U Is for Undertow

and a kitchenette on the other. A small dining room table and two chairs were arranged against an oversized mullioned window that looked out on a patch of lawn. Everything was tidy. There was no sign of Mrs. McNally. I don’t know how women can complain about the lack of single guys in this world.
    He sat in a plump upholstered chair and I took one end of the matching sofa. He put his hands on his knees and said, “Tell me more about what you need. I’m not entirely clear how to help.”
    “This is the deal,” I said. “In the summer of 1967, a fellow brought his dog into your office. This was a wolfdog, named Ulf. I’m told you sedated him and took X-rays that showed an osteosarcoma. You recommended putting the dog down.”
    Walter was nodding. “I remember. Young dog, maybe four or five years old.”
    “Really? You remember him?”
    “I couldn’t have told you his name, but I know the animal you’re referring to. He was the only wolfdog I ever had occasion to treat. You see more of the mix these days, but back then it was rare. As I recall, the fellow called a number of pet hospitals in the area and none of the other vets would agree to see him. Beautiful beast, absolutely magnificent. He had so much wolf in him, he looked like he’d just come loping out of the woods. He’d apparently been experiencing episodes of lameness that seemed to be getting worse.
    “I thought about osteosarcoma the minute his owner mentioned the joint being so extremely tender. An X-ray confirmed my suspicions. A tumor of that sort doesn’t cross the joint space and invade other bones. It’s a gradual expansion in the joint where it’s found, destroying the bone from the inside out and causing excruciating pain. On the views I took, it looked like the bone had been eaten away. The dog couldn’t be saved. That’s the long and short of it. I knew the fellow was upset, but I gave him my best advice and that was to spare the animal further suffering.”
    “The man’s name was P. F. Sanchez. The dog belonged to his deceased son.”
    “I see. Well, that’s a sad situation that could pile misery upon misery. It’s hard enough having to put an animal down, regardless of the circumstances, but when the dog belongs to a child you’ve lost . . .” He let the sentence trail off.
    “What would have happened to the dog after he was put down?”
    “County animal control picked up the remains and disposed of them. We’d place the body in a canvas bag that we left in a storage shed out back. This was a wooden contraption that could be opened from either side. I don’t know how things are handled these days. I believe with recent budget cuts, the county has discontinued the pickup service and it’s up to the individual veterinarian to deliver the remains to the animal control facility. Whatever the procedure, the animals are incinerated. That much is the same. I would have assumed that was Ulf’s fate until you told me otherwise.”
    “Did the county make daily sweeps?”
    He shook his head. “We called when we had a pickup and they’d be there by the end of the business day.”
    “Did you ever have reason to bury the remains yourself?”
    “No. I understand the desire to bury a pet in the backyard, but I wouldn’t have taken it upon myself. The animal wasn’t mine.”
    “Would you know if the county kept a record of pickups?”
    “There wouldn’t have been any reason to. We had a form the pet owner signed, giving permission for an animal to be euthanized. Sometimes the owner would ask us to return the ashes and sometimes animal control was asked to dispose of them. I can’t imagine why that would be subject to dispute.”
    “No, no. There’s no dispute,” I said. “Sanchez told me he gave you authorization by phone.”
    “I don’t remember his doing so, but that sounds right.”
    “What about your records?”
    “Those are gone. When I retired, some charts were forwarded to other vets on request and the rest I put in storage. I held everything ten years and then boxed up the lot and called a shredding company. It probably wasn’t necessary, but I didn’t like the idea of personal information going into the trash.”
    “Can you think of any reason why Ulf wouldn’t have been picked up and cremated? Some special circumstance?”
    McNally shook his head again. “That was the protocol.”
    “Most people keep the ashes?”
    “Some do and some don’t. What makes you ask?”
    “I was just curious. I