Animal Hospital - Washington Square

Animal Hospital
Joe Meno
Animal hospital! Animal hospital! the children would shout. We want to play
Animal hospital! Together the brother and sister sounded like kooks, like
bedlamites, like unchristened savages. Animal hospital was a game the father
had invented one day while the mother was away; it was only ever played in
her absence. No one needed to say this directly, as it was something both the
boy and the girl intuitively understood because there was something about
the game that was troubling, not-quite-right. It began soon after their pet
cat, a Russian Blue, had been put to sleep, after which the children fell into
an adult grief that lasted several weeks. During this time, the children lay on
the floor, beside bowls of stale milk, sadly meowing. It went on like this until
one Saturday, a month later, when the father said, Enough. He had been lying
unhappily on the floor, allowing his children to whine and pelt him with toys.
He sat up and adjusted his glasses and said, Okay. Let’s find something else to
do. Something fun.
What’s fun? the children asked.
I know, the father said. Let’s play a game.
No, the children cried, as if they had been scalded.
Come on, let’s make something up.
No, they cried again, rolling around on the floor like lepers. The father
tried to conjure up the least interesting game he could think of, something
that would keep the children busy but would require almost no effort from him.
I know, he said. Let’s pretend to be Lutherans.
No! the children shouted in protest.
Let’s pretend to work for the IRS.
No! the children said again.
I know, I know. How about animal doctors? Let’s pretend to be animal
doctors. He picked up a stuffed animal, a furry white rabbit, and said, Look.
This animal seems to be sick. Who can help?
The daughter looked down at the stuffed rabbit and said, He looks fine.
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ANIMAL HOSPITAL
Meno
10
The father adjusted his glasses again and then leaned over, poking the
animal’s fluffy side. No, its belly looks a little swollen, he said. And I’m not
getting much of a pulse.
Maybe it has a tumor, the boy, six years old, said.
Maybe it has a heart defect, the girl, four years old, replied.
The father raised his eyebrows, thinking it over. Maybe, he said. Should we
operate?
The children nodded seriously. Their operating tools were a plastic toy
telephone, a child-sized flashlight that was missing its batteries, and a broken
doll’s arm. The father held the instruments aloft and tried not to be invasive.
He mimed removing an important organ and then held it up proudly. I think
its kidney is infected, he said. Let’s put in a new one.
Hurry. The patient’s blood is beginning to coagulate, the boy said.
Really? the father asked.
Hurry. Its eyeballs are starting to pop out, the girl said.
Hold on, the father said. Here. Look. A brand new kidney, he said, holding
up a piece of red felt. I’ve attached it. Just in time.
No, the boy said. It’s dying.
Really? the father asked. We just put a new kidney in.
The kidney didn’t work, the girl said. Look. It’s shaky. Its heart is beating too
hard.
Then here, the father said. Let’s give it a new heart.
No, the boy said. It’s too late. It’s dying.
Really? the father asked again. Because, I feel like we should get another
doctor in here, maybe someone with more experience?
No, the girl said. It’s dying. We’re going to have to put it to sleep.
Really? the father asked, more than a little incredulous.
The children both nodded grimly. It felt like they were trespassing then,
stepping beyond some age-old boundary, like the room itself had suddenly
fallen into shadows. The father looked at them and said, We only put them to
sleep if there’s no other way.
There’s no other way, the children both agreed. But this too was part of
life, and so the father sighed and picked up a broken plastic pen, using it as a
syringe.
Any last words? the father asked.
Say hi to Jesus, the girl said.
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ANIMAL HOSPITAL
The father blinked and then inserted the imaginary dose of pentobarbital.
The children looked down at what they had done. There was a gruesome
pleasure, an odd freedom, to the proceedings; the father was sure he had
allowed the children to do something they weren’t supposed to, but felt
he lacked the mother’s resources—the affectionate, irrational instinct—to
prevent them from what they had done. The stuffed bunny—now looking
limp, now properly euthanized—was left in a corner of the basement, never
to be played with again.
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Meno
Two days later, the children began to plead, Animal hospital, animal hospital,
demanding to play the game again. The father felt uncertain about this, as
he did most things. He was glad they were doing something other than lying
on the floor, throwing things at him. He was also happy he could, for once,
give the children something they wanted, as this was the position most often
held by their darling mother. But it all felt a little wrong. Finally, seeing their
round, cartoon-shaped faces, he agreed. The boy presented a rotund polar
bear, placing it on the floor before them.
What seems to be the trouble with this fellow? the father asked.
The girl turned the polar bear on its back and said, It’s got hettles.
Hettles? the father asked.
It’s like a rash, the girl announced. But on the inside.
Is that even possible? the father asked.
But the girl only shrugged her shoulders. The father tried a false smile.
Well, that sounds easy enough. Here, and he pretended to feed the bear a large
capsule. One of these and he’ll be as good as new.
No, the boy said. Look. He’s choking.
He’s not choking.
Look at his eyes. He is, the girl said. The hettles are on the inside of his
throat.
The father held the polar bear close and then gave it an injection from a
disposable pen. Here, he said. The antidote. I just discovered it. This will save
the patient.
No, the boy said, now it’s got heart failure.
Its heart is bad, the girl added. We have to put it to sleep.
But look, the father said. Look. It’s moving.
Those are worms. From the infection. They only make it look like they’re moving.
ANIMAL HOSPITAL
Really? the father murmured. Worms?
We better put it to sleep, the girl said again.
The father looked up at the serious expressions on their faces. Our
mortality rate around here guys is . . . it’s not good. Let’s try something else.
But both children had already made up their minds. The father sighed a
deep sigh, wishing he had some sort of secret, abiding strength, but found
there was none. Defeated, he slid the imaginary needle in and then set the
instrument down. The children’s faces looked eerie and pleased. They said
they wanted to put on a funeral for the bear, but the father waved them away,
saying he suddenly had a headache.
Meno
12
The following Saturday, while the father and mother were laying in bed, the
children began to shout: Animal hospital! Animal hospital! We want to play
Animal Hospital!
No way, the father said. You guys . . . No way.
But the children would not relent.
Animal hospital! Animal hospital!
Finally the father crawled from bed and fixed some instant coffee. The girl
placed the patient—a sad-eyed elephant—down on the glass table. The father
stared at the animal, poking it impersonally with his pinky.
What’s wrong with Mr. Floppy? he asked.
Lice, the boy said.
Lice? That’s it? That shouldn’t be too hard.
Lice, the boy said. They’ve burrowed into his heart.
Jesus. You guys, he said. You have to . . . The father paused, running a hand
over his tired face. Well, what do we do about it?
You have to save it, they said.
The father sucked in a breath and looked around the floor for something to
use. He found a broken meat thermometer and prodded it into the elephant’s
side. There, he said. A dose of penicillin. All better.
No, the boy said. Now it’s got gangrene.
No, the girl said. Now it’s got polio.
Polio? the father asked. What the . . . you guys are . . . your mom is trying to
sleep in there. Let’s play this game later.
No, they said. You have to save it.
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ANIMAL HOSPITAL
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Meno
Jesus, the father grumbled. Just . . . Jesus. He pulled a corkscrew out of a
drawer and inserted it into one of the patient’s floppy ears. There, he said.
This is an inoculation against both gangrene and polio. Now he’s fine.
No, the girl said. Now it doesn’t want to live.
Come on, the father said, a little too excited. You guys . . . Here, he said
again. I just gave him some antidepressants. Now he’s feeling better.
No, now he’s overweight, the boy said. Now he’s got diabetes.
No way, the father said. No way.
We’re going to have to amputate, the girl said. We’re going to have to cut off
its legs.
The father put down the imaginary needle and said, Okay. We’re done here.
We’re done playing this game.
The children said, No. We have to put it to sleep.
No way, the father said. We’re not putting anything in this house to sleep.
But the children would not concede. The father thought that if he could
only convince them of something—to get them to see that death was not the
end, not the only answer—that they would come to understand something
important, something necessary, something fiercely beautiful. But he did not
know how to put any of these things into words. He thought about waking his
wife, thought about asking her what he should do, but knew she would only
give him a look of familiar disappointment.
Animal hospital. Animal hospital. Animal hospital, the children were now
chanting. Animal hospital. Animal hospital. Animal hospital.
He held the imaginary needle aloft, doing his best to think, once again not
knowing what to do.

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