forgot to turn up for a dental appointment. My tongue remains paralyzed as the waiting room door swings open and in walks a teenage girl carrying a cardboard cat carrier.
There’s an awkward silence, as if she may have interrupted a married couple engaged in a squabble.
I lean in to Doris and breathe in the nicotine-infused beehive. “There are two sides to every story.” I turn to face the newcomer. “I’m sorry but I don’t start seeing appointments again until one thirty.”
The girl looks surprised and makes a show of consulting her watch.
Doris inches a little closer to me. “Dr. Cobb always made a point of never turning away a sick animal.” And the fixed expression she leaves me with is totally, but that’s up to you .
Boy, I’m using up my quota of fake smiles for one day. “Won’t you join me in the examination room while Doris locates your file.”
The girl can’t be more than eighteen years old, if that, with the kind of piercings guaranteed to draw the eye—nasal, septum, and lip—and cause the un-pierced among us to think about what happens to the metal and mucus when you catch a cold. Her hair has to be dyed, it’s simply too black in contrast to skin so white she looks like she’s ready for a cameo in another vampire movie. Her unzipped and ratty coat falls open to reveal an enormous bulge under a T-shirt that reads Fat People are hard to kidnap!
“When’s your due date?” Though there’s a risk my question is politically incorrect, when something is so patently obvious my mouth usually betrays me.
“Last Tuesday.”
No rings on any fingers. Some might think it’s a precaution against perinatal swelling. I’m thinking she’s a single mom.
“They didn’t want to induce you?” I ask, placing the surprisingly heavy carrier on the examination table, closing the door behind us, and helping the girl take a seat.
“Next Monday, but I’m like, hoping to have him on Friday.”
“Why Friday?”
“Because it’s a full moon and it’s the thirteenth.”
She says this in all seriousness, with an innocence that is almost as refreshing as it is scary.
I nod, as though this makes perfect sense to me too.
“How far is it to the nearest delivery room?”
“Like fifteen miles, but this time of year with the snow and the ice it’s literally going to take me an hour.”
I nod. “Induction might be the best way to go.”
She studies me and says, “You talk a bit like Forrest Gump. You’re not from round here, are you?”
“No,” I say. “No, I’m not.”
“You work for the little old man?”
“Kind of. We’re working together. I’m Dr. Mills, from South Carolina.”
“I’m Denise,” she says, “and this is my little Tina.”
“And what’s going on with your … little … Tina?”
“You tell me, Doctor Gump,” she says, reaching a hand to her lips too late, as though she is not in the least bit sorry.
But you ain’t got no legs, Lieutenant Dan .
I can’t help but laugh. I open the carrier, reach inside, and pull out a large black cat. Tina may be shy and a little frightened, but she is wonderfully compliant. She stays where I place her, pressing her many love handles flat to the metallic table. I’m guessing she weighs around twenty pounds but to be fair, there’s more to Tina than can be explained by an excess of canned tuna. I risk the same assumption twice in one day.
“Is she pregnant too?”
Denise nods. “I’m pretty sure she’s at, like, day sixty-six,” she says. “Doc Lewis told me to check back.”
Day sixty-six is the feline equivalent of nine months. I whip out my stethoscope, listen to Tina’s chest, take her temperature, gently palpate her Buddha belly. Everything seems to be in order.
Pedigree cats have a much higher risk of a difficult labor than cats of mixed breeding .
“What was that?” asks Denise.
I chance a peek under her tail—prominent genitalia but no discharge.
“Oh, nothing. What makes Doc Lewis so
There’s an awkward silence, as if she may have interrupted a married couple engaged in a squabble.
I lean in to Doris and breathe in the nicotine-infused beehive. “There are two sides to every story.” I turn to face the newcomer. “I’m sorry but I don’t start seeing appointments again until one thirty.”
The girl looks surprised and makes a show of consulting her watch.
Doris inches a little closer to me. “Dr. Cobb always made a point of never turning away a sick animal.” And the fixed expression she leaves me with is totally, but that’s up to you .
Boy, I’m using up my quota of fake smiles for one day. “Won’t you join me in the examination room while Doris locates your file.”
The girl can’t be more than eighteen years old, if that, with the kind of piercings guaranteed to draw the eye—nasal, septum, and lip—and cause the un-pierced among us to think about what happens to the metal and mucus when you catch a cold. Her hair has to be dyed, it’s simply too black in contrast to skin so white she looks like she’s ready for a cameo in another vampire movie. Her unzipped and ratty coat falls open to reveal an enormous bulge under a T-shirt that reads Fat People are hard to kidnap!
“When’s your due date?” Though there’s a risk my question is politically incorrect, when something is so patently obvious my mouth usually betrays me.
“Last Tuesday.”
No rings on any fingers. Some might think it’s a precaution against perinatal swelling. I’m thinking she’s a single mom.
“They didn’t want to induce you?” I ask, placing the surprisingly heavy carrier on the examination table, closing the door behind us, and helping the girl take a seat.
“Next Monday, but I’m like, hoping to have him on Friday.”
“Why Friday?”
“Because it’s a full moon and it’s the thirteenth.”
She says this in all seriousness, with an innocence that is almost as refreshing as it is scary.
I nod, as though this makes perfect sense to me too.
“How far is it to the nearest delivery room?”
“Like fifteen miles, but this time of year with the snow and the ice it’s literally going to take me an hour.”
I nod. “Induction might be the best way to go.”
She studies me and says, “You talk a bit like Forrest Gump. You’re not from round here, are you?”
“No,” I say. “No, I’m not.”
“You work for the little old man?”
“Kind of. We’re working together. I’m Dr. Mills, from South Carolina.”
“I’m Denise,” she says, “and this is my little Tina.”
“And what’s going on with your … little … Tina?”
“You tell me, Doctor Gump,” she says, reaching a hand to her lips too late, as though she is not in the least bit sorry.
But you ain’t got no legs, Lieutenant Dan .
I can’t help but laugh. I open the carrier, reach inside, and pull out a large black cat. Tina may be shy and a little frightened, but she is wonderfully compliant. She stays where I place her, pressing her many love handles flat to the metallic table. I’m guessing she weighs around twenty pounds but to be fair, there’s more to Tina than can be explained by an excess of canned tuna. I risk the same assumption twice in one day.
“Is she pregnant too?”
Denise nods. “I’m pretty sure she’s at, like, day sixty-six,” she says. “Doc Lewis told me to check back.”
Day sixty-six is the feline equivalent of nine months. I whip out my stethoscope, listen to Tina’s chest, take her temperature, gently palpate her Buddha belly. Everything seems to be in order.
Pedigree cats have a much higher risk of a difficult labor than cats of mixed breeding .
“What was that?” asks Denise.
I chance a peek under her tail—prominent genitalia but no discharge.
“Oh, nothing. What makes Doc Lewis so
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