Dr. Artemus Ballimore was not a “real” veterinarian – at least not as far as anyone could tell. There were no diplomas on display in his office, he had no pamphlets promoting products or services … in fact, it wasn’t much of an office at all.
Aside from a standard examining table, its décor consisted of a beige antique settee, two gray folding chairs, a well-used olive-green dog bed and an old gumball machine that was filled with purple and pink stones.
The sign out front read “Ballimore Animal Care,” and it was painted – well, shoe-polished – in stencil. The business was hardly inviting, but it fit right in with the ambiance of the failing, fading strip mall.
And with Bubba’s Bail Bonds, Majestic Massage and Kit’s Cash and Loan occupying three other storefronts – there were four more that were vacant – Ballimore knew when someone showed up at his door, they had exhausted every other option.
Mallory Fallstrom elbowed her way in while cradling Spike in her arms. The black and white mutt was ancient; his face bathed in gray and his eyes, dull and faded.
“You’re the guy that can save him, right?” she said, gently handing Spike over to Ballimore’s waiting arms.
The dog’s breathing was labored, and Ballimore gently laid him on the exam table, which was draped in a red and black flannel blanket.
“I don’t really do anything,” the doctor said. “It’s the animal’s choice … it’s always the animal’s choice.”
The doctor’s work had become something of an internet sensation, with pet owners breathlessly giving their video testimonials about how he was able to extend their animals’ lives by negotiating a “trade” of their own years.
Mallory had seen them all – watching mostly out of curiosity and never putting a penny of stock in the claims. But she had found Spike on the side of the road when he was only a few weeks old, and 12 years later her companion was suffering.
She had taken him to two different vets in the last week, and both said the humane thing was to euthanize him.
She didn’t want to accept that.
So, out of sheer desperation, she drove 60 miles from her home to Ballimore’s office, looking for a miracle.
“I’m here because I don’t know what else to do,” she said. “I’m not gonna lie … I’ve never believed any of those claims I’ve seen online. And this idea that humans can trade in some of their years to add more to their dogs? Make it make sense to me.”
Ballimore walked to the gumball machine, twisted the handle, and snatched a pair of stones – one purple and the other, pink.
He placed them in front of Spike’s snout.
“I can’t explain it,” he said, gently stroking the animal’s head. “And good luck trying to make sense of any of it because I’ve certainly never been able to. I don’t know if it’s a gift or a curse, but I’ve been an empath to dogs since I was a little boy.
“I use the stones to form a bridge between the dog’s thoughts and mine, and I tell him that his owner is willing to trade some of their years to give him a few more. It’s entirely up to the dog whether to take the deal … some want to go on, many do not.”
Mallory sighed.
“It all seems a little too New-Agey for me,” she asked. “I mean, how could I even tell if I’d given up any years? Do I give you a number, like, if you can give five more years to Spike do I have to take 10 of mine away? And really, can anyone get into the mind of a dog?
“But I love Spike so much … he’s pulled me through some dark times. I need him, so – I know it’s crazy – but can you heal him?”
Ballimore grimaced.
“No, I can’t heal him. Again … I can’t do anything. All I can do is pass along your wishes and then the dog makes a choice. And whatever the choice is, you have to live with it. I’ve never made any promises.”
Mallory got up and joined Ballimore at the table, where she watched as he twitched his lips while his tightly closed eyelids fluttered. Spike, on the other hand, appeared to be shaking, and the vibrations caused the stones in front of his nose to separate.
Moments later, Ballimore opened his eyes.
Spike’s, however, didn’t close.
“What did you do!” Mallory sobbed. “You killed Spike! Your stupid voodoo killed him!”
Ballimore knew nothing he could say would ease her pain or quell her rage. But he had to tell her the truth.
“I’m sorry, but Spike didn’t want any more years,” he said.
“He had so many problems – a few you knew about but a lot you didn’t – and he wanted to go. That big farm that dogs go to live on … well, in a way, that’s kinda what happens, metaphorically at least. His journey here was done. I told you I couldn’t heal him.”
After a few minutes of silence Mallory was finally able to get her emotions in check. Once she did, she sat down on the settee, dropping her face in her hands.
“I’m sorry I blew up at you,” she said. “I knew it was time – those other vets told me – but I was being selfish. And silly. I never believed any of this stuff anyway, but I would’ve done it … I’d have gladly given him some of my years to save him.
“And now I guess I’m supposed to give you some of my money.”
Ballimore shook his head.
“I don’t want your money,” Ballimore said. “And if it brings you some peace – and I truly hope it does – the reason Spike decided to move on was pretty simple. His last thought before he drifted away was that you’d already given him 12 of your best years.
“He wouldn’t ask for anything more.”
