held the now awake and squirming puppy. She scowled at Carmella as she settled the bill, then caught my eye. “May as well go to Dr. Jones in Kettering from now on,” she grumbled. “This guy’s a dick. Didn’t even give me the time of day.” With that, she stomped past me to the door.
“Bye,” I said. Hmm.
A few minutes later, Aimee came out with her Chihuahua, who still seemed extremely stressed. Aimee handed her credit card to Carmella, sighed loudly, then caught my eye. “Good luck,” she said flatly. “If you’re here for why I think you’re here, that is.”
“Thanks,” I said, frowning.
Finally, it was my turn. I brushed a clot of Bowie fur from my skirt (I’d craftily worn white as camouflage), squared my shoulders and walked down the hall.
“Hi, Callie!” It was Earl, a tech who’d worked here for ages.
“Hi, Earl!” I said, giving him a hug.
“Don’t tell me Bowie’s sick,” Earl said.
“Oh, just a little,” I said, blushing.
“Ah,” he said knowingly. Too bad Earl was in his sixties. I’d always loved him.
I went to Exam Room 4 and took a seat on the hard little wooden bench. Dr. Kumar used to have pictures hanging up … that series where the dogs are playing poker or pool. Those were gone now, but the walls had been painted a nut brown, which was kind of nice. Otherwise, the place was as bland as any veterinarian’s exam room—metal table, small fridge for the vaccines, scale and a poster about tick-borne illnesses. It all made me kind of sleepy. Bowie seemed to share the sentiment—he yawned and flopped down at my feet, panting rhythmically.
Being at the vet’s brought back a lot of happy memories, a few sad ones as well. We hadn’t been allowed to have pets as kids … we tried having a cat when I was about nine, but it had crept into an occupied casket one day and reappeared during the wake, much to the horror of the family of the departed, so Mom sent Patches to live on a nice farm.
But I always loved animals, and when I was fourteen, Dr. Kumar let me come work here cleaning cages and, as I got older, washing dogs. When a pet died, Dr. K. would sometimes ask me to handwrite the Rainbow Bridge poem so he could mail it to the owner. Ah, the Rainbow Bridge. Oh, blerk, I was getting all choked up just thinking about it.
The Rainbow Bridge poem says that when your pet dies, he goes to a wonderful, sunny place full of meadows and woods and doggy and kitty friends. He’s young and healthy again, and very happy. There’s a beautiful rainbow bridge nearby, but your dog never crosses it. No. He just plays and eats steak. But then one day … one day, your pet goes on alert. He sees something in the distance. He starts to tremble. Can it be? He breaks into a run. He runs and runs and runs … toward … you! Yes, it’s you, you’ve died and you’re coming to heaven, and for all these years, your pet has been waiting for you. He runs to you and licks your face and wags and wags his tail and you pet him and kiss him and hug him. You’re so, so happy to see your old friend … and then, finally, you and your beloved pet cross the Rainbow Bridge together into heaven proper to live for all eternity.
I seemed to be sobbing. “I love you, Bowie,” I squeaked, leaning down to pet my pup. Bowie was only three, so hopefully he and I would have a long, long time before I had to think about any rainbow bridges. Bowie licked my cheeks happily and sang me a little song—Rurrrooorah. “I love you, good doggy,” I repeated wetly.
The door opened and I quickly blew some dog fur off my lips. “Hello,” I said, wiping my eyes hastily as I looked up.
Oh, shit. Shit on a shingle. Shit on rye.
It was the guy from the DMV. The Jesus, lady, get a grip guy.
He was studying Bowie’s chart and didn’t see me at first. Then he said, “Hi, I’m Ian McFarland,” and looked at me. His expression froze. “Oh.”
“Hi,” I muttered, feeling my face ignite.
“Are you all right?” he asked, frowning.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine. Well … I was crying a little. You know that poem about the Rainbow Bridge? I was just thinking about it … well. Got a little weepy! You know how it is.” I wiped my eyes again, then fumbled in my purse for a tissue. Crap. Didn’t seem to have one.
“Here.” His expression stony, Ian McFarland once again handed me a handkerchief.
“Thanks,” I said, standing up. He took a quick step backward, as if my emotional diarrhea might be catching.
He wasn’t particularly good-looking … well, maybe he had a rough appeal. Sort of a Russian gangster look with sharp cheekbones, short blond hair and Siberian blue eyes. The overall effect was … let’s see. Disapproval. Great. This guy did not look like a tenderhearted vet who’d cry over the Rainbow Bridge or ask me to dinner. He looked more like the type who’d know how to kill me using only his little finger.
“Hi,” I said again, remembering that I should probably speak. “I’m Callie. Callie Grey.”
At the sound of my name, Bowie whined and thumped his tail as if telling me I was doing great. Dr. McFarland glanced at the chart. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked. Bowie, sensing a belly rub somewhere in the very near future, rolled over and offered himself. And oh, how adorable. My dog was … you know. Excited. Interested. Aroused.
Tearing my eyes off the display of canine amour, I swallowed. “Um … well, Bowie ate something this morning. Which is not uncommon. Bowie, get up.” He was neutered, of course, but just because he couldn’t father any cute little puppies didn’t mean he didn’t have urges, and apparently Dr. McFarland was his type. My dog didn’t move, just lay there, exposing himself.
“What did he eat?” the vet asked.
“Uh, the newspaper? But he does that a lot. He’s probably fine.”
“You should be more careful about where you leave the paper.” He made a note on the chart—Bad pet owner, I imagined—then looked up at me. Yep. Disapproval. “How’s he acting?”
Horny? “Um … he felt, well, he seemed to be a little, ah … blue? Not himself? So …” I smiled weakly. Roooraahroh! Bowie sang, wagging his tail.
The vet glanced at Bowie, then shot me a look that bespoke gobs of cynicism.
I swallowed. “I just figured it’s never the wrong thing to do, you know, double-check on your dog, see if everything’s okay. He seemed a little … down.”
Bowie took this as a cue to flip to his feet in that agile and speedy way huskies have. He stared at me with his wide, different-colored eyes, tilting his head and giving a single yip, as if saying, And then? And then? What happened next, Mom? I love this story! It smells good here! Can I have some meat?
“He seemed down,” Dr. McFarland repeated.
“Off. He seemed off.” I looked at the floor.
He sighed, then set the chart down on the counter. “Miss Grey,” he said, folding his arms and giving me the full power of the Arctic stare. He paused for a moment. “Let me share something with you. You’re the eighth woman this week to come in with a vague complaint involving a pet eating something he shouldn’t have.” He paused. “Seven of those women were single. And as I seem to recall from our morning together at the Department of Motor Vehicles, you’re single as well.”
D’oh! as Homer Simpson would say. “Wow. Someone has an ego,” I murmured, pulling on Bowie’s leash as he inched closer and closer to Dr. McFarland’s leg.
“Two of the dogs supposedly ate dishcloths. When I told the owners that this was cause for concern, as cloth can be very damaging to an animal’s intestinal track, they rather abruptly amended their stories. A parrot may or may not have eaten a plastic toy. One cat allegedly ate a ring. When I recommended