Hello Stranger(32)

The point was, some things couldn’t be helped. But from now on, I would not burst into any more tears at that clinic. I would show up looking a hundred percent “Fine, thank you, and yourself?” As a point of pride.

Which was the only saving grace on the evening of Peanut’s third overnight stay there, when the pad Thai I’d ordered from his favorite spot got held up in traffic during delivery—and, desperately trying to move fast when I was still forbidden to run, I race-walked the two blocks in a ridiculous pair of heels—only to arrive just as Dr. Addison was locking up.

I knew it was him with certainty. Because all the other vets in the practice were female.

Also because of his godlike glow.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, out of breath. “The delivery was late.”

I held up the takeout bag.

“Is that for Peanut?”

I nodded. “Pad Thai.”

Dr. Addison sighed at me then, like I was a real lunatic. But at least I was wearing my favorite sundress. And I’d taught myself how to do a crown braid around my head that perfectly hid my surgical scars. And I’d gone to the trouble of finding my raspberry lipstick after it rolled under the bed.

With a headshake like he couldn’t believe he was an accomplice to the moral atrocity of feeding noodles to a sick dog, he unlocked the door.

“He needs meat,” he said, stepping over the threshold.

I followed, and we were once again surrounded by pop oldies on the sound system.

“This is chicken pad Thai,” I said, raising my voice a bit.

“Can’t you get him hooked on barbecue or something? This is Texas.”

“He likes barbecue,” I said. “He just likes pad Thai better.”

Three nights in, Peanut was doing much better. He’d had his second transfusion by now, and he’d soon be getting a third. That plus the IV fluids and the appetite stimulants had him looking much more like his usual self.

All to say, tonight Peanut greeted me with a full-body wag for the first time since this all started.

Which made me tear up. Again.

But I blinked the tears away. No more crying at the vet clinic.

“Looks like he’s feeling better,” Dr. Addison said.

“Definitely.”

“Soon, I think, he’ll be strong enough to start his meds.”

“What are they?” I asked.

“Prednisone, cyclosporine, and azathioprine,” Dr. Addison said, before realizing maybe that was overly specific and backing up a bit to explain: “Steroids and immune suppressors.”

“Got it,” I said.

“I’m hopeful about him,” Dr. Addison said then.

“Thank you,” I said, taking a second to press my face against Peanut’s fur. “Thank you for being hopeful.”

I was trying to move fast, but Dr. Addison, watching me, said, “Take a minute. It’s okay.”

“Aren’t you trying to lock up? I don’t want to keep you from—whatever you’ve got going on.”

“I don’t have anything going on,” he said. “I’m glad to stay.” Then he added, “He’ll eat more if you’re not rushing.”

Next I got down on the floor, crisscrossed my legs, cradled Peanut in my lap, and started feeding long, floppy pinches of pad Thai noodles to him by hand.

I thought Dr. Addison would give us a minute then, maybe go back to his office and do—I don’t know … doctorly things? What did medical professionals do when no one was looking? Examine charts? Study textbooks? Wear glasses and look important?

Of course, Dr. Addison didn’t wear glasses.

But I’m sure he wouldn’t let that hold him back.

Anyway, he didn’t go off to be doctorly. He lingered there. Watching Peanut devour that entire Styrofoam box of pad Thai, slurp by slurp, like a champion.

“He really does like pad Thai.”

“I’m telling you. He’s a very worldly dog. Gastronomically.”

“I believe you.”

I wanted to think I could take the chowing-down as encouragement that Peanut must be doing better. But I couldn’t discount the appetite stimulant.

“This is a good sign, right?” I asked as Peanut licked the empty container.

“It’s not a bad sign,” Dr. Addison said.

“I’m so glad he’s doing better.”

A little pause and then Dr. Addison said, “Are you doing better?”

I looked up. Bless that man—he’d just given me the perfect opportunity to say it: “I’m great,” I said, with all the convincing, perky, don’t-even-know-why-you’re-asking energy I could muster. Mentally I added: I am not falling apart. I am not standing slack-jawed and helpless at the sight of my life collapsing like a sheet of the polar ice caps. I am absolutely, undeniably, categorically okay.

“Good,” Dr. Addison said, seeming unconvinced. Then he added, “Great.”

Fine. All right. Maybe my two-word statement wouldn’t be enough. “We’re just … very close,” I added then. I mean, even perfectly fine people could get weepy if their dogs were on the brink of death! That wasn’t evidence of emotional pathology, was it?

“You and Peanut?” Dr. Addison asked.

I nodded. “Practically litter mates. My mom gave him to me when I was a kid.” Were you still a kid at fourteen? Close enough.