I can still feel Tyler’s weight on my body, his hands all over me.
Him, so deep inside.
I struggle to clear thoughts of what we did last night as I focus on a day at work. “Hey, Cory, did you get a new car?”
“No. Joe dropped me off. But Mrs. Perkins is here.” She nods to the lobby chair tucked in the corner where a woman sits, a Jack Russell on her lap.
I double-check the clock on the wall in case I somehow lost track of time while getting dressed. But no, we don’t open for another half hour.
“I know I’m a bit early,” the woman calls out in a reedy voice.
“That’s okay.” I shift my focus to her young terrier, its tail wagging. “This must be Jacqueline?” I let her sniff my hand in greeting.
“Yes! Jackie, for short.” Mrs. Perkins’s clouded blue gaze lights up with a mix of surprise and delight. “But I needed to talk to you.” Slowly, she lifts herself out of her chair and sets the dog on it with a soft command of stay, and then leads me a few feet away. “Your receptionist already said there were no men working here.” She speaks in a hush, as if afraid her dog might overhear. “It’s just that Jackie gets very stressed around male doctors and techs. Any men, really. I had such problems at the last clinic, with her shaking and vomiting and biting. The place was just too big, and they weren’t very accommodating.” Her wrinkled face furrows, as if with unpleasant memories.
I remember Cory mentioning the dog’s hatred of men. I resist the urge to ask who they went to. “As you can see, this is a very small clinic. It’s usually just Cory and me. My mother’s helping out this week because I have a lot of procedures. Occasionally, my father does help out, but only if I’m unreachable and there’s an emergency. He’s a retired veterinarian and lives next door, so he can get here pretty fast. But honestly? Other than the two weeks in March when I’m volunteering for the Iditarod, or a few days here and there when I’m out west helping in the villages, I’m always around.”
“Oh.” She frowns as she considers this. “Well, if, God forbid, something were to happen and we needed his help while you were away, do you think he would mind wearing this?” She checks over her shoulder once at the dog and then reaches into her purse to pull out a lengthy blond wig. “Bob wears it when he comes to fix things around the house and check on me. Bob’s a neighbor. He was good friends with my husband. Anyway, it’s been working. She even let him hold her!” She shrugs as if to say, who knew?
On the spectrum of pet owners, from people who shouldn’t be trusted with keeping so much as a snail alive to those who name their pets in their will, Mrs. Perkins is clearly on the end that I will go out of my way to accommodate. “Mom? What do you think?” I already know the answer. Dad always got a kick out of strange requests owners made on behalf of their pets. To this day, I think his favorite story to tell is about the man who insisted my father speak directly to his dog and the man would translate the dog’s responses. Though, in that case, it had nothing to do with meeting the animal’s needs.
“Oh, my Sidney would be more than happy to oblige, I’m sure.” My mom nods her approval, her grin broad and genuine.
“Yeah, the only problem you might have is getting the wig back from him after.”
“That’s a relief to hear.” Mrs. Perkins’s shoulders sink as she tucks the wig back into her purse.
“So, Jackie’s pregnant? That’s why you’re here?” I steal a glance at the Jack Russell, sitting quietly in the chair, her midsection bulging and likely the only reason she isn’t investigating every corner. She looks young—less than a year old—and ready to deliver any day.
“They said there’s three in there. Her first veterinarian wanted to wait a cycle before he fixed her. I agreed, because what do I know? I’ve never owned a dog before. I got her after Ned passed. Anyway, it’s just me at home, my son’s living in California, and I’ve taken to chucking her into my neighbor’s yard to burn off some of that energy with Dax, their husky.” She shakes her head, her face a mask of bewilderment. “No one told me he wasn’t neutered! Imagine my shock when I saw what he was doin’ to my sweet Jackie that day!”
I stifle my laughter.
She peers at her dog, her face a mix of adoration and concern. “I’m eighty-three years old. What on earth am I going to do with a litter of puppies?”
The struggle in her voice tugs at my heart. “We can help you find homes for them, if you’d like.”