Chapter Three #2
She rounds back to me. “Oh, this one?” She sounds confused. “His tag said Mickey. Poor boy’s owner died a few days ago,” she says loud enough for any dog to wake up. I know because every dog in the kennel looks up to us.
Not Mickey though. He just whines in his sleep, one paw going up, before he goes back to slumber. Okay, I love him!
Miranda turns to me, her gaze assessing, a little too thorough for my comfort. “You look like you have an active lifestyle, a Rottweiler would be the perfect companion for you,” she says.
We both turn and look at the snoozing guard dog. Sure. “I’ll take him,” I declare.
By the time we finish the paperwork, we’ve discussed everything about her life. Her manchild boyfriend, her college classes, and her family back in Minnesota.
“We had a vet check him up yesterday, and everything looks good,” she assures me. “He’s caught up on all his vaccines. But you can call here anytime you need any help,” she blinks up at me.
“Thanks,” I smile as she hands me Mickey’s leash. He doesn’t seem too broken up about his interrupted sleep. I give him a few scratches, and he bounces on his feet. “Who’s the good boy! Yes, you!!”
“In fact, here’s my number, you can call me anytime. For anything,” she says, pushing a piece of paper in my hand, her gaze hopeful.
I sigh. “Miranda, what did we talk about putting ourselves in dangerous situations?” I ask, disappointed.
“But you’re a detective. You’re not dangerous,” she argues.
“I’m also almost a decade older than you,” I explain. “Repeat after me, we’re only flirting with age-appropriate non-assholes.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, old man,” she waves me off.
I laugh. “You take care of yourself and call me if you need me to beat anyone up.” I give her my card before walking back to my car.
Mickey prances beside me, the thoughts of his probably asshole previous owner already a distant memory. He’s pretty quiet in the back seat during the drive, and when I turn to check on him, he’s sleeping again. My heart soars at his cute little smile.
I realize halfway that I’m not driving back to my house at all.
Ah well, since I’ve driven all this way, I might as well get the little guy a proper check-up.
Who knows how much attention a volunteer would have given him?
Poor boy must be so traumatized. Do veterinarians also provide mental health therapy to dogs? Guess we'll find out.
I park at my usual spot. The only difference? This time, I actually get out of the car. I feel bad for waking Mickey up again, but when I open the back door, he’s already looking up at me, tongue lolling out. “Let’s introduce you to your doctor,” I tell him, scratching his ear.
He trots by me happily as we enter the nearly empty clinic. A goth girl scowls at me from the reception. “We’re not taking any walk-ins today,” she informs me.
I smile at her. “But Elliot’s still in?” I ask.
“The doctor,” she says pointedly. “Just wrapped up the last patient a few minutes ago.”
“But he needs a check-up,” I point at Mickey and then pout at her. “Just look at him.”
Mickey makes tragic faces at her. I pout harder.
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll ask him.”
“Tell him it’s his friend Nick,” I call after her as she pushes Elliot’s office door open after a cursory knock.
I kneel and pat Mickey on the head. “Good job, buddy. We’re driving straight to a pet store, and you’re getting all the treats you want,” I promise him.
I look around at Elliot’s clinic from inside for the first time. The place has the typical medical disinfectant smell, but it barely covers the animal smells. Wet fur, sweat. There hasn’t been another werewolf here, at least not recently.
I glance at the closed door again. Do I have the time to check the computer at the reception? Maybe. I’ll definitely be able to hear approaching footsteps. But frankly, I have no idea what I’m even looking for at this point.
Also, it’s not a nice thing to do. I draw the line at light stalking and illegal background checks.
A few minutes later, a citrus and sweet scent of warm skin, spicy soap, and clean cotton drifts through the air as a confused Elliot walks out of the office in loosely fitting scrubs, followed by his scowling receptionist. He looks up at me and then Mickey.
Before I can explain, Mickey barks and runs over towards Elliot.
I move quickly, trying to rein him in. But he jumps, resting his paws firmly on Elliot’s chest, and licks his face.
Elliot smiles and gently coaxes him down.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, patting Mickey, who now has all his paws back on the ground.
The smile transforms Elliot’s face completely, his dark eyes crinkle, looking brighter.
Wide pink lips turning his face into someone unrecognizable.
Cute. I realize this might be the first time I’ve seen the man smile.
I clear my throat. “I adopted him today, and he needed a vet,” I answer.
He stands up and meets my gaze. Mickey whines at the loss of attention. Wow, Elliot is really good at his job.
“You adopted a dog?” he asks, surprised.
“I can take care of a dog,” I say defensively.
Elliot looks at me and then at Mickey with pity.
“Hey.”
“When did you get him?” he asks with a deep frown between his eyebrows. I find myself missing the smile.
“A few hours ago,” I admit.
“Why?”
Wow. What does this man think of me? I’m a responsible grown-up adult who regularly does responsible grown-up shit like adopting a dog. I’m a detective for fuck’s sake. They don’t hand out this job to just anyone. “What do you mean why?”
He studies me. “I’m sorry, that was rude. Do you want me to do a routine check-up, or did the shelter say he has some specific issue?” he asks finally.
Elliot apologizing for being rude? That’s another first. Maybe I’m getting the full patient treatment.
Patient-dad treatment? “They said everything is fine, but I wanted to be a hundred percent sure,” I admit.
And maybe also find a way to get to know you better and find out if you know about werewolves.
Elliot nods. “Of course,” he says and leads Mickey towards the exam room. “That makes so much sense,” he mutters under his breath.
I snort out a laugh, but cover it up with a cough and follow them.
Inside the small room, I sit on one of the tiny stools in the corner as Elliot checks up on Mickey with different instruments. Mickey cooperates like the goodest boy he is.
I watch his large, steady, skilled hands work with clinical precision as he guides Mickey with warmth I didn’t expect him to possess. Mickey’s gaze is filled with adoration for him. Mickey looks so at peace and happy.
Then it suddenly hits me. I have a dog.
Oh, my god, how am I going to take care of him? I don’t deserve him. He would never look at me like that. He was sleeping the entire time I was around him. He chose sleep over me.
Also, I have two jobs. I don’t have any time to make him like me.
Mickey deserves so much. All the attention.
All the love. I won’t be able to give that.
What was Meena thinking? The poor pup is now stuck with me.
Miranda could have found him a better home.
Instead, he has a werewolf with no routine who juggles stalking while catching serial killers and murderers.
“Maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t have gotten Mickey. I don’t even know what he eats,” I blabber.
Elliot turns to look at me with a confused frown. That one is slightly less defined than his suspicious frown.
“Do you recommend home-cooked meals or store-bought? Also, how much exercise does he need? Will he hate me if I’m not with him at home? He would feel lonely, wouldn’t he?” I start pacing the little room.
Elliot folds his hands on his chest. The frown disappears.
“It can’t be easy to take care of an entire dog. Fuck, my house isn’t even childproof. Do you need to make a house childproof for grown dogs?”
Elliot leans back against the wall, and Mickey's head follows my movement.
“My house has so many breakable things. What if he slips and hurts himself? Oh, god, I don’t even remember what paint I used. What if he licks the wall and gets sick? I have so many knives.” I finish.
Elliot is biting his lower lip. Is he laughing at me? Because I’ll be a bad dog dad?
“Are you done?” he asks, no longer trying to hide his laugh. So much for the patient treatment.
“No, Elliot. I have a dog and knives. So many knives.”
He huffs. “Why do you have so many knives at your house?”
“Because I like to cook.” That’s an exaggeration. Seriously, why do I have so many? “That’s not the point.” What were we talking about? Oh, yeah, I’m responsible for a life now, and I’ll suck at it.
“Sit,” Elliot says, and I sit my ass down. Mickey does too.
Oh.
Elliot smirks at me. It’s still a nice smile. Will it be sleazy to tell him to smile more? Okay, yeah, I heard it.
He turns back to Mickey, resuming his work.
Mickey lolls his tongue out and pants, happy to have the attention back on him.
“You’ll be fine. Dogs just need food, attention, and exercise.
He won’t be able to reach the knives. Just don’t leave them lying around on the floor.
Ashley will give you booklets with all the information you’ll need,” he says, calmly.
It soothes me a bit, but I still wonder if I made a mistake. Camilla and Bree could have adopted him instead. I could still hand him over to them.
I look at Mickey trying to lick Elliot’s hand as he tries to work. “Yeah, booklets will be great,” I murmur.
No, I can do this. Besides, Mickey’s going to help me catch my nemesis. We’re going to make the best team, damnit.