“The doctor will evaluate him and then be out to discuss treatment options.” Without waiting for a response, the technician whisked Rosco away.
With the empty leash in my hand, I returned to the waiting room. I paused, surprised by how many people were there. Surprised by how many people had to bring their pets to the veterinary emergency hospital on Thanksgiving.
I stifled a slightly hysterical laugh as I wondered what percentage were here for canine gastronomic emergencies. My embarrassment eased a little as I realized that Rosco probably wasn’t the only one who’d created his own Thanksgiving feast from non-food items.
The waiting room was nearly full so I wedged myself onto a small bench next to an aging hippie dressed in Harley Davidson gear. He could have passed for Santa - if Santa had traded in his reindeer for a motorcycle.
Worried about Rosco, I distracted myself by checking my e-mail. I barely noticed when the vet tech brought Mrs. Foo Foo back to Santa, who cooed over the fluffy kitty and whisked her away with promises of cuddles and a bowl of cream. I had moved on to Solitaire when another body settled onto the bench next to me.
Without looking up, I knew my new bench mate was no Santa look-alike. For one thing, his broad shoulders took up considerably more space, while his hips occupied much less. Intrigued, I snuck a peak out of the corner of my eye. What I could see only increased my curiosity. I angled my phone, hoping to use its shiny surface to get a better glimpse.
“Red jack on black queen.” I jumped as the object of my hidden attention spoke.
“I’m sorry?” I asked, turning to him.
“The red jack goes on the black queen,” he repeated. I concentrated a little harder, trying to figure out his coded message. He gestured to my phone. “You looked like you were stuck, so I was trying to help you out.”
I looked down at my phone - and the game of Solitaire I’d abandoned to spy on him.
“Oh, sorry. I was distracted. Worried about my dog,” I explained.
Sympathy filled his warm, brown eyes. “I know what you mean. I just brought mine in, too.”
“What’s wrong - “
“What’s wrong - “
“Ladies first,” he said. Then he smiled.
His smile lit up the room and sent a strange shiver up my spine.
“What’s wrong with your dog?” I asked.
“Houdini and I were taking out the Thanksgiving trash when we were accosted by an attack squirrel. In his valiant rush to defend me and save our precious garbage, he collided with a vicious pine tree and suffered a grievous wound to his eye.”
“What a brave, brave dog,” I said with a smile. “Will he be OK?”
“They’re checking him out now, but the vet thinks it’s just a scratch. How about your dog?”
“I’m afraid that Rosco isn’t quite as noble as Houdini. While I was at my parents’ celebrating Thanksgiving, Rosco decided to hold his own celebration by eating a tube of Krazy Glue. I brought leftovers home for him last year, and apparently he opted to glue his mouth shut this year rather than face another round of my mother’s turkey.”
He took my hand in his and gave it a firm handshake. His hands were strong, yet he didn’t abuse his strength or try to overpower me. “Congratulations. That’s one of the best Thanksgiving vet stories I’ve ever heard.”
“You’ve heard a lot of them?”
He smiled again and the room seemed to fade around me. For a moment, I wondered if my mom had taken her turkey to a new level...then heat rushed through my veins and the room came into sharp focus. I could feel his hand on mine, smell the faint tang of his cologne. I noticed the laugh lines around his eyes and the way his generous mouth curved up at the sides, as if he was waiting for another chance to smile.
“Houdini isn’t my only dog, and a Thanksgiving emergency trip has become sort of a holiday tradition. There was the year that Waverley ate my grandmother’s chocolate pies - all five of them. Then there was the Year of the Cat, when Max tried to bring the neighbor’s cat home for Thanksgiving. And of course there was the famous The-Christmas-Tree-is-Not-a-Chew-Toy episode, a very unpleasant experience that still haunts Riley’s dreams.”
I looked down, surprised to find that our hands were now intertwined. But somehow it felt...right. I leaned toward him and his arm wrapped around my shoulders.
“So, will this be known as the Year of the Attack Squirrel?” I asked.
He pulled me a little closer. “I have a feeling this will be known as the year I brought home more than just Houdini.”
Maybe a trip to the vet wasn’t so bad, after all.