Mrs. Louise winces again. “She wasn’t whining or anything,” she says meekly.
I stifle a sigh. “A dog won’t tell you when she’s in pain,” I explain. “The most she’ll do is lick, pant, or pace. Whimpering or whining is a liability in the wild. Animals just don’t do it.”
I run my hand down Millie’s sleek back, admiring her beautiful tricolor coat. Her back and head are black with a dusting of brown on her ears, and her belly and legs are white with hundreds of black spots. She’s a beauty. “Our girl here had the doggy version of ACL repair surgery two days ago, Mrs. Louise. That’s painful.”
“Oh, Millie!” Mrs. Louise gushes, bending down and hugging the dog around her neck. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
The dog pants, tipping her head up, looking happy. I don’t care what anyone else says, dogs smile. With open mouths, with closed mouths. All the time. And they’re the most forgiving creatures on earth. Deny me pain meds after surgery, and I’d tear your throat out.
Of course, I don’t say this to Mrs. Louise.
The sad truth is she’s doing her best. Some pet owners don’t do shit. They let their dogs get heartworms. Let their teeth rot out. Or let them limp around on a torn cruciate ligament, which Mrs. Louise clearly didn’t do.
She just didn’t know any better about the pain meds.
“With the collar, the Tramadol, and kennel rest, she’s going to be just fine,” I say, wanting to reassure her, but making sure the points sink home.
“Thank you, Dr. Delacroix.” She nods like she’s got it. “Millie’s so lucky to have you.”
The dog seems to understand because she turns her golden brown eyes up to me, grinning. I let her sniff my fingers before scratching her under the neck. She’s so sweet, I smile back.
I shouldn’t do it, but I’ve got to know. “What made you name herMillie?”She might know it’s my first name. I just have anMstitched to my white coat.M. Delacroix, DVM,but the business cards at the reception desk give my first and last names. And Exam Room 3 has my degrees on the wall.Mildred Agatha Delacroix.
Yes, my initials areMAD.With a name like Mildred Agatha, what else could I be? You’d think Mom and Dad would have known better, but no.
She titters. “Oh, I named her after my great aunt Mildred,” she says, her eyes almost squeezing shut as she smiles. “She never married. Never had children. But she was just so sweet, and she always had dogs when we were growing up.”
My smile slowly shrinks. A spinster aunt. Of course. Exactly what I’ll be once Emmett and the twins are grown.
“Is Millie short for Millicent?” Mrs. Louise asks, sounding hopeful.
Millicent isn’t great, but it’s leagues better than Mildred. I shake my head. “No. I was named after my great-grandmother Mildred.”
Everyone has always called me Millie. The first day of kindergarten, I came home in tearful hysterics because that was when I’d learned—along with everyone else in Miss Wilcox’s class—that my name was Mildred.
What were my parents thinking?I wonder for the millionth time?
Mildew. Mil-dred-ful. Moldy Mildred. Silly Millie. Smelly Millie.
I’ve heard it all. I was rarely smelly, and I know I was never moldy, but it didn’t matter. Mom and Dad knew how much I hated the name—and for the record, I still hate it—but they never apologized.
It’s keeping with family tradition,they’d said.It means “gentle strength,”they’d said.You’ll grow into it,they’d said.
But I haven’t. I told Mom as much after the last time I had to go to the DMV when I turned twenty-four.
“Grandma Mildred was my favorite person in the world when I was little,”Mom had said, wearing a wistful smile.“And now you’re one of my favorites. It’s perfect for you.”
She’d taken me to lunch at Bread & Circus Provisions for my birthday when I’d recounted the embarrassing story of sitting in the waiting room next to another Mildred. One who was ninety-two and was denied her renewal because her vision was too bad.
Mom had laughed and laughed at the story. Not because the other Mildred couldn’t drive, but because I could always make her laugh with my stories.
God, I miss that.
“She must have been very special to you.” Mrs. Louise pulls me from my grief daydream.
“Hmm? Oh… no… I never knew her,” I say, blushing at my lapse. “I was just thinking—”
If I sayabout my mom,my voice will crack.
