The lady comes again. She brings an animal doctor with an awful smell and a dangerous-looking bag.
He spends an hour with Ruby, poking and prodding. He looks at her eyes, her feet, her trunk.
When he’s done with Ruby, he enters my cage. I wish I could hide under Not-Tag like Bob.
Instead I do a nice, loud chest beat, and after a moment the doctor retreats.
“We’re going to need to put this one under,” he says.
I’m not quite sure what he means. But I strut around my cage feeling victorious anyway.