Page 55 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
He lets out a breath of jittery laughter as he scratches the back of his reddening neck.
“The last time someone said ‘hey’ like that, it was followed with ‘we need to talk.’”
“You mean...”
“Yeah.”
“Ouch.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, you have two things working in your favor.” I pivot toward the back of the station wagon, where Aggie’s patiently waiting, mouth ajar and tongue out. “One, my dog adores you.”
“The feeling’s mutual.” He shines a full-dimpled grin at Aggie before returning his gaze to mine, stretching out the moment as he swallows, and swallows again. “And number two?”
“Number two is obvious. I’d never do anything to upset my dog.”
Everett chuckles under his breath while shaking his head at me. We both know what number two really is. I’m just not sure when I’ll get up the nerve to say it.
With that, we lift Aggie out of the car and head inside, where we’re warmly greeted and treated to a tour. The facility is bigger than I expected, with an elegant reception room equally suitable for a fancy spa, a large pool ringed with ramps and steps, a non-aquatic rehab room with rubber balls and agility equipment, and several smaller rooms where dogs can get laser therapy, massages, and acupuncture. Aggie’s fascinated by all of it—as am I—though she’s a little wary when we get to the room with the aquatic treadmill, which is just a treadmill in a plexiglass box, currently empty. She spent so much of her life confined, but she won’t be alone this time, or outside, and if she’s unhappy, we can stop anytime.
The receptionist leaves us with Georgia, the PT who will be working with us. She’s a tall, lean thirty-something Black woman with flat twists, wearing a knit shirt with the sleeves pushed up to reveal heavily inked forearms, and the kind of green rubber waders I’ve only ever seen in fishing photos. We talk through Aggie’s history and goals while Georgia examines her joints and musculature, and Aggie submits to the examination with her usual boundless patience, casting me an occasional put-upon look while I rub her ears and tell her she’s doing great.
“What do you think? Should we give it a try?” Georgia asks, and I love that she directs the question at Aggie and not at me, even while I know I’m the one who will answer.
Aggie lets out a single, cheerful bark, proving me wrong. Clearly, she’s in charge, though I support her enthusiasm with ayes, pleaseand promise Aggie we’ll be close by the whole time.
We get her onto the treadmill, with Everett luring her forward with treats and her favorite bright pink ball while I pet her headand coo reassurances. Once she’s in position, Georgia steps in and closes the door at the back of the tank. The treats do the trick and Aggie barely seems to notice she’s enclosed. She’s a little surprised when the water rises, but by the time it reaches her belly, she’s biting at bubbles and my concerns that she’d be anxious have melted away.
She spends five minutes in the tank, with Georgia guiding her back legs in an even stride and pausing the treadmill whenever Aggie needs a break. I dole out treats or nudge the ball in her direction for motivation. Everett films what I suspect is more than “a few shots,” but he does eventually cheer her on with his phone tucked away, which is good because I don’t want to get caught crying on camera and I find myself fighting back tears as Aggie smiles up at us, taking another step while looking for another treat. I’m not sure what it is about seeing her walk through water that gets me choked up. We’ve logged countless miles together by now, though I suppose I always get emotional when I see clear evidence that she’s getting stronger and more flexible, and now we have even more help to continue her progress. For a dog who was so alone for so long, her support team keeps growing. That makes me emotional, too.
While we wrap up and get Aggie dried off, Georgia praises her for being so strong and brave at her first appointment. She makes suggestions on next steps, like setting up once-a-week or every-other-week sessions, and gives me an idea of what we might see for progress over the coming months if we continue. She also mentions a few of Aqua Paws’ other services, though she’s clear that pursuing any treatment should be at the recommendation of Aggie’s vets.
Her comment echoes what I saw on the website, that the PTs here aren’t licensed veterinarians, and that clients shouldn’t expectmedical examinations and diagnoses. It also sparks my curiosity, so before we head out, I ask how Georgia got into canine physiotherapy.
“You’re a vet student, right?” she asks, and at my nod, she adds, “That’s one way to go about it. I went the physiotherapy route. Thought I’d end up working in sports medicine. The classes were great but one really rotten internship showed me it wasn’t the career I wanted, so I pivoted. Got my certification in animal rehabilitation and never looked back.” She smiles as she gives Aggie an affectionate scratch behind the ears. “You’re one step ahead of me. You already knew dogs are better than people.” She glances at Everett. “Better than most people, anyway.”
He holds up his hands in surrender.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I can’t argue that point.”
Georgia turns her smile my direction. “I believe that’s what people calla keeper.”
Yeah, I think.I’m not letting go anytime soon.
I ask Georgia a few more questions about her work, intrigued at the idea that my career might not be as linear as I’ve been thinking. I’m not sure why I hadn’t fully considered that before now, but outside of classes, my experience with vets has always been in a clinic. Scrubs. Lab coats. Exam tables. Blood samples. Vaccines. IVs. X-rays. Maybe that’s a world I’ll find fulfilling, but if it isn’t, maybe I can pivot, too, and maybe looking into other options will make me less anxious about the degree I’m pursuing.
I’m still mulling this over as we exit the building when Everett’s phone pings with a text and he pauses to check it. I wait with Aggie, watching as his brows pinch together and he fires off a reply. Another text pings, and his cheeks puff as he blows out a breath.
“Wow. Okay,” he says. “Looks like that retirement I told you about has finally been announced and the associate creative director position is opening up.”
A little spark of excitement ignites in my chest.
“That’s great, right?” I ask. “You want this?”
He stares at his phone while chewing his lip.
“I do,” he says after a long pause. “I mean... of course I do. It’s more autonomy. An actual office. A chance to help shape the company as a whole and not just individual accounts.”
