Page 65 of The Twelve Days of Christian
Here in the present, I’m still basking in the afterglow of last night. Yeah, the present is pretty good. It’s what the future holds for me and Christian that causes an unsettling churning in my stomach. In three days’ time, he’ll leave. I want so badly to believe his assurance thisisn’tjust a quick fling; over the moment we both go back to our real lives outside this odd bubble. Although I can’t help but worry. Now he’s satisfied his curiosity, sated his unrequited longing for me, will his fascination with me wane?
And then there’s the dangerous whirlpool of anger and despair that threatens to capture me whenever I think of theWild For The Winsituation. We managed to put Rachel’s crushing news aside yesterday. The enjoyment of our trip to the gardens, and our enjoyment of each other’s bodies, pushed it into the background for a while. But here, in the reality of the clinic, it all comes charging back. With my hopes for both Christian and the rescue dashed, the disappointment threatens to drag me down.
“Sorry.” I offer Alice an apologetic smile and hustle towards the woman. It’s Lilian, one of my favourite clients and a long term foster parent, one of the people who are the backbone of rescue. She beams at me and I scoop her into a one-armed hug while thepuppy between us nuzzles at my neck. I breathe his sweet puppy smell mingled with Lilian’s spicy perfume.
“Good to see you, Lilian,” I murmur. “And you too, Kona, you little troublemaker.” The pup’s mouth falls wide, laughing, as I tickle his chin. “How’re you coping Jensen?”
The black lab swivels his head and I swear he rolls his eyes at me as if to say, “What doyouthink?” He’s such a trooper, tolerating the regular interlopers his mama invites into their home. I take them through to the exam room, and Lilian places Kona on the table where he rolls on his back, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“He’s looking good, Lilian.” He bats at my hand with a playful paw.
“Isn’t he?”
She beams with pride at the magic she’s worked on him; her and Dana, our vet, whose surgical skill intervened when euthanasia was the only other option.
“You’d never know what a rough start you had, little man.” We’re having a game of tag, my fingers patting his playful paw and him trying to catch my hand in return. Kona is one of the ‘Coffee Litter’, all named for varieties of coffee beans and brews, each a different shade of brown, with dashes of creamy white. Kona’s coat is a velvety caramel latte, and his eyes a strong espresso, their dark liquid depths glinting with mischief. This little guy is one of the lucky ones, rescued from an abusive home by one of our incredible animal warriors, people who bravely go into situations most would shy away from. As I stroke his tummy, as soft and pink as a peony petal, I wonder if there is a woman and children in that household who need rescuing, too. It’s one thing Loreena shared that I can’t get off my mind.
“You and Jensen have done such a good job, as always.”
I pat the head of the labrador sitting patiently beside us. Hearing his name, he smiles up at me. Jensen is amazing the way he mothers these wee scraps who invade his home, teaching them how to be a good boy like him.
“You should see this little monster run,” Lilian says. “So damn quick, even on three legs. Especially when he doesn’t want to come in from the yard. Catch me if you can, and sometimes I can’t,” she laughs.
Kona has been a tripod for much of his short life. Even as a vet nurse, I knew, looking at the x-rays of his shattered leg, there was no saving it. Crushed, bashed—who knows how it happened—there was no way even a capable surgeon like Dana could fix multiple breaks or deal with the tiny shards of bone drifting inside.
As if to emphasise how quick he is, Kona leaps to his feet and does a little three-legged dance in front of me. My delight at his happiness is still tinged with sadness at what he had to go through. Pain and distress are gone now, but still there are the memories; and a lifetime compromised by the damage done. Like Christian’s dog, Jet.
As I watch him twirling on his three legs, stumbling a little, his clumsiness not just a puppy’s lack of coordination, an idea comes to mind. What if those bastards atWild For The Wincould see the sort of damage a snare does? Would they be so blasé about it, then?
“Lilian,” I say, “would you mind if I took Kona for a few hours? There’s someone I’d like to meet him.”
“Sure,” she says, her smile bright. I feel bad, hearing the hope in her voice. All foster parents want their charges to meet potential adopters. I doubt this meet and greet will result in a home for sweet little Kona. However, it could still do some good in the world. “Evenif it doesn’t get him adopted, being out and about is so good for his socialisation.”
She’s right. Hearing her words, I don’t feel quite so bad. “OK, I’ll give you a call,” I say, wondering how I can beg for a few hours off.
“Today would work,” she suggests. “If it suits you. I could leave him with you now? Pick him up later on?”
“Really?” Perhaps this is a sign from the universe my sudden crazy plan isn’t so crazy at all. “Let me see what I can do.”
I step back out into the waiting room. Dana is still talking over a prescription for her previous patient, a frosty-faced senior Staffie with back legs buckled by arthritis. I slip past, sharing a smile with her owner, an elderly man with similarly bowed legs who leans on a stick, bright eyes framed in a crinkled leathery face, intent on Dana’s instructions. Behind the reception desk, I bail up Alice.
“How’s the afternoon looking?”
She taps at her screen.
“A break in the traffic, thank goodness.” She hums to herself, sliding a finger down the list of appointment slots. “Nothing much now until three-thirty, then solid till five.”
It’s twelve-thirty. I get my thirty-minute lunch break after we finish with Kona.
“Could Dana manage without me?” I venture. “Just for a couple of hours? It’s something important.”
“Is it something that will give me back the real Haley? Not the imposter who turned up in her place this morning?”
“Yes,” I nod.
Her veiled criticism is fair enough, but Alice’s furrowed brow and thin lips mask genuine concern. She’s such a softie, motheringeveryone who walks in the door, including the staff. She knows there’s a reason for my unusual vagueness, and she’s worried.
“Good, then do it,” she huffs.
