Unnatural Causes: Robin and the Mouse

I went to see my GP to get a prescription refilled. It wasn't my usual GP; she was on holiday. My appointment was with a guy I'd seen once before. Bit of a self-important grump, but whatever; it was just a prescription refill. It was Wednesday; it was raining. Muggy summer rain. I was wearing my raincoat. Freddie wasn't with me — until he's officially certified, I prefer not to take him to medical-type places — but I discovered that the pocket of my raincoat, which I hadn't worn in a long time, was full of crumbled-up dog treats. I selected a magazine from the mess on the table of the waiting area — the December 2013 issue of Canadian Living — and hunkered down to wait.

I flipped through pages of Christmas recipes and craft ideas. It was weird, a little creepy even, looking at this stuff. I can be a scrooge about Christmas in the middle of December, never mind a muggy day in the middle of August. I tossed the magazine aside and leaned forward to rummage through the pile again. The Economist. Vogue. Today's Parent. 

Something moved across my back. I pictured a marble, or the wheel of a child's toy, and I looked around to see if the toddler who'd been squalling on the bench behind mine was using my raincoat as a play surface. But his dad had taken him on a stroll to look at the planters and the aquarium. I picked up a June issue of Maclean's and leaned back into my seat. Palestine, the Ukraine, the French Open, the Taliban ... 

Again the movement. I whipped my hand behind me and patted it across my back. It came down on a small bulge, underneath my coat ... no, inside my coat, between the lining and the waterproof exterior. I pinned the bulge between my fingers and thumb. Through the fabric I felt a faint pulse of life. I thought of the crumbled dog treats, then I sprang out of my seat and tore off the coat as if it had caught fire. 

A couple of people waiting in the next station glanced over. I must have looked funny, or crazy, or both. The receptionist called my name and said I could go in. I draped my coat over my arm and headed for the examination room. Inside, everything was very tidy. The individually wrapped gauze squares in a canister next to the sink were marked "Sterile."

Dr. Grump quibbled about my Synthroid dosage and the fact that I haven't had my thyroid tested in the past three months. He asked me the name of my endocrinologist. My mind went blank. I made a joke about menopause, and he frowned. I said her clinic is in New Westminster, and he said, "You live in Vancouver, and you go all the way out there?" I said, "Yes. I like her." Then he asked me if I've been feeling well in general, and I assured him that I was feeling absolutely fine. He renewed my prescription for a full year; I thanked him. 

Outside it was misting. I spread my raincoat out over a bench and watched. Nothing. Bhangra couldn't have moved through my coat unnoticed, but the bulge I'd felt was smaller than Bhangra. I emptied the crumbled dog treats into a garbage can. There was a hole in the lining of the pocket. I called Paul on my Stupidphone. "Don't bring your coat in the building," he said. "You need to get rid of the mouse first." He paused, then added: "Do you want me to do it?" I said yes.

Paul met me outside our building. I handed over the coat and went upstairs. Freddie was happy to see me. 

I cleared the front closet and all jacket pockets of dog treats and crumbs. I scanned the closet interior and noticed a hole that would need filling. Then I went to my desk and tapped my laptop to life. My home page is set to the BBC News: Palestine, Ferguson, Ebola, Robin Williams. Hearing Paul out in the hallway, talking with one of the neighbours, I clicked on a video montage that began with a scene from Patch Adams.

RIP, Robin Williams
1951-2014