Page 15 of Home Hearts Hooves

“You’re right,” he says, glancing my way. “Nowhere in the world is better than right here.”

Chapter six

PRESTON

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

Ilookattheshirt hanging on the back of my bathroom door and contemplate throwing it on under my scrub top for the third time. But it’s warm enough today that I’d sweat right through it, and what I really should do is wash it and take it back to Dean. But it smells like him, and now my small apartment above the clinic does, too. I used a wet cloth to clean the splattering of apple pie from it, but it’s not clean. The doorbell chimes for the clinic downstairs. Shit. I’m out of time. You would think with my apartment above the vet clinic, I’d never be late, but as it turns out, it’s convinced my brain that the extra taps on the snooze button are okay because I’m just one stairwell away from work.

The bell chimes again, and I take the stairs two at a time, jog through the narrow hallway past the exam rooms, surgery spaceandgrooming area, and swing open the door to the front waiting room.

The blinds are down on the windowsandthe shade is closed tight on the door, but I grew up in this clinic, so navigating the space in the dark is a breeze.

“Good morning, Mr. Thomas,” I say, unlocking the clinic door and opening it for him to pass. Light floods the space. It’s going to be another warm day. “What can I help you with today?” I ask, turning the closed sign to open and adjusting the window blinds.

Mr. Thomas holds up the carrier.

“I think I’m allergic,” he says.

“To Fluffy?” I ask, trying not to laugh because not only has Mr. Thomas had Fluffy, his pure-white Ragdoll, for almost a decade, but he’s also currently standing in my clinic, in fur-covered clothes with no signs of allergy at all.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve had him for seven years, so the chances of you being allergic aren’t very high. I mean, I know that some people can develop allergies suddenly, but what makes you think you’re allergic to Fluffy now?” I ask, moving behind the desk and switching the laptop on.

“I have just been waking up all itchy. Oh, I’ve been sneezing a lot, too. Ahhh, choo,” he replies with an obvious fake sneeze. Mr. Thomas doesn’t have allergies. That’s the excuse he uses to drop off Fluffy when he plans to visit his daughter out of state. We offer boarding services, but for a fee, and since he retired, he doesn’t have a lot of money. His pride gets in the way of just asking if I can watch Fluffy, so we play this little game every couple of months.

“That is a shame. Okay, well, pass her over. We’ll see if we can re-home her. Maybe the Collins family would like a new pet; they said goodbye to Hoppy number five just the other day.”

“You can’t give Fluffy to the murder twins,” he declares, and I step around, collect the carrier, and set it on the counter. Fluffy is sound asleep inside, completely unfazed by our theatrics. “How about you just keep her for a littlewhile,maybe it’s a temporary thing. I’ll probably be fine in a few days, a week, I reckon, tops.”

“You think you’ll be cured of your allergy after a week?”

“Yeah, I reckon a week. I’ll see Doctor Green for something. I’m sure it will only take a week. Maybe two.”

“I guess I could watch her for a week or two, see how you go.”

“Oh, that would be great, Doc Knight. I’ll call back in about a week to pick her up.”

“You mean if you get better, you will.”

“Yeah. Umm, if I get better.”

“No problem, Mr. Thomas,” I reply, and he comes over to the carrier, leans right up against the caged door, and tells Fluffy to “be good, daddy will come get you in a week.”

No sneezing, no scratching, nothing. I roll my eyes, and once he’s out the door, I open the carrier and lift Fluffy out.

She nudges my chin with her head, rubbing against the light scruff of my three-day-old shave.

“Is your daddy going on a holiday without you again?” I ask her. She meows her reply, and I carry her back through theclinic,and up the stairs to my apartment.

“I’ll bring you some food soon,” I tell her, placing her down on the scratching post I installed the last time she came to stay. She stretches up on the post, then curls up in one of the hammocks and goes to sleep. The doorbell chimes again. Why did I decide I needed to install a speaker for it up here, too? “Well, Fluffy, it looks like it’s going to be a busy day.”

I’m not wrong either. TheStaple’sbird is pulling feathers again. Themurder twinsasMr. Thomas, and if I’m being honest, half the town calls them, came in to ask if turtles make good pets.Thankfully,theirmother shook her head behind them, so I told them that they make terrible pets, they bite and smell and poop all over the place, I said, and it stirred a little joy inside me when they scrunched up their noses and said “gross” in unison.

“I actually don’t have any pets on offer right now, but if something comes up, I’ll give your mom a call,” I tell them, and she mouths, “Thank you,” before taking both the boys’ hands.

“Come on, kids.You heard the vet,no petsavailable.Come on, I’ll get you milkshakes.”

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