A big-boned redheaded woman sat behind the console facing her massive computer. She reminded me a lot of the obnoxious woman who’d admitted me to Cedars when I’d had my scary bout of priapism a few months back. Maybe they were sisters or separated at birth. Same frizzy red hair. Except this one wore glasses.
“Please sign in with your name and your pet’s as well as your time of arrival.” She barely looked at me and as I did as I was told, she asked, “What is your dog’s problem?”
Jen responded, her voice frantic. “He ate a piece of jewelry and may die!”
The woman looked up at us, then over the frames of her half-moon glasses, gazed down at our unfazed Scout. Her thin lips twisted in sync with an eyeroll. “It happens often.”
Jen paled, her face awash with terror. Even my stomach twitched. What did Frizzbitch mean by that? That jewelry consumption among canines was common and lead to consequential death?
My thoughts were cut short by another silent but deadly Scout fart. Whoa! The odor that wafted in the air was so foul that the person standing behind me moved ten feet away. If farts could kill, this would be it.
Scrunching her nose, Frizzbitch shot me a disgusted look. “Please take a seat and we’ll call you when it’s your turn. Except for dire emergencies, it’s first come, first serve.”
Well, at least we had a little reassurance that Scout wasn’t on his deathbed. My eyes circled the waiting room. There were at least a dozen people ahead of us. The wait would be long. We could be here all night. And into the morning.
We took a seat, and Scout lay down in front of us. He seemed unusually lethargic. Jen squeezed my free hand, hers cold and clammy. Her other hand brushed across Scout’s coat.
“It’s going to be okay, baby boy.” She caressed him again. “Mommy’s here.”
Despite her continuous strokes, the dog didn’t move. Not even the twitch of an ear. His muzzle rested on his outstretched front legs, his tail curled behind him. I’d be lying if I said he looked happy. His big brown eyes seemed a bit glazed. Maybe he was just bored. My tiger, however, filled with alarm.
“Blake, he’s fading!” Tears sprung to her eyes, then she burst into sobs.
Several people in the reception area turned around to look at her. She was a blubbering mess. Nothing I could say or do could console her. Reaching into my back pocket, I handed her one of my monogrammed hankies. She blew her nose, dabbed her tears, and then sniffled a few words.
“Blake, please call your mother again. Maybe she knows someone here.”
The last thing I wanted to do was call my mother again. But my tiger’s sobs were gutting me, so I did as she asked. It turned out my parents had made a substantial donation to the animal hospital several years ago and my mother was still very friendly with the Chief of Staff. Yup, money had its benefits. And so did connections.
We were the next to be called.
The examination room was small and sterile. Just an exam table, a few cabinets, a sink with nearby disinfectants, a counter filled with sundry medical supplies. And one solitary chair, which I insisted Jen take, while I stood holding Scout by his leash. He seemed to have rebounded. Once again inquisitive and happy. Wagging his tail and longing to explore everything.
My tiger had stopped crying, but her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. She was still fraught with worry. Nervously, she fiddled with her diamond snowflake engagement ring, her hands wringing in her lap. “Blake, do you think Scout’s going to be okay?”
Though he seemed fine, who knew? I was not a medical doctor. My instinct was to say yes to make my wife feel better and so I selfishly didn’t have to deal with more gut-wrenching bawling. Before I could respond, the door to the room swung open, and a raspy voice sounded.
“Hey, there. I’m Dr. Sexton, but most call me by my first name Chase. Dr. Chase.”
Both Jen and I looked up. Heading our way was an extremely good-looking guy, tall and athletically built and about my age. Under his white lab coat, he was wearing well-cut jeans and a Snoopy T-shirt that hinted of his pronounced pecs and washboard abs. A stethoscope was wrapped around his neck and a pair of expensive Nikes adorned his feet. With his build, perfectly tousled light brown hair, bedroom-blue eyes, chiseled face with its designer scruff, I swear he looked like he’d just stepped out of GQ, lab attire and all. Or could be the star of a TV series. Somehow, he looked familiar to me. And his name was too. Where did I know him from? Before I could search my mind, he offered me his hand, and I shook it with my free one, introducing myself and Jen. His grip was firm and confident, his fingers long and tapered. Then, he shook Jen’s, and a blast of jealousy whipped through me when she gave him a warm smile.
“Dr. Chase, thank you for seeing us!”
He returned her smile. It was one of those dazzling Hollywood ones. Slightly lopsided with a row of sparkling white straight teeth. I was ready to blow this pop stand. Or punch out those pearly whites.
Letting go of Jen’s hand, he squatted and stroked Scout with his large hands.
“So you must be Scout.” The dog held his gaze and wagged his tail. “I heard you got into some mischief tonight.”
Jen explained how Scout had torn through our apartment. She still had a few feathers stuck to the fabric of her dress, which she picked off like lint. “And then, Doctor, he chewed up a little box and ate a broach!” Terror inched back into Jen’s voice. “My birthday present.”
Still squatting, the vet checked the beast’s heartbeat with his stethoscope and then stood to fetch a thermometer. He squatted again, this time behind Scout.
“You’re not going to like this, buddy, but trust me, it’ll only last a few seconds.” I cringed as he lifted Scout’s butt up a little and inserted the thermometer into his poop hole. Poor Scout whimpered, alarming Jen further.
“Doctor, is he going to die?”
Wordlessly, he removed the thermometer and studied it. Then, he chuckled. “No, he’s way too young and healthy. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Seriously?” I said, my brows lifting.
“Seriously.” His voice was confident and reassuring. “You know what they say: what goes in, must come out. I am going to give him an all-natural laxative which will help him poop out the broach, hopefully later tonight.” He headed toward the door. “Hang tight. I’ll be right back.”
Letting go of the leash, I let Scout prowl about the small room. He seemed back to his sniffing, rambunctious, tail-wagging self. And for the first time since the start of this ordeal, Jen seemed back to herself. Relaxed and happy.
“Blake, I really like Dr. Chase!”
I made a face. “You do?”
She smiled. “Yes. He seems super-smart and exudes confidence.”
And sex appeal? I silently added, knitting my brows.
“And he’s really cute.”
I felt my blood bubbling. I did not like where this conversation was going. Not one bit.
“I wonder if he’s married.”
“What does it matter?” I snapped, not having noticed if he was wearing a wedding band. Or not.
“Well, I was just thinking . . .”
Before she could finish her sentence, Dr. Pretty Face came jogging back into the room. Happy to see him, Scout wagged his tail and my tiger gave him the kind of smile she wore after we had epic, toe-curling sex. I felt my blood pressure spike. What the hell was she thinking?