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He glanced down at the folder. Mr. Buttersworth. He was Mrs. Jones’ overweight, pampered cat. The cat bore a striking resemblance to his owner with his shock of orange hair and overlong whiskers. The woman had a mustache the bearded lady would be jealous of.
“Fine,” he said.
“Fine.” She glared at him for another second and then as if realizing she didn’t have any other reason to still be standing there, she spun on her heel and stomped toward the exam room.
***
The morning passed with the regular bevy of cats and dogs cycling through. Hunter did his best to ignore Isobel and focus on his job. A bit difficult when he had her holding his four-legged patients down while he examined them.
Did she wear her hair down today on purpose? To distract him? He’d swear she kept flicking it over her shoulder just so that whatever fruity shampoo she used would waft his direction.
Mr. Buttersworth was only in for shots, a quick and simple enough procedure. Their second patient, a huge St. Bernard named Bernie, however, was a bit more challenging. It took both the dog’s owner and Isobel to hold the big dog down so Hunter could pry his mouth open to see what was causing him so much pain. And in spite of the giant, slobbering, whining dog who tried to yank back each time Hunter touched his mouth, half of Hunter’s brain was distracted by the warmth of Isobel’s thigh against his as they wrestled the dog on the floor together.
He finally got the dog to sit still long enough to see that it was an abscess tooth causing all the trouble. That meant surgery since he needed to get down to the root of the tooth. Hunter gave Bernie a shot of antibiotics and Isobel went out
with Bernie’s owner, promising her they’d find a way to fit the surgery in the schedule for the next afternoon.
It was just what Hunter would have done, but he was annoyed at her presumption. She should have at least asked him when was the best time to schedule the surgery.
A difficult to diagnose case with a molting parrot distracted him from thinking about her too much for the next hour.
They were down to their last appointment for the morning, a case of mange in an indoor/outdoor family cat when there was a knock on the exam room door.
Hunter set the cat back down in the box her owners had brought her in and called out, “Come in,” but Isobel was already halfway to the door. She opened it to Sandra, his receptionist.
Sandra seemed taken aback to find Isobel on the other side of the door. Hunter almost smiled. She had to stop startling people like that.
“What is it, Sandra?” he asked.
Sandra looked past Isobel and smiled at him. He and Sandra had both grown up in Hawthorne, she was just a year behind him in school. She’d been working at the clinic for about six months after Dr. Roberts long-time receptionist had retired. “Doctor, there’s a family out here with a dog they say has a hurt leg. They don’t have an appointment.”
“I’ll put them in exam two,” Isobel said, striding confidently past Sandra. Sandra’s mouth dropped open and she swung her head back to Hunter.
Hunter nodded. “We’ll see them. Give me five.”
He turned back to Mrs. Voorhees, explained the treatment regimen, and gave her the medication she’d need.
He washed his hands and went into the next exam room. He was about to order Isobel out to go clean and sterilize exam one when he saw her crouched on the floor cuddling a young Labrador retriever to her chest, stroking his head one moment and gently rotating his back leg to check for injury the next.
The dog whimpered and burrowed into her stomach when she’d only barely moved the leg. Not a good sign. Isobel’s eyes leapt to Hunter’s as soon as he came in and he could tell she was thinking the same thing.
He glanced around and saw a short, compact woman with three little girls crowded around her. “Hi guys, I’m Dr. Hunter.”
Their eyes were all fearful as he came in. The littlest girl was sniffling. Hunter wasn’t great with kids’ ages but he thought they were all between five and ten, maybe.
“Who do we have here?” Hunter leaned down on his haunches and looked at the dog.
“That’s Jupiter,” the middle tallest girl said. She had big plastic glasses and frizzy brown hair similar to her mother’s. “My dad ran over him.”
The mother looked mortified and hurriedly stepped forward. “Hi, I’m Pam. My husband wasn’t looking where he was going this morning. He was in a hurry and he backed out of the garage without looking.”
The youngest girl burst into tears and the mom stopped and turned to her daughter. “Oh honey, it’s going to be okay. The doctor here is going to make Jupiter feel better.”
“Let’s see what’s going on with him. How old is he?”
He reached for Jupiter, keeping his eyes on the dog and off Isobel as she transferred the dog into his arms.
“Just a little over ten months,” Isobel answered.
