Page 157 of The New Place

Ned sinks onto the edge of his bed, pulling Baxter’s weight against his knees. That’s a relief. More so than he knew he needed, from the rush of lightness her words bring. Baxter’s going to be okay. It’s not something awful or deadly. “That’s amazing. Hear that, Bax? You’re going to be alright.”

“He’s got Cushing’s disease, and I’m glad we caught it when we did,” Claire goes on. “Once we get him on some medication, he’ll be a lot more comfortable. It’s just a pill he’ll take, and he’ll be back to normal.”

“Just a pill?” Ned scratches behind Baxter’s ears. “That’s not so bad, is it bud?”

“Not bad at all. Just feed it to him at mealtime, and you’ll see his symptoms start to resolve. We may need to adjust his dose periodically, but regular bloodwork will give us the information we need to do that.”

Ned winces. Regular bloodwork. Well, he’ll make it work.

“How much are the pills?”

“Yep, I have it right here. This is what you’ll be looking at for this medication,” she says and reads him a number.

His hand stills on Baxter’s head. “I’m sorry?”

“I know, it’s a bit pricey,” she says, “but it’ll make a world of difference for him, and he’ll be back to the dog you know.”

“That’s—that’s annually, right?”

“Wouldn’t that be great,” she laughs. “No, I’m afraid that’s monthly, but I am giving you my discount for it.”

Monthly.

And already discounted, too.

“Oh,” Ned says softly.

“That’s for the dosage based on his weight,” she says. “And like I said, we can adjust as we need to.”

“Adjust it higher?” Ned can hear how his voice rises, nearly shrill.

“We’ll check in to see how he’s doing, but hopefully not.”

Ned grips his phone. Baxter nudges his hand, clearly not done having his neck scratched. “Is there any alternative?” Ned asks.

“This is actually the generic version of the drug. So you’re lucky it’s a lot cheaper to treat this than it used to be.”

Cheaper. Baxter whines, nudges his nose under Ned’s hand, and pushes upward, like he can flick Ned’s fingers back into place.

Ned closes his eyes. He wishes Baxter wasn’t here for this conversation, horrified by what he’s about to ask, as if the dog can understand the question.

Can he really ask Claire this?

He has to. “And if I can’t treat him?”

There’s a beat of silence. “Without medicine, we expect dogs to survive with Cushing’s for hopefully three years, though in some cases it’s more like two.”

“Two,” Ned echoes.

She keeps going, a professional edge to her voice now. “He’s at a higher risk for issues with high blood pressure, damage to the kidneys, blood clots, and possibly developing diabetes, which is before you even factor in the stress from the physical discomfort of the disease.”

Ned drops his face into his hand. “Right.” His fingers smell like Baxter, which means he needs a bath. Ned can feel Baxter’s weight on his leg, and how it shakes him and the bed when Baxter lifts a back paw to scratch his neck himself, clearly giving up on Ned doing the job. “But he’s been so healthy. And he’s only seven.”

“He’s on the younger end of the spectrum to expect the disease. That’s why we recommend treating it, because he can live a happy and full life on the right dosage of the medication. He’ll die with the disease, not of it, if it’s properly managed.”

He’s not going to die at all, Ned wants to argue. It’s Baxter. He can’t.

“Ned?”