Page 3 of A Cuddly Christmas
“We don’t need his business. We do just fine without it,” I huff, tugging on my overall straps.
“I’m only teasing, but you’re awfully touchy about it.”
“The man orders every day,” I point out.
“I’m sure he’s doing a small project on the place. If you want me to take it, I can. You can stay here in the store."
"I’ve got it,” I mutter, making him laugh. “Quit trying to take my job."
"I promise you, Tills, you're irreplaceable."
"One of a kind, really," I joke back.
I should add that to my dating profile.
Chapter Two
PAXTON
“He’s dead,” Mrs. Gentry wails, and my vet tech Wyatt closes the exam room door.
“Mrs. Gentry, if you?—”
“Oh god, he’s really dead,” she sobs and falls into the chair behind her dramatically.
“Mrs. Gentry, if you’d let me finish?—”
“My poor baby Earl! What am I going to do without him?” I start to talk again, but she cries louder. “He’s my best friend in the whole world.”
“HE’S NOT DEAD!” I shout, but when I do, it’s the exact moment Mrs. Gentry was taking a deep breath so now I’m the only one screaming in the quiet room. “Sorry,” I say and clear my throat. “Earl is not dead. He’s just playing, well, possum.”
“What?” She blinks at me and then at the possum in my hands.
“That’s where the phrase comes from. You’ve heard of playing possum, right?” She shakes her head, and Wyatt ducks his head to hide his smile. “It’s when someone, or in this case, an animal plays dead but isn’t really dead.”
“Are you sure? Because he looks really, really dead,” Mrs. Gentry says as she gets up from the chair and walks closer.
“Yep, I can feel his heartbeat and see him breathing.” Looking down at Earl, he does appear to be dead, but possums are good at faking it. His eyes are wide open, and he’s not blinking, and his mouth is open with his tongue hanging out. “There’s also another way to check.”
I reach under the table, and as soon as Earl sees the treat bag, he comes to life.
“My baby!” Mrs. Gentry wails, this time with relief instead of doom.
Earl immediately plays dead again, and I realize that his owner is stressing him into this behavior. I nod to Wyatt, and he goes to grab the pamphlet I want without me having to say which one.
“Mrs. Gentry, I know that you have a license to own a possum, but it might be helpful if you took our exotic pet class to maybe familiarize yourself with how to care for Earl. That way, you don’t scare him into playing possum so often.”
“Oh,” she says and immediately stops crying. “Maybe that would be a good idea.”
“Thank you, Wyatt,” I say when he comes back and hands her the pamphlet. “Wyatt is going to get you all checked out and let you know when the next class is.”
“Thank you, Dr. Rudolph. You’re an angel for saving my sweet Earl.”
I give the possum a treat before passing him back to Mrs. Gentry. “Again, he wasn’t dead.”
“Well, you saved him. That’s all that matters.”
“Okay,” I tell her, because what else could I possibly say?
