"Of Vets and Wine"

I inherited “Sophie,” a , black Cocker Spaniel when my friend Sarah moved to Italy to study architecture for one year.

I was just out of college and owning a dog was the last thing I wanted to do. I didn’t need a dog, especially one that had skin and eye problems and wasn’t the brightest beacon in the dog kingdom. The idea of becoming attached to the animal, then returning it to the owner wasn’t appealing either.

But Sarah pleaded for months, promising to pay for Sophie’s room and board, vet bills and anything else that cropped up. Then she hammered me with my weakness.

“I have a great vet--you will love him,” she said breathlessly. “He is great with animals. He is single and very good-looking.

“But the best part is that he is a wine collector. You guys will have a great time talking about wine.”

Shot through the heart, or palate, in this case.

“How do you know he collects wine?” I asked her suspiciously. Sarah had a tendency to over exaggerate at times. A wine collection to her could be two bottles of over-oaked Chardonnay in his refrigerator.

“He came to our Merlot party last month,” Sarah said, referring to her annual wine-tasting event.

Each year, participants at the party try to out-do each other with the best bottle of Merlot for the least expensive price. The bottles are covered and rated by everyone. (Surprisingly, the winner this year was produced by Francis Ford Coppola’s diamond label series-- nice bottle of Merlot for about $14 to $16.)

I was out of town during her party. Sarah and her boyfriend Gabe offered to change the date, but invitations were in the mail and the change would have been a royal pain.

I grudgingly agreed to keep the dog, who was barely housebroken and had the personality of a pet rock.

Sophie and I became roommates for a year and settled in the Green Lake area in Seattle. Because of her skin and eye problems, she would be a regular visitor to the local veterinarian clinic.

A week after Sarah and Gabe left for Italy, Sophie began scratching herself in a frenzied manner that told me she needed professional assistance. The receptionist knew the pup well and scheduled an appointment with her vet, Scott, later in the afternoon.

“Sarah convinced you to take the dog,” said Scott, smiling when he saw Sophie in his office. “She told me she was working on someone -- someone who had an appreciation of wine.”

I’d been set up. Looking at Scott, I could see he felt set-up as well. With a shot and some ointment, Sophie was ready to go when Scott asked if I’d like to get together for a glass of wine.

“I suppose it is what Sarah intended us to do in the first place,” he said, scrunching up his shoulders. “It would be nice to talk to someone who has wine knowledge and appreciation.”

We agreed to meet at a wine bar in downtown Seattle the following evening. After the initial meeting, I knew Scott was not my romantic type, but I was very curious about his work, his interest in wine and his life experiences.

Prior to opening his own clinic, Scott worked as the veterinarian for a Humane Society shelter in a larger Northwest city. The experience shocked him and rattled his dedication to healing sick animals.

“It surprised me how so many people could be so irresponsible about owning a pet,” he confided over a glass of wine. “Their dog or their cat would have a litter and they had no qualms about dumping the animals at the Humane Society.

“They’d have the nerve to tell their kids that we would find great homes for the babies. We were so overwhelmed with unwanted animals that we would destroy at least half of the animals. Sometimes more.”

The concept of destroying healthy animals went against Scott’s grain and training. He said he didn’t know how to reconcile his skills to save animals with the practice of destroying unwanted pets and litters.

For the two years he worked as the shelter vet, Scott developed a practice of saying a short prayer over each animal he had to destroy.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he said quietly. “I had to find some way of coping with what the shelter needed to do. We lacked enough money and space for all the animals.”

With each animal, Scott would say, “God help this animal on its journey,” before putting the animal “to sleep” with an injection. It was a practice he quit doing when he opened his own clinic.

“I will find homes for healthy animals or keep them myself,” he said sheepishly, adding that he had 12 dogs and 14 cats on his four-acre home north of Seattle.

Most of his friends owned pets that showed up at Scott’s clinic. He began to notice that a few friends were reluctant to take his phone calls, fearing another pet was searching for a home.

“My interest in wine began as a hobby to talk about something different, other than animals and veterinary practices,” he said. “I needed to relate to others without fear that I would thrust a pet in their lap and guilt them into taking it.”

Scott began with Italian wines, since he had a friend who imported wines to the United States from Italy. He also liked big Chardonnays from California. In the basement of his home, Scott experimented with winemaking. The results were mixed, but a couple times each year, he would invite friends over to taste his efforts. The invitation usually read, “Don’t worry-- won’t have any pets up for adoption.”

Although Sophie and I faired well for the year, I have to attribute some of it to the introduction of Scott into our lives. We explored wine like scientists, urged pet adoptions and spaying and neutering, and became good friends. A few years later, I introduced him to a girlfriend of mine that took in homeless pets and found homes. Karen and Scott were kindred spirits and were married eight months later.

He has fewer pets now, thanks to Karen’s efforts. She now works for the clinic. We still get together several times a year to taste wine and spend time over a meal, providing details about our lives.

I will never forget his experiences at the animal shelter. It played a big role in how I feel about spaying and neutering. I used to think a dog or a cat should have one litter before they were fixed. I don’t believe that anymore.

Sophie went back to her owners after a year, still scratching, but much more well-mannered. I actually missed her for the first few months, and missed my frequent visits to the vet. She lived to the ripe age of 15, spoiled, pampered and nearly hairless from years of scratching.

The Merlot party is in its 20th year. I look forward to it each year, not only for the wine, but to see old friends and meet new ones over a splash of Merlot.