CAUTION Men in Trees

The 12-Inch Dog

T H E 1 2 - I N C H D O G oc rubs the bump in the palm of my hand, wags my bird finger, and says, "Dupuytreris contracture." The bump's the size and hardness of a kidney bean and is centered inside the top of the V of the M of my life line. I'm working on how to describe Doc to my wife Patty. She'll ask me to. His face looks like it was torn apart and then mended under gunfire. His stiff ears poke out and are stamped crude as buried treasurecoins. They'repadlocks. The eyesbelong on aparrot . He's got porcupine hair and junkyard teeth. "It hurt much?" he says and grinds down on the bump. Says, "When I do that?" I say, "Oh, my, no." Doc's sitting below me on a padded stool, and there's a 12-inch dog in the corner. Sucker's no taller than a footstool and is black as ink-bottle ink and hairy as hell. Doc says, "Dupuytren's is common enough. We see it in men more than women." He walkscoots away on the stool, pushes off, zips to an instrument tray, and comes up with a Milk-Bone he hook-shots at the dog. The dog's toenails clatter on the linoleum. He gets purchase, leaps D and snags the Milk-Bone a clean foot and a half off the ground and lands soft as popcorn, no click, no clatter. Doc says to me, "Worst-case scenario is amputation." He's braced himself against scary-looking machinery, heavy-duty black casings, curled and loopy hoses, knobby dials, a sci-fi prop. Allwe need is test tubes. We need beakers heating over Bunsen burners. "It's a joke," he says. "Only kidding. Tales told out of school." The dog crunches its treat, and 1wring my sick hand. "There was apope who had Dupuytren's," Doc says. "Hehad Dupuytren's of the little and ring finger. Only his was severe. Like this." Doc raises his hand, the little and ring finger bent down and into his palm, and says, "It changed how the Pope does his blessing. It's supposed to be all four fingers straight up, hand wide open,flat." Doc clenches his hand, flexes it. "Nowhis blessing is the one you see on TV,him in the Popemobile, little and ring finger down, index and bird left standing." The dog stops licking crumbs and grinsfiercely.He thinks this is funny. Doc says, "Do you know if your dad's got Dupuytren's?" "My dad's gone," I say. "He passed away." I try to picture my dad's hands. He's dead five years now, and I seehim in his casket holding hands with himself, his nails colorless , his fingers waxy and orange. A man who never drank or smoked, who respected Godin the wayhe dressed and talked and sat and swept a floor, who double-checked every fact he built his private and business world on, my father toppled over at work— the man was aRealtor, ashonest ashis thirty-eight-inch sleeves—fell over one morning, dead, someone said, before he hit the ground. Iwas fifteen, still in high school. Aneurysm.Like ablowout , they said. I say to Doc, "What do I do?" "Not a thing to do right now." He helps me up, shaking the hand he's just pronounced diseased, and opens the examining The 12-Inch Dog 73 room door. He says, "I've got me a motto. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. If it hurts, whirlpool it. Someday maybe corticosteroid if it gets worse, which it may or may not." I say, "I'm not yet twenty-one, Doc." He gives a nurse my chart, pats my shoulder, and says, "God, to not yet be twenty-one." I'll tell Patty he was as kind as a hangnail. She needs to keep in mind I'm a man of wit and humor. Got my own motto: When in doubt, go for the joke. Doc walks toward the front desk. "You're in your prime," he says and enters his office. The dog swings alongside his foot as disturbing as a loose shoelace. At home I describe Doc to Patty and explain Dupuytren's contracture and the Pope and the 12-inch dog. I'm thinking she's getting a kick out...