This is a story about Brownie, Mrs. Beauregard, and her extended family. Mrs. B was one of our first clients back in the late ’70s. She appeared to be in her early 80s and arrived with a brown dog that looked to be a cross between a Labrador retriever and perhaps a coon hound. Because of his brown fur, she had named him Brownie, although she told me that when she adopted him from the Worcester dog pound, his name was Winston—a name she thought to be too fancy and not appropriate for a dog with such a laid-back personality.
Mrs. B was a slight, well-dressed woman. I would guess that she was about 5 feet 4 inches tall and weighed maybe 110 pounds, whereas Brownie was a stocky, well-muscled dog who weighed in at 80 pounds. If he had a mind to, he could have pulled her anywhere he pleased or easily knocked her over.
Mr. Beauregard always accompanied Mrs. B. whenever she brought Brownie in. He dressed nicely and always wore a fedora. He would often crack “funny” jokes, which embarrassed Mrs. B and caused her to roll her eyes, but she always laughed politely at his attempts at humor.
“Hey Doc, if a cat gets a cat scan, does a dog get a dog scan?” They were very attached to Brownie, especially Mrs. B, and very diligent about his routine care and would schedule an appointment immediately for any health concern no matter how minor it might be. They had no children and Brownie was their “only child,” a role he thoroughly enjoyed.
As time went on, Mr. B began to wait in the car when Brownie came in for appointments. I would go out to the parking lot to say hello, and I could tell he was failing. His breathing was labored, and he told me his energy level was deteriorating. He no longer had the energy to accompany Brownie and his wife into the clinic.
It wasn’t long before Mr. B passed away, and Mrs. B’s nephews began to drive her to our clinic. They lived in Bolton and ran a family-owned orchard where they grew apples, peaches, pears, blueberries, and a variety of vegetables, as well as the best corn I have ever eaten. I knew her nephews and niece because they were also clients. Two of them lived within 50 yards of their parents’ farmhouse and three of them still lived in the farmhouse with their mother. They would take in the stray cats that were often abandoned near the farm. My wife Lis and I would go there every spring and vaccinate all the cats that lived on the farm. Sometimes they cared for as many as 25 cats. Each had a name, and everyone there seemed to have a sense of each cat’s personality traits and quirks.
They would gather all of their cats a day or two before our visit, and when we arrived on Saturday morning, we would be shown into an out-building where a wood stove kept us warm, surrounded by antique farm equipment and hundreds of fruit crates. One brother would sit with a list of the cats, and as each cat received its examination and vaccination, he would check off its name. The three other brothers would bring the cats to us one by one.
When all had been tended to, we would be invited into the house and shown to the bathroom to wash up for coffee and usually some special apple dessert that their mother had baked especially for the yearly event. When our daughter was an infant, we just bundled her up and brought her along, passing her around the table while we all visited. I honestly felt like I was on an episode of “The Waltons.” Many times Mrs. B would be there to take part in the annual roundup and festivities.
Mrs. B was in her nineties when Brownie had to be euthanized, and I thought to myself that given her age and the fact that she lived alone, Brownie would be her last dog.
But it wasn’t long before I noticed that she had an appointment to bring in not one, but two new dogs. One was all white and the other all black. They’d been named Cleo and Max at the pound, but she decided to call them Blackie and Whitey.
East Bare Hill resident Fred Karotkin is a veterinarian.
