My plan was to get up the next day and do it again.
But then, the next morning, Peanut got sick.
* * *
THANK GOD THIS face-blindness thing applied only to humans.
Peanut’s big, brown, perfectly round, saturated-with-affection puppy eyes had been like a balm for my weary soul. After I’d brought him home from being boarded, it was the two of us against the world. I looked at that little mug of his a hundred times a day—positively savoring his jaunty yellow mustache and that perky button nose and those ears that never could seem to both flop forward at the same time.
“You’re not faceless, Peanut,” I’d tell him, pressing my nose into his fur.
If there were a dog hall of fame, Peanut would be on all their merchandise. He was cute as hell without being full of himself. He was endlessly cheery. He was a good eater without being a glutton. He was just as happy to go on a walk as he was to spend the entire day napping. He loved a good squeaky toy, but he lost interest at exactly the same rate I did. He loved me madly—leaping in circles whenever I came back home from anywhere—but without taking it too far. Without, say, suffering from separation anxiety and eating my shoes. His self-esteem was solid. His fashion sense was legendary. His sense of humor was totally deadpan.
I preferred him to most people even in normal times, is what I’m saying.
But of course, even more so now, when “most people” were the last thing on earth I wanted to see.
And so when I woke up way too early on Sunday morning and set out his favorite breakfast dish—torn pieces of croissant from his favorite French bakery—but he sat still and stared at me … my heart dropped in my chest.
I just knew, you know? I sensed in an instant something was wrong.
I tried coaxing him over, holding up a piece and taking a nibble myself, hoping he’d come take it. （He didn’t.） I tried picking him up and setting him in front of the dish, like that might inspire him to dive in. （It didn’t.） I tried giving the dish ten seconds in the microwave, like that might make it seem fresh-baked and more appealing. （Kind of the opposite.）
But nothing.
All Peanut wanted to do was hold himself still like a statue.
I squeaked his squeaky squirrel, but he just stared at me, like, Really? I tossed it across the room and ran after it like we were racing, but he just blinked at me, like, Please. And when I finally picked up his leash and jangled it at him and watched him fully not respond, that’s when I called the vet.
The new vet—because it was closest. They weren’t even open yet, but I told the answering service it was an emergency.
They said they’d page one of the vets to meet me at the clinic.
And here’s how worried about Peanut I was: I didn’t even think to request Dr. Addison.
* * *
IT WAS A small clinic, not some big 24-hour place. But they did have weekend hours.
They were open only from eight to noon on Sundays, but I wrapped Peanut up in his favorite velour blanket, cradled him in my arms, power walked the entire two blocks over because I still wasn’t allowed to run for skull-related reasons, and was sitting on the bench by the clinic doors at 7:45.
My heart was wheezing. I don’t even think it was pumping blood at that point—just straight adrenaline and a dark feeling of dread that Peanut was dying.
Which was unacceptable. Even though he was fourteen years old.
This was no joke. I’d done a pretty impressive set of mathematical calculations involving the life spans of all the different dog breeds he was a mix of, and by every analysis, I was guaranteed at least two more years.
Some dogs in his general category made it to eighteen, even.
That’s all I could think as I sat on the bench with tears positively shellacking my face. I was not letting this dog die. I was not losing the only person who loved me. Not today. Any treatment. Anything. I’d call Lucinda if I had to. I’d beg my dad. No bill was too high. No humiliation was too great.
A few minutes later, Dr. Oliver Addison himself showed up, and I heard his leather dress shoes tapping the pavement of the parking lot before I saw the man himself.
When I looked up, I swear he was walking in slo-mo like a superhero. That’s how I remember it: backlit with a lens flare, the good doctor already wearing his white lab coat, which was unbuttoned and flapping behind him, cape-like, in the wind. This was no casual-Sunday ensemble: the man was bringing his professional A game, wearing a tie, suit slacks, and that epic, slicked-back Clark Kent hair.
And let’s not forget his gait: that confident, badass, I’m-going-to-save-your-pooch stride.