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Another chuff.
“Great.” So I had a three-word conversational vocabulary established. And no idea what the fuck to do with it because I was too tired and hungry to figure out how to turn those three single-word answers into an interrogation framework on so little sleep and no food.
“Next question. If I take you somewhere else, are you going to shift back to a person for me?”
Growl.
“What if I ask nicely?”
The answer that time was a mixed whine and growl.
“I don’t know what the fuck that means, bud.”
The dog just stared at me.
I sighed. It was after midnight, which meant that there was only one place with a drive-thru still open, I was too disgusting to walk into an actual restaurant, and I probably couldn’t have found one that would permit a dog to come with me, anyway. “You like burgers?”
Chuff.
At least CookOut had milkshakes, fries, onion rings, and cheese bites. “CookOut acceptable?”
Chuff.
“Great.”
I backed out of the crime scene, headed to the CookOut on Broad. It was the closest, and it was also only ten minutes from Broad Street All-Night Vet, which was going to be our very important second stop.
I ordered the dog two double bacon cheeseburgers—no condiments—and multiple sides and a peanut butter fudge shake for myself, because fuck everything. I have an extremely high metabolism—mostly because of the pointy ears and everything that came with them. I can’t eat meat, but I metabolize the fuck out of everything else. Something to do with some difference in muscle tissues and circulation that my doctor at St. Christopher’s explained to me and I only partly remembered. You don’t really remember much from immediately after an Arcana transition.
All I really needed to know was that I could eat all the ice cream and cheese I wanted. Supplemented with some actual vitamin-based nutrition, of course. Most days.
I unwrapped both burgers and set them in front of the dog, then dumped all of my sides into a bag, since I figured the dog would finish first—and I could grab finger-food out of the bag as I drove to the vet’s office, which we really should get to sooner rather than later. It had probably already been too long.
The dog was also clearly hungry, as it essentially bolted both burgers.
I sighed, only about a third of the way through my food, stuck one more onion ring in my mouth, and left the parking lot, heading back out on Broad toward the vet’s office. I managed to get in a few more bites of delicious breaded grease before I pulled off onto the side street that led to a small, dingy building with a flickering sodium vapor light over about six empty parking spaces.
That wasn’t at all sketchy.
I don’t know what I expected from an All-Night Vet. But I guess I figured something a little more hospital-esque. Or maybe something that at least had a friendly sign with cute little paw prints on it, rather than a set of corroding metal letters pressed into dirty brick.
The dog turned to look at me, its expression about as dubious as I’d ever seen on a dog.
“It’s this or wait until like nine a.m., bud,” I told it.
That got me a heavy sigh, but no growl.
“I’m taking that as a resigned yes,” I told it.
A chuff.
Okay, then.
I got out of the car, wincing at the muscles in my legs already stiffening after having sat for thirty minutes following multiple hours on my feet. I can happily run twenty miles, but standing around was murder on my legs.
Sadly leaving my food behind, I gathered the dog—still in my coat—into my arms, pushing the door shut with my hip. As I walked toward the building, a shadowy figure came to the glass doors, pushing one of them open.
He was wearing blue scrubs and the white coat that signaled him as a veterinarian. I wondered if he worked late nights alone or if his coworkers were busy with other people’s animals. Given the emptiness of the parking lot, I figured this guy was my only option.
