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“That was the fourth new patient booked this morning. A Jack Russell named Jacqueline who hates men,” Cory declares as she drops the phone receiver on its base. “Your calendar is filling up fast. Between new clients and a bunch of procedures, next week is going to be busy.”
“That’s good for us.” I step into my rubber boots and haul my travel bag from behind the counter. “I’m heading out now.” And looking forward to coming home and curling up in my bed. The forecast is calling for this heavy rain to continue into tomorrow.
“Marie, I’ve been attached to this phone all week. I hear it ring in my sleep. Some of these people want your full résumé. Others want a rundown of everything we do here before they move their pets over. If this keeps up, we’re going to have to hire someone for the desk. At least part-time.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll die down soon. But I already talked to my mom, and she said she’d help out if we need it—”
“We need it.” Cory’s holding the tail of her French braid in her fist—a sign that she’s stressed—as she points to the newspaper sitting on the counter. “And it’s because of that.”
The Anchorage paper arrived yesterday, but I didn’t have time to read it. I pause to unfold it now. Beau’s lovable face fills the full-page cover story.
As expected, Rachel and Beau’s tale has grabbed headlines, not just in the Mat-Su borough but all over the state, amplified by the unique details—Beau, being an internet celebrity and the park ranger hero being none other than this year’s Iditarod champion. The call to ban trapping in Nancy Lake Recreation Area has already been made, a petition circulating to collect signatures growing each day, and the pro-trappers are already on the defensive, pointing out the obvious—that no ban would stop this from happening because whoever did it doesn’t care about regulations.
Tyler has hidden behind the cover of his department head and the ongoing investigation to avoid dealing with reporters. Cory has passed the receiver over with more than one waiting on the line, looking to verify facts about Beau’s medical condition. I’ve shared what Rachel has permitted me to share and nothing more.
But Rachel is not staying quiet. The twenty-one-year-old has a steel spine where her dog is concerned. She’s been online nonstop, sharing every minute detail about Beau’s misfortune. She even went back to the spot on the trail to record herself retelling the story in detail, bringing a friend to set a leghold trap and triggering it with a stick to amplify the horror of what Beau went through.
Beau himself has caught plenty of the limelight, with Rachel’s friend Morgan video-documenting their reunion the morning after the surgery, and Beau’s struggles to get from my clinic and into the car, aided by Cory and me and a heavy blanket to lift him. He’s gained a few hundred thousand followers since, from all over the world. Even I’ve found myself checking the account daily for updates on his progress, cringing when I see myself captured in some of her posts. Those always come with her steadfast praise about the care and dedication “Marie the Crusader” has shown throughout this traumatic experience.
Honestly, I didn’t expect to see Rachel or Beau again once they drove off, but she returned with him yesterday for a follow-up appointment and is booked to come back again in another week. I am now officially Beau’s doctor, as declared on Instagram.
That, plus all the media swirl, has kicked up a cloud of pet owners who are either unhappy or apathetic toward their current veterinary care or are curious to learn more about “one of the most talented veterinary surgeons in the country, who’s hiding out right here in the valley.” My credentials are inflating by the day.
The phone rings as the clinic’s doorbell chimes. I look up from the paper to see Calla and Mabel strolling in, their curious gazes roaming the clinic’s little reception area.
“… So, you’re saying you’re new to us!” Cory gives me a wide look as she speaks to the caller. “Yes, we’ve had quite a few calls recently because of Beau’s story.”
I dismiss her as she jots down information and instead round the counter to greet our visitors. “What are you guys doing here?” My focus inadvertently drifts toward Calla’s belly, looking for a hint of the baby growing inside, but it’s far too soon. She’s not due until March. “Is Bandit okay?”
“Oh yeah, he’s fine.” She waves off my concern, pausing on my framed mugshot, her perfectly shaped eyebrow arching. “We were on our way to Target, so we thought we’d stop. Mabel was hoping you might have some puppies running around.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t. Not for a while now.” We’ve taken in rescue litters from time to time, keeping them in the clinic until they’re adopted out. I shift my focus to Agnes’s daughter. It stuns me how much she’s grown in just a few years. She was an exuberant little girl when I met her, prattling nonstop and tailing Jonah around. Now, words need to be dragged from her. “How do you like living in Trapper’s Crossing so far?”
