the newcomer. Morrie had five cats, and his neighbors were already complaining.

The answer came in the springtime, when it was simply too warm to wear heavy coats. We got a call from a security guard saying that a patient had tried to slip in with a dog and claimed to be going to our department. What were we going to do about it? The guard sounded irate. He had a right to be. I took longer than I had to getting up the stairs.

The hospital had two kinds of guards. The younger ones had accepted entry-level jobs as a way of working for the university and getting tuition remission benefits, but the older ones were tired – people who had worked in other places for decades but hadn't been able to save enough to retire. Some of the older guards were bitter about their lives. While they were obligated to be polite to the patients, sometimes they let their feelings show to their co-workers. As I approached the front desk, I saw that it was manned by one of the curmudgeons. But instead of a scowl, he was smiling. In his hands was a tiny white fur-ball. Ted's tiny tail seemed to be doing something closer to vibrating than wagging, and his tongue was darting in and out, licking the old grouch's face.

The guard smiled at me as I came closer. "He's cute," the guard said. "I wish I had a pet like this."

I paused. "Are you serious?" I asked.

Discuss This Article

Have something you'd like to say? Tell us what you think! Read and post comments for this article.

Find a Job

Choose your career:

MedHunters is the world's biggest healthcare job board. Our job directory has 16,633 jobs with 2,439 hospitals and other direct employers.

We want you to find your next job on MedHunters. Need Help? Call us at 1-888-884-8242, email us at info@medhunters.com or sign up now.