I fire up the Infiniti, crank up the seat warmers, and take a sip from my travel mug. It’s a close call, but the hot coffee is just a little less stabby than swallowing the Advil. Maybe if I keep taking small sips, the warmth will ease my throat, and I’ll feel better.
I sip at every stop light and tell my myself each one feels better than the last. The trouble with that is I’m a terrible liar. Even I don’t believe me.
“Dr. Delacroix, you look like sh—” David Webber, our nineteen-year-old vet tech clamps his mouth shut. His eyes bug. “Sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I say the words, but they’re little more than air. I clear my throat, wince, and try again. “I’m fine. Just a cold.”
His brow goes up while his chin goes down. “You sure about that?”
I ignore him and walk over to the kennels. “How’s Leopold?” The two-year-old black lab mix looks up at me glassy-eyed. He’s in the middle of treatment for heartworms, and his owner brought him in, lethargic and vomiting yesterday. He probably threw a worm from too much activity. We put him in the ICU cage for a few hours yesterday, gave him twenty-five milligrams of Acepromazine to calm him down, and kept him overnight.
“A little wobbly on his feet this morning, but I walked him, and he peed, drank water, and ate all his breakfast.”
“Can’t ask for better than that,” I say, opening the kennel door. Leopold picks up his head and blinks sleepily at me. “That Ace is pretty potent, isn’t it buddy?” I actually envy the big guy. A sedative and the prospect of being trapped in bed sounds pretty good right now.
Fat chance of that.
As if he’s rubbing it in, Leopold gives a spectacular yawn, and his tongue curls up like an upside-down question mark. I check his vitals. Heart rate, respiration, gum color, and then just rub his side for a few minutes.
“Call Mr. Mouton and tell him Leopold can go home today, but I recommend a half dose of Acepromazine every twelve hours for the next week,” I detail. “I’d like for him to come in Tuesday or Wednesday for a recheck.”
I close the kennel door, note my orders on Leopold’s chart, and let Hailey, who’s filling in for Kath, know I’m ready for our first appointment. And the day rolls on.
At one o’clock David catches me asleep at Dr. Loftin’s desk, my forehead pillowed under my hands. I sit up too fast and the room spins a little.
“You should go home, Dr. D,” he says gently. “Hailey and I can cancel the rest of the appointments for today.”
I shake my head, and then wince, regretting it. “I’m good.” I just meant to sit down for a minute during our lunch break. Looks like a minute turned into thirty. “Who’s up next?”
By three, I can’t drink any more coffee or my stomach will turn inside out. I’ve switched to the lemon ginger tea Kath keeps in the break room, but my throat feels like I’m swallowing flaming arrows one after another.
Ellen Degeneres comes in at four with an abscess. Not Ellen Degeneres the comedian. I may not be feeling well, but I’m not hallucinating. This Ellen is a cat. One who has recently had her ass kicked. Judging by the swelling on the dorsal aspect of Ellen Degeneres’s shoulder, it happened in the last couple of days. It’s not foul yet, so we should be able to get away with a good irrigation and a course of antibiotics.
Point of fact, cats are not good patients.
Ellen Degeneres is no exception. David wraps her in a towel and gently holds her head down on the exam table so neither of us gets bitten.
Another point of fact. A cat bite is serious business. If a cat bites your finger, and you don’t treat it IMMEDIATELY, you can kiss that finger goodbye.
Ellen Degeneres hisses as I shave the area around her puncture wound.
Mrs. Hartley, her owner, gasps. “I had no idea it was that bad.”
“Puncture wounds don’t bleed much,” I say to reassure. “You got her in early. I don’t think she’ll need surgery.”
“Surgery?!”Mrs. Hartley wails. I don’t look up. Instead, I just try to move quickly. Ellen Degeneres’s hisses have turned into yowls as I irrigate the abscess with sterile saline.
By the time I give her an injection of Metacam to help with inflammation and prescribe the Clavamox, Ellen Degeneres is growling at me from inside her crate, and David is frowning at me.
“You okay, Dr. D?”
The floor beneath my feet rolls. It reminds me of being on the deck of theEloise II,and I think of my parents.
Mrs. Hartley, who’s only a little younger than Mom, puts her hands on my cheeks. “Child, you’re burning up with fever.”
I try to step away from her touch and bump into the exam table. I want to tell her I’m fine, but I’m supposed to be a medical professional. “I’m probably contagious,” I say instead. She drops her hands.
I lean against the wall. I hear David tell Mrs. Hartley that Hailey can check her out and someone will call tomorrow to follow up on Ellen Degeneres. But honestly, I’m not sure if he really says that or if I think he should say it. They leave.
