| |
––––––––
A slight tap, tap, tap sounds before the door opens and Dr. Herriot hurries through. In a flurry, he arrives at the black plastic scoop seat, and as he sits, the rushing that ushered him through the door transitions to a calm, kind, compassionate manner. Beads of sweat line his brow.
Those emerald eyes find mine, he inhales, his chest rises, then he speaks in a methodical, practiced rhythm. “She’s looking good. We’re going to monitor her heartrate and pulse through the night and walk her every hour. The best thing we can do is to have this food start passing through her naturally. She’s a larger-sized dog, so I’m optimistic. A smaller dog would most likely require surgery. I’ll call you if anything changes, but I expect by tomorrow this time, she’ll be a much happier dog. I can send Ashley in to go over the related charges for the visit. If you don’t want to do another radiog—”
“Do whatever you need to do. I’ll cover the charges.” I almost killed my friend’s child. The least I can do is pay the medical expenses. “I want to stay with her. She doesn’t feel good, and she doesn’t know anyone here.”
A warm smile breaks out and extends across his face, exposing a line of symmetrical white teeth. “I appreciate the sentiment, but we can’t allow you in the back.”
“Why not?” I might not be the most mature individual, and I might not be able to keep another living being alive, but I have seen my father work his magic and transform a no into a yes. “How much will it cost?” I glance around the small room. This isn’t a well-endowed hospital. I can’t expect a VIP suite, but there have to be options. “How much would it cost for you to set me up in a private room? This room will do. Or it doesn’t have to be private. I can sit with her in whatever situation you have her in the back. I’ll pay extra. Whatever it costs.”
He rubs his chin as he considers his answer, and his lips turn up in a way that says he’s amused by me. But amusing him is not my goal. My gaze falls to a poster hanging on the wall. Four little paws can change coming back to an empty house into coming home. I read those words and envision my close friend Anna with her big smile and kind heart. I am not leaving without Anna’s four paws.
“It’s a Saturday. All of you seem rushed and busy. Let me stay. You said she needs to walk. I can watch the time and walk her. And she won’t get frantic or worried because she’ll be near someone she knows.”
As I’m talking, he glances at his watch. I suspect he has at least two other clients in similar little rooms to the one I’m sitting in. Places like this take people out of the waiting room and into these private rooms. He and bitch on wheels are the only vets I’ve seen. She’s not wearing a lab coat, so it’s possible she’s some kind of assistant.
His phone vibrates, and he pulls it out of his coat pocket. The way he holds it, I can’t help but see Amber flash on the screen before he hits decline and drops it back into his pocket. He exhales and returns his attention to me. “We shouldn’t need this room for the rest of the day. If you want to stay here, you can. But you don’t need to. We will take good care of her.”
“Please. I’d prefer she’s not alone.” I have this vision of them locking her in a crate in the back room. At least here, I can comfort her. Leaving Anna’s baby in an understaffed, small veterinary clinic on a random street in Manhattan does not jive.
He barely nods as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and the door closes behind him. I rest my head back against the wall. Come on, healing vibes.
The windowless room offers little distraction. I take out my phone, and the five percent battery life makes me realize I forgot to charge it last night. Fabulous. There’s a new text from Mom. Checking in. She’s been checking in with greater frequency lately. I am not pleasing her. Choosing a friend’s Thanksgiving over going home did not go over well. Today is not the day to think about any of that.
I drop down onto the bench and doze off. At some point, the door opens. Chewie is sprawled out on a stainless-steel table with wheels. She looks a little out of it, and my forehead wrinkles as I try to grasp why she seems doped up. It’s my way of asking without verbalizing my questions to this angry, unhappy woman with an abundance of negative energy.
“We gave her a mild sedative to keep her lying down and relaxed. The IV has rehydrated her. I’ll be back to take her for walks. Don’t let her roll around on her back.” Her dark ponytail twists in the air as she spins and speeds away.
I rub Chewie’s head, scratching below her furry ears. I bring the chair over and sit, so if she opens her eyes, she’ll see a familiar face. With one hand on Chewie, I check my phone again. 3% battery life. The countdown is on. I toss it onto the bench and sit, rubbing Chewie to bring her comfort.
Every hour, Ashley stops by and checks on Chewie. She opens the door and motions for me to follow her. We walk down a narrow hall and turn right, then she opens a door into a courtyard behind the clinic. Chewie follows obediently but doesn’t go to the bathroom. When we return, Ashley guides Chewie back onto her dog bed then scurries away.
Bet checks in around lunch time. She drops off a deli sandwich, chips, and a large bottle of water. “Dr. Herriot thought you might be hungry.” She winks at me and loves on Chewie before returning to the reception desk. I then spend the afternoon alternating between daydreaming about a sexy, heroic vet with muscular arms and freaking out every time Chewie attempts to vomit.
Around five p.m., my stomach growls, letting me know the sandwich I inhaled is long gone. Chewie’s doing better. The IV fluids do seem to have helped. She has urinated. The dry heaving has spaced out. Five more hours before her radiograph. When I rub her ears, she tilts her head and stares at me with sad, dark orbs. Her version of a hangover makes mine look like a walk in the park.
Ashley opens the door, and her sudden appearance scares the crap out of me. “We’re closing now.” Some of the hate and annoyance from our first meeting has dissipated. She rubs her shoulder and stretches her neck to the side. “You need to leave.”
Ashley’s ponytail is now wrapped into a low bun. Something about her is familiar to me. “Have we met before?” I ask.
Ashley’s nose wrinkles as if she whiffed an unappealing odor. She grunts, “No.” Her black Dr. Scholl’s shoes are splattered with gunk, and her plum scrubs are now littered with stains and animal hair. I could swear something is familiar, but I can’t place her. I tend to go to so many of the same bars and nightclubs, frequent the same small shops in Soho and Chelsea, there’s really no telling where I might have seen her. She stares at me, tracking my every move, but I’ve got nothing.
“We’re closing up. If you’ve got everything you need, I’ll walk you out.”
I throw my shoulders back. “I don’t want to leave her here. She needs to be walked every hour.” I scramble to my feet, ready to duke this one out. Dr. Herriot enters, and the tension breaks. He says something to Ashley about a cat in room C that needs one more vaccination. Once she leaves, he pets Chewie on the head and strokes her sides. There’s a gentleness to his manner.
With his hands still buried in her fur, he addresses me. “I still need to do another radiograph. I’d like to keep her overnight for observation.”
“Can I stay here with her?”
His gaze falls on me with a sympathetic, warm smile, and not to sound cheesy, but it’s the first sunny moment of my extraordinarily crappy, hungover day. “No.”
Wait. What? “Why not?”
“Our insurance policy wouldn’t allow it. And trust me when I say staying overnight here is undesirable. It’s probably the least comfortable accommodation you can imagine.”
The magenta-haired receptionist, Bet, pops her head in and waves. “Goodnight, sweetie. I’ll pray for your baby.” Then she points at Dr. Herriot. “I left zinc tablets on your desk. You be sure to take those. We can’t have you getting the flu too.” He bows his head and assures her he’ll take her proffered pills like an obedient boy.
After the door closes, he leans back on the counter. Exhaustion paints his frame. “Man, what a day. We normally have two vets and three vet techs.”
“Flu?”
“Yeah. Saturdays are always busy, but today was...” He pauses and scratches his chin as if he’s undecided about how to finish his sentence.
I wave and smile to assure him. “Thanks for letting me camp out here. I appreciate it.”
“You can stay a little longer while I finish up the reports, if you wish, but you’ll need to leave when I do.”
“Doesn’t she need to walk each hour?”
He rubs his neck while he watches her. “Yes. We can do that for you, or you can take her home.” He flicks his wrist to check the time. His phone vibrates again, and a distinct humming fills the quiet room. He pulls it out, and this time I see the name Cindy. He holds the phone close and says, “I’ll be right back,” as he steps out of the room.
My stomach rumbles as I scratch Chewie. She rolls over and spreads her legs wide for a tummy rub. I check the time and realize it’s time for our hourly walk.
When Chewie and I return from the small, dingy, outdoor courtyard behind the building, I see Dr. Herriot and shout, “She peed again! That’s a good sign, right?”
He nods and studies her thoughtfully. Strong hands with manicured, lithe fingers rub her belly and chest, then he presses his stethoscope to listen, moving it around her rib cage. I remain still, watching his face, searching for any facial expression that indicates if he’s hearing good or bad noises. After several minutes, he exhales and stands. “She’s doing good. Do you want to take her home, or would you like to leave her here with us for observation?”
I do not like these options. I don’t particularly trust myself and would prefer to make sure she pulls through this under professional care. But I don’t treasure the idea of leaving her here by herself. She’s sad and in a strange place. My phone battery has been dead for hours. There is no lifeline to call for advice or to double-check my decision. “I want to stay here with her.” I might be whining.
He scratches Chewie’s ears. “I’m sorry, but that’s not an option.”
“Why?”
He closes his eyes, and his chest lifts as he inhales. It’s quite possible he’s praying for strength. When his eyelids reopen, he props himself against the counter and faces me.
I don’t give him a chance to speak before uttering, “Please.”
“Ms...”
“Delilah,” I answer for him.
“Delilah. I don’t mean to be short with you, but I can’t let you stay here overnight. I can assure you if she stays with us, she’ll be under good care.” He frowns. “Let’s see what the radiograph says. I’ll do it in thirty minutes. Earlier than planned, but...I can tell you sleeping overnight in this clinic isn’t what you want to do.”
I grin. “What? Sleep on the floor? I can do it. Won’t be the first floor I’ve slept on.”
He opens his mouth to say something then closes it. Then grins. “I have a hard time believing that’s true.”
“Nope! Scout’s honor. Camping out for tickets. Music festivals. All the time, we’d sleep on the ground at festivals. You know, when we couldn’t quite find our way back to our tent. One time, we forgot sleeping bags.”
“Music festivals, huh? What’s your favorite kind of music?”
I kick my legs out a bit and stretch. My muscles are sore from alternating between the hard bench and sitting on the floor. “Jazz.” I wave my hands, shaking the fingers, aiming for flamboyant jazz hands. “I love everything. All kinds of music. But I’ve got deep love for jazz. What’s your favorite?”
He pauses before answering. “If I had to pick a favorite, I’d say Tom Petty. But I like pretty much anything too.” He places heavier emphasis on the words “pretty much” and the corners of his lips lift as he says it.
“Favorite music festival?” One thing I’m good at is getting to know people and keeping conversations going. My goal is to wear him down. I always get my way.
He chuckles, and his gaze roams over me as I stretch. I suck in my stomach as heat rises through my neck and face. Then he blows me away when he answers, “Never been to a festival.”
Blown. Away. So much so my eyes almost pop out of my head. “What?” I half scream. “How old are you?”
He laughs again, a soft laugh, but enough to be heard. “Thirty-two.”
Not too old, then. And sans wedding band. “So, thirty-two. What about in college?”
He scratches his chin. “Vet school’s competitive to get into. Had to focus on grades.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have the option, the time or the money.”
“What about after vet school? No time then?”
He exhales loudly. “After vet school, life. Life happened.” He checks his watch again and sighs. “Let’s get this radiograph done and see what we’re dealing with.”
He bends and picks up the dog bed, complete with the dog, and lifts it onto the cart. His biceps flex from the weight.
The squeaky wheels screech, and Chewie lifts her head, questioning. A good sign. Interest in anything has to be a good sign. “Dr. Herriot?”
He doesn’t stop, nor does he turn around, but he does say, “Call me Mason.”
“Okay. Mason. That’s a good sign? It’s good she lifted her head, right?”
He mumbles something along the lines of “yeah” and technical jargon before the door closes.
My muscles ache. The hard floor of the vet clinic is unforgiving. Minutes go by, and I’m going out of my mind with boredom in this small, cramped, fluorescent-lit room. I stretch into downward dog pose, then alternatively bend each knee. I stretch my ass higher into the air to deepen the full body stretch. My shoulders and the backs of my thighs burn as the tension escapes. A muffled cough sounds behind me. I shift to standing and finish out with a sun salutation out of habit.
“What pose were you doing?” Mason’s hands slide into his pockets as he relaxes against the doorjamb.
“Walk the dog. It’s one of my favorite full body stretches. Works everything.”
He grins. “I like the name. I’m always telling people to walk their dogs. It’s not good for them to be cooped up in an apartment without exercise. I guess it’s not a full body exercise, but it’s such a good thing to do, for the dog and the owner. I guess it’s a symbiotic relationship, beneficial for each participant.”
I pull my arms behind me, stretching the tight muscles across my chest. “I get it. Kind of like a full body stretch. Good for all involved. I get you.”
“Where are you from? I detect a bit of a southern accent.”
“It comes out sometimes. New Orleans.”
He grins, rocks back and forth on his feet, then remembers his purpose. “Chewie’s doing good. She’s not showing signs of abdominal duress. You can take her home. You’ll need to walk her every hour until the food is passing, though.”
I glance around the tiny room as if a great white light with instructions will appear before me. If she was mine, I’d take her home, but it seems safer to be here. I don’t want to take any more risks with Anna’s dog. I’ve proven I’m a full-fledged nincompoop. I chew at the corner of my lip, unsure what I should do. “It will be easier from here. You have the door that goes right outside. I have to take an elevator and go through a lobby, and she doesn’t like to go on concrete, so it’s an even longer trip to dirt or grass. And if something does go wrong, what would I do? Is there an emergency number?”
He rubs the base of his neck while staring at Chewie.
I interrupt his thoughts. “You can lock me in here. I’ll be fine. And I can text you if something seems wrong.”
“She doesn’t have to stay here tonight. You should take her home.” He sounds firm and insistent.
I leap over to him, landing so close I have to tilt my head up and give him my persuasive, big-eyed plea, a trick that has always worked with my dad. Fittingly, Dad calls them my puppy dog eyes. “Please? If Chewie isn’t okay, I couldn’t live with myself. I don’t live in a good place to take her out every hour. If she doesn’t survive this, I couldn’t face Anna. Please. Please let me stay here. It’s better if I’m here. Safer. Please.” I’m begging like a pre-teen girl, and in the words of my mother’s longtime crush, Rhett Butler, I don’t give a damn.
His emerald eyes widen in surprise. Something tells me I might be his first client to beg. He backs up, creating space between us. “I’m sorry, but your choices are to either leave her here or take her home.”
No one says no to me. For a moment, I have no words. “How much will it cost for me to stay here overnight with her?”
His phone vibrates. When he checks it, I can’t see the name on the screen. But this time, there’s a seriousness to his expression that wasn’t there before. He answers the call. “Amber? Yes. I’m finishing up with a client, and then I’ll call you back.” When he drops his phone back in his pocket, he’s all business and ready to usher me out.
“If I leave her overnight, does she have to stay until Monday? Or can I pick her up in the morning?”
“We’re closed on Sunday. But if you tell me what time, I’ll be here so you can pick her up.”
This is not ideal, and I resist the urge to stomp my foot because this is not what I want. But if there’s any chance of Chewie having issues during the night, it’s safer to leave her here. I chew on my thumbnail as I mull over this predicament, and the sound of his exhale rushes my answer. “Okay. I’ll leave her here.”
I walk over to her. She’s back on the dog bed on the floor, and I bend to place kisses on her head. He offers me a business card with a handwritten number on the back. “We’ll take good care of her. That’s my personal cell. If you want to check on her during the night, feel free to call or text.”
I stand and shove his card into my pocketbook, and it hits me he needs my number. “Let me give you mine. In case anything goes wrong.” I hold out my hand for his phone. He looks a bit confused, and I stretch my arm toward his lab coat pocket for his cell. “I’ll enter it. Or I can write it down.” I glance around the sparse room for a piece of paper.
The corners of his lips curve up a tad as he hesitates then exhales, punches his code, and passes me his phone. As I’m entering my information, a text comes through from Ashley. I hand the phone back to him. Women reach out to him non-stop, it seems. I envision meeting him in a bar, and, yeah, I can see it. If I met him out and about, he’d be the kind of guy I’d try to meet. He has a seriousness to him that’s a huge turn-on. And those eyes. It’s a rare color reminiscent of a forest, green tinged with golden brown.
“What time can I pick her up in the morning?”
“You tell me. I’ll be here.”
“Are you staying overnight?”
“No. We have an on-call vet tech who will be with her overnight. But I’ll back here early in the morning.”
“Eight a.m. good? I’ll treat you to breakfast.”
He offers a polite smile and steps to open the door for me to leave. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll be here by eight. If anything changes during the night, I’ll text you. But don’t worry. She’s going to be fine.”
He guides me out of the now empty clinic, and as he opens the door to the street, his hand comes to rest on my back. He’s probably fighting the urge to push me out the door, but the warmth of his touch has me pausing and glancing back into those iridescent orbs.
“Thank you.” When I say it, I mean it more than I have in a long time. He didn’t let me have my way, but he did put up with my crazy all day by letting me occupy one of his patient rooms. He’s a good guy. Kind. Thoughtful. He bought me lunch. He saved the dog. And he happens to be sexy as all get-out.
As I head home, weaving through the pedestrians crowding the sidewalk, an idea forms in my head. An idea that has me humming a tune and perking up as I pop into my favorite pizzeria for a slice.