Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 123171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“Yeah, that would be a good idea. And you will today.”
“What?”
Crystal scrolls through something on her iPad, checking my schedule. “At ten o’clock. She’s bringing Riley in. He hasn’t eaten much since Kim passed.”
It’s not uncommon for animals to grieve the loss of their owners. “Oh, well, that’s convenient.” I glance at the clock. It’s still early but I know the morning will pass by fast and when ten o’clock rolls around, I’ll be ready for lunch.
Pongo nickers at me again when I walk past his stall, and I have to go into his stall and pet him. He blows warm air on my face and lowers his head, nosing my pocket for a treat. Over the years, I’ve learned to separate my emotions, in a sense. I have to be pragmatic and logical in treating all of my patients and can’t let my heart get in the way. But this horse is weaseling his way in, and I’m already growing pretty damn fond of him.
“He likes you,” Crystal notes, smiling as she stops outside the stall.
“He likes the attention,” I say, automatically deflecting anything that comes close to a compliment. “Someone must have loved him at one point, and he remembers what that feels like.” I scratch his neck and then pat him, needing to go into the clinic and perform my first surgery of the morning.
It’s nearing ten-thirty when I finally make it to the exam room. I pull the chart off the holder on the door and quickly glance inside the window, taken aback when I see the woman inside. I do a double-take and look at the chart, making sure I got the right room.
Because the woman inside the room is the one from the feed store.
This is Kim Walker’s niece? No, it can’t be. Because I met her great-niece and this woman does not look old enough to have a teenage daughter. If I had to guess, I’d put her at a few years younger than me. Maybe the charts got mixed up and the wrong person is in this room. I’m about to ask one of the techs when I see Riley.
Shaking myself, I knock on the door, wait a beat, and then enter. The woman, Josie, looks up. She’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt today, and there’s hay stuck in her braid that she hasn’t yet noticed. Her eyes are as bright and hypnotic as the first time I saw her, and my brain does me the disservice of reminding me how good her slender waist felt in my hands.
Dammit.
Her eyes meet mine and a bit of color comes to her cheeks. Is she remembering how she lost her balance and almost fell too? Did she like the way it felt to be up against me? Fuck—no. There’s no way.
“Hi, Mrs...Mrs…Walker,” I glance down at the chart again, suddenly forgetting how to communicate like a functional adult. “Good thing there aren’t any shelves to climb in here.”
She laughs, reaching up and tucking a loose tendril of her hair back behind her ear. “Well, at least you’d be here to catch me, right?” She feels the hay in her hair and has a tiny moment of panic, probably thinking it’s a bug, and pulls it out. “And it’s Ms. Walker, but Josie is fine.”
“Okay, Josie,” I start and crouch down to Riley’s level. “What’s going on, buddy?”
The golden retriever slowly gets up and comes over to me, tail wagging. He hasn’t lost weight yet, but things can quickly go downhill. Riley sniffs me, taking in the scents of all the other animals I’ve seen today. I give him some time and then offer him a treat, which he doesn’t take.
“I think he’s depressed,” Josie tells me. “I know not everyone thinks dogs can be depressed, but that’s just how he seems,” she quickly adds. “He’s not eating much, paces around the house, and doesn’t want to play.”
I look up, meeting her eyes again. “Whether or not dogs have emotions capable of grief aside, there’s been a big change in Riley’s life that’s left a void.” I pet Riley again and flick my gaze back to Josie. She’s blinking rapidly, trying not to cry. I’m used to emotional appointments and holding owners’ hands while they cry, saying bye to their friend, or making a difficult medical decision. But something about the pain on her face is like a punch to the gut.
I’m feeling more for this woman—this stranger—than I’ve allowed myself to feel for anyone in quite a while.
“How can I help him?”
I ask him to sit and check his eyes and mouth. “Typically, getting him back into a routine and some extra love and attention can help.” Pulling my stethoscope from around my neck, I listen to his heart and lungs before taking his temp and finishing the exam. “He looks good, and you got him in before he lost any weight or became dehydrated. There are medications, but I’d like to try structuring a schedule for him before we go that route.”