Trooper Gets His Name

“Could you leave it a little longer at the back this time? I didn’t like the way it felt when I scratched.” 

I put the clippers on the table and faced my client. “Your lady likes it short, she’s the one who pays me. Sorry Roscoe.” I give him a quick scritch on his head and turn the clippers back on. He emits a sigh from the depths of his fuzzy belly and accepts his fate. 

Soon his cut is finished, and after a brisk brush-out, treats are given. I take Roscoe’s collar from the basket and slip it over his boxy snout. A gold tag engraved in an Helvetica font reads ‘Trooper’. As I reach back for the leash, he says “Aw, do you have to? I won’t run off. I promise I will go right to her. No tricks.” 

“No way Rossy. Fool me once.” I say as the metal clasp clicks into place. Another deep sigh issues forth. 

     In what passes for a waiting room at Wagg n’ Cuts Dog Salon, a woman dressed in an overcoat that costs more than two months of my rent sits on the one clean chair and looks up from her phone. A magazine serves as a partition between her leather handbag and the seat of the chair next to her. 

“You. Look. So. HANDSOME!” she squeals. “My little Trooper, Mr. Serious pupper-pupper!” Petting his freshly trimmed rump “So soft! Silky. My handsome wittle man. Yes. Oh Yes.” Looking up to the other end of the leash to find me, her attitude does a quick shift back to sanity. “Thank you so much. I am so sorry that he is such a bother with the constant barking. He only trusts you. We have been banished from every other groomer. I have sent the payment to your PayPal, I hope that is alright?”  Putting on my best customer service front I say “PayPal is fine and he is no bother to me, he’s just chatty. Bye Ros- Trooper” He responds with a quick circle and “You see what I deal with? You should have forgotten the leash.” 

     On the way to the door, she stops at a photo hanging near the window. It shows a woman in a lab coat standing in a veterinarian exam room. A large shaggy dog stands on an exam table, a canine smile on its face. Next to the table a young girl wearing a too large shirt, made to look like a lab coat, looks up at the woman, a wide smile fills her face. 

“Is that Marian Goodspell?” she asks, giving the frame an appraising look. 

“Yes, that’s my grandmother and that is me. I used to visit her during the summer when I was a kid”

She turns her appraisal on me, Roscoe/Trooper does his own quick turn. 

“Your Grandmother? I remember the stories. They said that she had a way with animals that was magical. It was like they could talk with her. No wonder Trooper trusts you, he must sense that.” 

“Or maybe, she calls me by my actual name?” Roscoe chips in.

“Yes you do, my wittle Trooper, you like her, don’t you” she says down to him.

I get another pleading look from Roscoe. 

“My grandmother was special, but it wasn't magic, she just listened to her patients and was very good at what she did.”

     In truth, it was magic. Marion’s grandmother could talk with any animal that she made eye contact with. Marian could do that as well as heal with her hands. Most illnesses and injuries would melt away at her focused touch. Her connection to them was potent and sensed by them.On our walks, wild animals would appear and take a long, silent look as we passed.

      I learned from her but can only speak with animals and create a calming effect when I touch them. It’s a wonderful gift. Until you make eye contact with a bird and learn what they are saying. Territorial animals with an overpowering need to breed say the most disturbing things.

She looks at Roscoe and smiles, “I wish that I could talk with animals and know what they are thinking”

“No, you don’t!” Roscoe and I blurt at the same time, but for different reasons.   

     I try to correct my fumble “You know it won’t…change the way Trooper feels about you. He knows that you love him. Right?” The last is said with a pointed look at Roscoe. 

She looks down at him, him looking at me. “Hmmm. I am not so sure. The way he acts sometimes, I think that he is trying to punish me.” She looks back up at the photo and with some hesitation, asks, “Is the story true about your grandmother’s funeral? That all the animals of the town followed the hearse to the cemetery? I have heard variations from dozens to hundreds of pets that walked alongside her procession.” 

     I should have anticipated this. It’s one of the reasons I don’t have a waiting room that encourages lingering or even waiting. “I have heard the same stories, but I was too young to really remember what happened.” is my usual go to. It's a lie. I was young but I certainly remember. Scores of cats and dogs followed alongside the funeral procession as it made its way through our small town to the nearby cemetery. All of them silent, walking, trotting, slinking, with purpose. They all lined up solemly along the cemetery fence while the final prayers were said. When the casket had been lowered and the first handful of soil had hit the lid, they all disappeared. Not a whisker or a tail was seen of their departure. 

     The town talked about it for a while, in secretive, almost embarrassed tones. Not being able to explain it, there was an unspoken agreement not to mention it ever again. The story occasionally pops up when a journalist looking for a ‘news of the weird piece’ will ask around and leave disappointed. 

For the residents, it rests untold and mostly forgotten. The silent parade of animals paying homage to the vet that healed so many of them. 

     Looking at the photo, I say “She was loved by so many. Her patients, their owners and family. Many of them showed up and walked along with her that day. They probably didn’t know why. They just did it. That’s what love does. My grandmother loved them all and they knew it. Magic or not, she made her love felt and that is why she was so good at her job and why so many were there at the procession.” Never having put those feelings into words before, I try to find something normal for my hands to do in the silence that follows. On an inspiration I ask, “Where did you get the name Trooper?” 

“Oh,” She waves her hand as if cleaning the air to make way for her to conjure the memory. “It was a battle. I read every baby name book cover to cover and had a list of names I only sort of liked. I started to call him Trooper for being such a good sport about it. It was almost going to be Roscoe, but I didn’t love it.”  At that, Roscoe perks his ears and barks a “Yes!” She looks down surprised and tries it again. “You like that? Roscoe? Another happy bark. “Oh yeah!” He sits up with his ears perked for full effect.

“You’re a ham,” I say. “I think he likes that name” I squat down and scritch his ear. “Do you like that name? Roscoe?”

“Who's the ham now?” He barks in reply. 

“I think that settles it. He’s a Roscoe. As Marion’s granddaughter, you can take my word for it” 

She gives me another appraising look, like she is wondering if she is on the outside of a plot.  “Are you sure you don’t have magic powers?”

Standing back up I say “No ma’am. Just love. But using the right name sure helps.” 

She looks at me and then at her watch. Smiling. “I will email to set up our next appointment. It will be under the name Roscoe.”