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The parking lot at work is full when I pull in, which means I’m running even later than I thought I was. I whip into my reserved spot and run through the back entrance. I hate tardiness, and I hate being behind on my schedule. I’ll have to work fast to catch up.
My white coat is hanging on the back of my desk chair; I snatch it as I nod to a few of the office staff and offer up my lame apologies for being late. It’s only my third week on the job, so I haven’t been here long enough to prove how timely I am. I have the brunette to thank for that as well. I swear, if I ever see her again, I’ll let her have it.
“Dr. Foxe, you have quite a few patients lined up this morning,” one of the assistants says when I step out into the hallway. I’m adjusting the collar on my white coat before she hands me the first file.
I nod. “Right, well, I don’t want to keep them waiting any longer. Who’s the first up?”
“Looks like it’s Ms. Thatcher and her dog,” she squints at the scribbled paperwork. “Moose, I think.”
A half step later, I turn the corner to find the infamous brunette standing at the reception desk, regaling half the office staff with a story.
About me.
She’s telling them about the incident and they’re all laughing, enraptured by her words. Her dog—the one I am now intimately acquainted with—has his front paws up on the counter, begging for a treat.
“And you guys, I wish you could have seen the mud. I mean, I really did feel bad for the guy, but he just took off—poof—and now I swear to god, somewhere in Hamilton, there’s some hot guy tromping around with my dog’s paw prints all over his fancy suit.”
Everyone erupts in laughter.
“Did you catch who he was?” my receptionist asks as she passes over a Band-Aid to the brunette. Apparently my suit wasn’t the only casualty of the morning.
She shakes her head, her back still facing me. “He definitely isn’t from around here. I’d have recognized him.”
“Maybe he’s traveling for business?” the receptionist offers.
“Yeah, he had that look about him.”
“That has to be it. I haven’t heard of any newcomers in town. Well, except for—”
I clear my throat. “Madeleine Thatcher and…Mouse.”
What kind of dog name is Mouse? Moose would have been more appropriate. No wonder he didn’t listen to her earlier when she was trying to rein him in.
She turns at the sound of her name and when she zeroes in on me, her jaw drops and her brown eyes widen in shock.
“You.”
Mouse whines and tugs on the leash, trying desperately to get to me. Round two is seconds away from happening. I walk up to Madeleine and extract the leash from her hand while she still tries to recover from shock. She probably thought she’d never see me again. I expected the same, but somehow this is better. I’ll get the last word, just the way I like it.
I hold Mouse’s collar close by my side and walk him into the first exam room. He tolerates having to heel, but I can tell his energy is simmering just below the surface. He’s spring-loaded, and if Madeleine isn’t careful, he’ll grow even more out of hand.
“You’re my vet?” Madeleine asks, trailing after me. “What happened to Katherine?”
“She moved.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispers under her breath.
“I take it you liked Katherine?”
“She was a few years above me in school. I’ve known her my whole life.” She shrugs and continues, “And she gave me a fat discount.”
I close the exam door behind us, but I don’t let go of Mouse’s leash. He’s lost roaming privileges.
“He’s a good dog once he settles down and gets to know you,” Madeleine says, trying to vouch for him.
“I’d say we were pretty well acquainted this morning.”
She crosses her arms and leans against the wall, nibbling on her lip nervously.
“How long have you had Mouse?” I ask, changing the subject. Although I could easily find the information in the chart, I want to learn it from her.
“A few weeks.”
I nod and force myself to look back at the chart.
“I got him from the shelter as a puppy. Well, more of a puppy than now.”
She says it like that will win her sympathy.
“What breed of dog did they tell you he was?”
“I believe the word they used was multinational. Something like that.”
I smile. “He’s a Bernese Mountain Dog.”
“No. They said he was a small lab mix.”
“And you trusted them,” I reply with a flat tone. “Now you’re the proud owner of an untrained dog that will weigh more than you. Your small lab mix is going to easily be 120 pounds by next month.”
“First of all, thank you for the compliment. Secondly, I don’t care what he’ll weigh—I just didn’t want him to get killed.” She pushes off the wall and yanks Mouse’s leash away from me. “I’m sorry, do you interrogate all of your patients? Or is this some kind of special treatment?”
