Page 3 of Fool Moon First Aid

Cold, as usual.

Suddenly, a piercing scream ricochets through the clinic, shattering the last vestiges of my indecision. “Looks like it’s going to be another late night, Bean,” I murmur to the nosy corn snake, who’s peeking out of her smooth, speckled rock with curious, glinting eyes. She surveys the scene—me, then the chaos beyond the door—before gracefully slithering back under her shelter, clearly deciding napping trumps drama. “Same, girl, same.”

Eloise’s plea escalates to a crescendo. “Boomer!” she bellows with renewed vigor. I can hear the dog’s owner too, her voice a blend of exasperation and futile calmness. Memories rise of when I recommended an exemplary dog trainer to Boomer’s well-meaning but naïve parents. They laughed off my concerns about his growing size and blossoming stubborn streak, a decision they now regret, if the yells I hear are any indication.

With a sense of urgency, I rise, my movements brisk and decisive. Shrugging off my lab coat, I stride through the clinic, the labyrinth of corridors familiar and comforting. I take the staff-only route, briskly navigating the maze until I reach the chaotic heart of the clinic. When I fling open the sliding door, the scene unfolds like a comedic tableau—Eloise, arms flailing in a dance of desperation, trying to coax Boomer onto the scale, and his owner, a whirlwind of frizzy hair and frazzled nerves, standing helplessly by. Exhaustion and defeat appear on both women’s faces.

“Dr. Martinez,” the owner says, her relief palpable as her stormy blue eyes meet mine. “I am so glad you’re here.” Her name dances just beyond the edges of my memory, elusive as ever. I remember pets’ names, habits, and the subtle nuances in their barks and purrs with ease. Their owners, however, are an entirely different challenge.

My gaze shifts to Boomer. His tongue lolls out in a carefree droop, and his eyes twinkle with a blend of innocence and impishness. “Boomer,” I call, injecting a blend of reprimand and affection into my tone. I square my shoulders, prop my hands on my hips, and give him a look that’s part motherliness, part drill sergeant. “Step on the scale.” In a surprising display of obedience, he gingerly steps onto the scale, his bulky frame graceful, then he turns to me expectantly, as though expecting a gold star for his minimal effort. His behavior is an unspoken challenge within our own little power struggle. Despite his tender age, Boomer’s spirit mirrors the warnings I voiced.

While Eloise busies herself with the clinical details, I engage in a more primal contest with Boomer—a silent assertion of wills. It’s an amusing battle, considering the debunked myth of the alpha dog, particularly in the realm of shifters, but in the nuanced dynamics of wolf packs, such hierarchies are mere folklore.

Alphas are rare. They are a spiritkin that can inflict their power on others, and not all spiritkin hold that power, only a select few.

“One hundred and thirty pounds,” Eloise announces, her voice tinged with disbelief, shattering the silent standoff.

I click my tongue in mock disapproval, my eyes softening despite my stern front. “Boomer, you’ve been raiding the neighborhood snack stash again, haven’t you?” Flashbacks of his previous escapades—filching treats from unsuspecting kids while escorting them to the bus stop—flood my mind. The saga reached a climax when a parent appeared at his owner’s doorstep, bewildered by the trove of Oreos, chips, and gummy worms amassed by this furry bandit. They discovered the hoard after questioning Boomer’s owner. She went to his little doghouse out back and found his secret stash of goodies.

Honestly, I have a very similar stash in my nightstand, hidden in the secret compartment. My grandfather is a carpenter and loves hidden drawers. They’re perfect for a late-night candy stash.

Boomer’s response is a low, almost conversational grumble, as if he’s arguing his case in doggy court. “It’s time to find that hidden willpower of yours,” I chide gently, “which is probably buried beneath all that fluffy fur.”

His mother’s voice, laced with a cocktail of defeat and confusion, cuts through the room. “He gained weight?” she asks. “I even changed the locks. How is he still escaping?”

“He has,” Eloise confirms, her tone clinical yet sympathetic. “Five pounds.”

“All right,” I say, holding Boomer’s gaze, our silent battle of wills reaching a crescendo. “How about we add an extra walk each day? Maybe there’s a little one out there who could use a big, brave guardian like you.”

Boomer’s response is a proud, protective bark, his chest swelling slightly as he embraces the role of a furry sentinel.

I turn to his mother with a practical solution in mind. “Have you considered installing an indoor camera? I’m curious about his Houdini-esque escapades.”

“It’s arriving tomorrow.” Her sigh is a blend of weariness and anticipation. “So we’re scheduling another weigh-in next month?” she inquires.

“Indeed,” I reply Boomer’s expression seems to flicker with a hint of canine contrition. “We need to stabilize his weight to prevent health issues, like diabetes.”

Boomer barks, a sound that, despite the lack of a common language, conveys a mixture of acknowledgment and mild protest.

“You’re all set to go,” I tell his owner, her name still an enigma to me. “Eloise will schedule next month’s appointment.” As a parting gesture, I ruffle Boomer’s fur, eliciting a lazy, contented lick from him.

“I don’t know how you do it,” his owner marvels, her eyes wide with admiration. “You’re the only one he listens to, and you’re so…” She gestures toward me, searching for the right words.

“Small?” I supply helpfully.

“Yes!” she exclaims with a relieved smile.

“I prefer fun-sized,” I respond with a playful wink as I make my way back to the staff corridor, the door closing behind me with a soft click. She isn’t wrong. At five-two, my stature is modest, but my presence—a whirlwind of curves, flowing brown hair that never quite stays in place, and a heritage rich in Spanish culture—leaves its own mark.

Dogs always listen to me, cats too, although they often express their reluctance with a symphony of meows and hisses. It’s like pets tune in when I speak directly to them, their ears perking up and eyes focusing. This gift, my unique connection with animals, is the very reason I ventured into the world of veterinary science, despite my apprehension about the endless years of academia. Initially, the thought of sitting through long lectures and studying into the night was almost unbearable, but something shifted during the clinical rotations. Suddenly, the world of animal care came alive for me. Before I knew it, I was not just getting by, I was thriving, graduating a year early, which was a feat that surprised everyone, myself most of all.

I tread softly down the dimly lit hallway, its walls adorned with faded pictures of animals I’ve treated over the years. Each step is careful and deliberate as I peek into the shelter area. I make it a ritual to ensure no pet accidentally remains behind at the end of the day, particularly after that unforgettable incident when a forgotten pet resulted in a confrontation with an irate owner. She had every right to be upset, though her demeanor was less than pleasant, hence our strict adherence to pickup hours.

Honestly, the human aspect can be the most challenging part of my job. Sometimes, handling pet owners feels like navigating a minefield. They can be unreasonably demanding, making me daydream about drastic escape plans.

Why must people be so perplexing?

Feeling reassured that it’s just us in the clinic, I make my way back to my office. Upon entering, I discover that Bean, my mischievous corn snake, decided against her usual nap. Instead, she embarked on one of her impromptu adventures.

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