Page 29 of Knot So Sweet
A crash from behind us interrupts her explanation. I spin around to see Violet pressed against the wall, her face white as paper, while Whiskers' carrier lies on its side with the door hanging open.
And there, coiled in the middle of my floor, is about four feet of very confused corn snake.
"SNAKE!" Violet screams, and the sound is so piercing every animal in the building starts vocalizing in response. "OH MY GOD, THERE'S A SNAKE!"
"It's okay!" I call out, moving slowly toward the snake while Whiskers continues his indignant yowling from under thedesk where he's apparently taken refuge. "It's just Samson! He belongs to the Henderson boy!"
"SAMSON?" Violet's pitch has gone up another octave. "WHO NAMES A SNAKE SAMSON?"
"My grandson," Mrs. Henderson says calmly, apparently unbothered by the chaos. "He's supposed to be in his terrarium, but he's an escape artist."
Dr. Peters is staring at the scene with the kind of fascination usually reserved for medical anomalies. "Is this normal for your practice?"
"Unfortunately, yes," I mutter, crouching down to coax Samson into my hands. He's a beautiful snake with reddish-orange on his golden skin, and completely harmless. "Come here, buddy. Let's get you back where you belong."
Violet has climbed onto the desk chair and is eyeing Samson like he might spontaneously develop legs and chase her. "Is it poisonous?"
"Venomous," I correct automatically. "And no, corn snakes are completely harmless. They're actually great pets , because they’re easy to care for, good for teaching kids responsibility."
"I don't care if it does my taxes," Violet says firmly. "I don't like snakes."
“Okay,” I assure her, gently retrieving Samson and heading toward the terrarium setup in the back room. "Lots of people have snake phobias. It's very common."
When I return, Violet is still on the chair and Whiskers is still under the desk, apparently sulking.
“Right,” I say, clapping my hands together. "Crisis averted. Violet, how about you help me in the back today instead of reception? Sometimes it's good to ease into things gradually."
"The back?" she asks hopefully.
"Cleaning cages, organizing supplies, basic maintenance. Less chance of unexpected reptile encounters."
"That sounds perfect."
Twenty minutes later, I'm starting to question my judgment.
"Oh God," comes Violet's voice from the kennel area, followed by the unmistakable sound of retching. "Oh God, oh God, oh God."
I finish suturing a small cut on Dr. Chen's patient, a mixed breed named Charlie who got into it with a porcupine, and rushes to check on my new assistant.
I find Violet bent over a mop bucket, her face green and her smell absolutely saturated with distress. The kennel she was supposed to be cleaning, but it is recently vacated by a Great Dane with digestive issues, and sits only half-finished beside her.
“Are you alright?” I ask gently, offering her a glass of water.
"I'm so sorry," she gasps between heaves. "I thought I could handle it, but the smell... and the texture... and oh God, I think some of it splashed on my shoe."
Her smell is so sharp with nausea and embarrassment it makes my alpha instincts flare with the need to comfort her. I find myself moving closer, letting my own smell of clean cotton and chamomile begin to drift toward her in hopes it might help settle her stomach.
"Hey, it's okay," I murmur, rubbing gentle circles on her back. "Everyone has their limits. No shame in discovering cleanup after a sick Great Dane isn't your calling."
"But I need this job," she says miserably. "I can't afford to be useless."
The desperation in her words makes something ache in my chest. This isn't just about the job, but there's real fear underneath her frustration, the kind coming from having nowhere else to turn.
"You're not useless," I tell her firmly. "We just need to find the right fit. Come on, let's get you cleaned up and try something else."
I lead her to the small break room, helping her wash her hands and face while she apologizes repeatedly. Her smell is slowly returning to normal, though there's still an underlying current of anxiety making me want to wrap her in blankets and feed her something comforting.
"Feeling better?" I ask when she's settled in a chair with another glass of water.
