All Shots

areas of grass on either side of the steps to Mellie’s porch were freshly mown, and a pot of yellow mums sat next to her front door. Was it Mellie herself, I wondered, who tended the grass and who had bought the fall flowers? How much could she and had she done for herself? Could she possibly have had anything to do with…? I rang the bell, and when she opened the door, I felt like a fool for suspecting someone who looked as thoroughly harmless as Mellie did. Her round face was guileless, and as she invited me in, I sensed nothing but warmth and genuineness. As usual, she wore bright colors: a green sweatshirt and matching pants. As on my previous visit, I was struck by the colorful pillows and the other cheerful objects that brightened what would otherwise have been the overwhelmingly brown and depressing decor of the living room. I wondered whether Mellie’s parents had chosen the religious paintings or whether Mellie herself had selected The Last Supper and the Madonna and Child. Although neither picture was outright gloomy, The Last Supper was, of course, the last one, and both the Madonna and the infant Jesus looked pensive and slightly jaundiced. I had a hunch that on her own, Mellie would have picked biblical images that included animals and that expressed themes of happiness and hope: Christ with a symbolic flock of sheep, the Magi at the stable.
    “You want coffee?” Mellie asked. I was getting used to the hoarseness of her voice and to her habit of speaking a little more loudly than necessary.
    “No, thanks. I’m on my way somewhere, so I can’t stay long.”
    “You want to sit down?”
    I accepted the offer and took a seat on one of the brown chairs. Mellie sat on the couch facing me.
    “I’m scared,” she said.
    “About Strike? She’s fine. And she’s going to be all healthy very soon. But her vet needs help. Her vet needs to know what shots she’s had.”
    “Up-to-date on all shots.” It was one of the times when Mellie spoke as if she were repeating a phrase she’d memorized.
    “Do you have her rabies certificate?”
    Mellie’s face went blank.
    “Mellie, you know what a rabies certificate is. It’s a piece of paper proving that a dog has had a rabies shot, a shot that stops the dog from getting sick with rabies.”
    Mellie remained silent, but her round face became pinched.
    “And other vet records? About other shots?”
    Still no luck.
    I went on. “Mellie, shots hurt.”
    Mellie almost shouted in agreement: “I hate shots!”
    “I do, too,” I said truthfully. “And so do dogs.” Some more than others. Rowdy had never shown any sign of minding them at all. I didn’t say so. “We don’t want Strike to have to have shots she doesn’t need, do we?”
    Mellie said nothing.
    “And heartworm medicine. You know what that is.”
    “The first day of January, February, March, all of them.”
    “Exactly. So that the dog doesn’t get sick from heartworm.” I paused. “And September first. Strike. Did you give Strike her medicine on September first?”
    Mellie laughed. “Of course!”
    So, Streak had been with Mellie then. “And the girl who left her with you gave you the medicine for Strike.”
    All the bright good humor left Mellie’s face. She locked her jaw.
    “And Strike might like to have her own blanket. Or toys.”
    “Don’t tell.” Mellie again seemed to be echoing someone else’s words.
    I took a guess. “You promised. You made a promise not to tell.”
    Mellie burst into tears. I felt like a monster. “Mellie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. You don’t need to cry. I’m so sorry.” I moved to the couch beside her and took her hand. “Look, I have an idea. You’re having a hard time figuring out what to do. I think you’re not sure what the right thing is.”
    She nodded.
    “Father McArdle is a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
    Her face brightened. “You know Father McArdle?”
    “I know who he is,” I said. “I live right near Saint Peter’s Parish. I think you should talk to Father McArdle. And ask his advice. Ask him about the right thing to do. Okay?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Sometimes it’s hard to know the right thing. And all of us need help deciding. And when we do, we ask other people. Can you call Father McArdle? Do you have his phone number? Do you ever call him?”
    “And he calls me, too.” She sounded wonderfully proud. “He says, ‘Mellie, how are you?’ And he asks what I’m doing.”
    “Well, this time, you