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Last time it had been because “they were nearly divorced.” Nearly didn’t mean squat in my book. I wasn’t interested in any case.
I tossed my pencil across my desk, making a big jagged mark on my blotter calendar. I was old-fashioned in too many ways to count, and I only wanted to date someone who was single.
How silly of me.
Yet I was hung up on someone I’d probably never talk to again. Obviously I needed to loosen my standards a little, because I’d been lonely for too long.
Alone, not lonely. I was perfectly happy single. The looming holidays made it harder, of course, when all the cute little families with their Yorkies and Golden Labs and Persians came in for routine checkups and chattered brightly about getting to see Santa soon and other similarly festive activities.
As for me? I had sitting in front of the TV with a cold one to watch a holiday movie to look forward to.
Assuming I could successfully avoid my very large, very noisy—and thankfully not exactly local—family. That remained to be seen.
Thorny Paw Clinic’s new receptionist, Alice, hurried in to my office, her cherubic face flushed. The clinic was in a retooled stable on the outskirts of town, serving larger animals as well as smaller domestic pets in the newer buildings that had been added on. “Clint, we’ve got a bunny who might be in stasis. Can you help?”
I was already on my feet. I was one of the few local vets who could handle exotic animals too, a designation many people didn’t realize applied to rabbits who needed veterinary care. “I’ve got it, Alice. Thank you. If you can contact my 6:00 and let them know there’s an emergency.” I allowed myself a brief, small smile. “And my 7:30 too. Thank you.”
I went out to talk to the worried dark-haired couple, consoling each other on the bench in the corner. Beside them sat a bright pink soft-sided carrier with a lethargic lop-eared brown bunny inside, his eyes lacking any spark.
My shoulders tightened as I crouched to murmur to the rabbit. His ear twitched, but that was the only sign of recognition I received.
“What’s his or her name?” I asked the bunny’s worried parents.
“Merlin.” The woman dabbed her damp cheeks with a tissue and tried to smile. “I was looking up his symptoms online and they said—”
“Never google. It just makes you worry more. I’m Doctor Hauser. And you are?”
The man gripped his wife’s hand. “I’m Jay and this is my wife, Leeann. Thank you, Doctor, for seeing us on such short notice. We called around to everyone and none of the vets could see our bunny. We’re so frightened. This shortage is so hard on pet owners.”
“And on vet practices,” I said gently.
I knew far too much about the shortage in skilled veterinary care. A few years ago, the long hours and stressful atmosphere had led to me bowing out. I’d spent about a year pursuing another line of work, one I’d fallen into partly out of rebellion against my father and partly because it was so different from being a vet.
Then the desperate need in the vet community had drawn me right back.
Taking care of pets was rewarding in so many ways—and hard and painful in so many others. But this was where I was meant to be. I felt in it my bones.
Even if right now those bones were aching. Soon I’d be off my feet and reclined in my easy chair. First, we had to get Merlin feeling better if it was possible.
I’d do my damnedest in any case.
I rose to a standing position. “Come on back with me.” I motioned for them to head down the short hall to the exam rooms and took a moment to grip the medal around my neck—my talisman of sorts—and sent up a quick prayer that Merlin could be helped.
More than an hour later, the bunny was resting in a large cage in our observation room, where he’d stay for the night. I’d assured his concerned parents we had a very capable overnight crew of assistants, and if there was any change for the worse, we would notify them immediately. Otherwise they could come by in the morning and pick up their bunny, since I’d diagnosed him with a mild form of gastrointestinal upset—likely due to consuming something he shouldn’t have—rather than the more dangerous stasis.
They thanked me profusely and even cried a little on my shoulder, which I’d dealt with more often than I liked to remember. But at least this time, the story would have a happy ending.
I fervently hoped.
Just as I was about to head home, Mrs. Bianchine rushed in with a yowling Brutus. My guilty conscience led me to take him back to the exam rooms for a quick look. One diagnosis of constipation and a script for a gentle laxative later, she was on her way back out after swearing I was going to get her famous mac and cheese whether I wanted it or not.
Since my stomach was now growling, I almost consented, even if I was pretty sure she wanted to deliver it to me in her lingerie. I was just weary enough I might’ve been tempted there, too, if not for that shiny gold band on her ring finger.
Instead, I swung through the drive-thru of the new chicken joint in Crescent Cove and dug through the bucket while I sat in my boxers and watched SportsCenter like a proper bachelor.
Then the server overload alert sounded again on my phone from Kitten Around.
You’ve gotta be kidding me.
