27. Milly’s Meltdown
Milly’s Meltdown
Milly
The lock sticks. Of course it does. My keyring rattles like I’m trying to summon spirits instead of opening the Hills Burrow Veterinary Clinic, and my coffee nearly baptizes my shirt in the process.
The mug wobbles dangerously in my grip, the words—I Speak Fluent Woof, Meow, and Panic—so faded they’re more like a private inside joke than actual text.
The door finally clicks open, and the familiar cocktail of antiseptic and animal dander rushes out to greet me. Add in my stress-sweat, and it’s basically Eau de Meltdown.
Inside, the clinic looks deceptively serene in the soft morning light. I flip on the lights and immediately catch Gerald, our resident goldfish, giving me the stink-eye from the reception desk. His little castle has tipped on its side like a medieval ruin, gravel scattered across the glass floor.
“Rough night?” I lean close and tap the tank while Gerald swishes past like a disapproving landlord. “I don’t remember approving urban renewal.”
The waiting room glows in its staged perfection—coordinated leather chairs, glassy windows, sterile marble counters. A professional cleaning service keeps it sparkling, but the vibe? Less cozy small-town clinic, more bank lobby that happens to vaccinate cats.
I set my coffee on the desk, watching the steam curl like it’s trying to escape before the day begins.
My planner flops open, and the explosion of sticky notes stares back at me.
Last night, color-coding everything at midnight felt brilliant; this morning, it’s somewhere between inspired and unhinged.
Yellow means surgeries. Blue is medication inventory. Red… red is for “things that absolutely cannot explode in my face today.” Which, unfortunately, is everything.
I tug a basket of sample vials closer, already half-rehearsing how I’ll streamline today’s schedule, and realize I’ve sorted them by client and not by date. Not wrong, exactly—just not practical unless the CDC suddenly needs me to file by aesthetic.
“Morning crisis management,” I mutter, straightening the vials into neater rows. Organized chaos, emphasis on organized.
The bell above the front door chimes, and Mrs. Johnson bustles in like she’s half a heartbeat from panicking. She’s clutching Pumpernickel’s carrier to her chest.
“Milly!” she gasps, gray hair springing loose from her bun as though she’s fought a battle just getting here. She sets the carrier down on the reception desk with a thunk that makes Gerald dart for cover. “I know we’re early, but Pumpernickel’s making that sound again—you know the one.”
From inside the carrier comes a chorus of huffs and chuffs, like a miniature steam engine. Every few seconds, there’s a sharp puff. Normal sound for an overdramatic hedgehog.
I grab my stethoscope, coffee already forgotten. “Exam Room Two,” I say, pushing the door open with my hip. “Let’s get him checked in.”
Mrs. Johnson scurries after me, eyes wide with grandmotherly panic. “It started after breakfast. Or maybe during? Anyway, Martha said chamomile tea works wonders on nerves, so I?—”
I stop mid-stride and swivel to face her. “Please don’t tell me you gave him chamomile tea.”
Her guilty flush says everything.
“Mrs. Johnson…” I sigh, lifting Pumpernickel gently from his carrier. He immediately balls up, quills bristling, the hedgehog equivalent of crossing his arms and muttering under his breath. “He weighs less than your handbag. A thimble of tea to him is like a gallon to us.”
“But he seemed so anxious,” she whispers.
“Because he lives with you.” The words slip out before I can stop them, though I soften it with a smile. “Let’s check him over. And just be clear, hedgehogs are natural drama queens. They make chuff when they’re happy, sad, or angry. It’s the way they are.”
Twenty minutes later, Pumpernickel has been declared in full, dramatic health—hydrated, caffeinated, and perfectly capable of living to complain another day. Mrs. Johnson leaves armed with hedgehog dietary guidelines, hedgehog anxiety tips, and enough printed handouts to wallpaper her kitchen.
I reorganize the exam tray with quick, practiced motions. The job isn’t glamorous, but when a hedgehog who puffs like a steam engine survives a brush with herbal tea, you take the win.
“Millicent.”
Dr. Nancy’s voice cuts through the corridor, flat and bored. She’s standing at the end of the hall, clipboard hugged to her chest, white coat unbuttoned over scrubs, and her running shoes squeak faintly against the polished floor as she shifts her weight.
My stomach does a little swoop. Nothing good ever starts with my full name.
I wipe down the last of the counter in Exam Room Two and join her, rolling my shoulders back as if maybe that’ll disguise the fact that my pulse is tap-dancing.
She pivots, already walking toward her office. “We need to talk.”
Her office is glass-walled, sterile as a specimen slide. She sits, motioning for me to take the chair opposite. I sink into it, suddenly aware of how heavy my coffee mug feels in my hand.
“I’ve reviewed your numbers from last quarter,” she begins, her voice smooth and cool. “And I can’t ignore a pattern any longer.”
Numbers. Always numbers.
“You’re consistently falling short of the daily quota,” she says, flipping her clipboard open. “Last week, you saw twelve patients a day on average. The rest of the staff averaged twenty.”
I grip the edge of my mug tighter. “Because I don’t herd them through like cattle. I take time to explain, to make sure owners understand what’s going on.”
Her expression doesn’t flicker. “It’s admirable that you connect with clients.
But while you’re in the exam room walking Mrs. Johnson through a hedgehog’s emotional well-being, three other patients are waiting.
Animals who need attention too. Families who get frustrated with the wait. Do you see the issue?”
I press my lips together. I do see it. I just don’t like it. No one was on the schedule while Mrs. Johnson was here. They were walk-ins.
“You’re thorough,” she concedes, “but thoroughness without efficiency is unsustainable in this business. We are a clinic, not a counseling center.” She closes the folder with a soft snap. “Which is why I think it’s time you found a position that suits your… style better.”
My throat tightens. “You’re firing me.”
“I’m giving you the opportunity to move on,” she says, folding her hands neatly on the desk. “Somewhere that appreciates your bedside manner. Somewhere less focused on numbers.”
Her tone makes it sound like a gift. It doesn’t feel like one.
I swallow hard and keep my expression passive. Feelings were for later. Later, when I wasn’t sitting in a glass office like a specimen on a slide.
Twenty-seven minutes later, I’m outside Hills Burrow Veterinary Clinic with a cardboard box that contains the total sum of my career: three coffee mugs, two battered reference guides, and a handful of succulents I’ve kept alive out of sheer stubbornness.
The sky can’t resist adding insult to injury. Drizzle slicks the Denver sidewalk, soaking into my flats and turning the box to pulp at the corners.
I balance it against my hip and mutter, “Congratulations, Milly. Fired before ten a.m. That’s a personal best.”
“Special delivery, Dr. Thomas!”
Michael Prince, the mail carrier, is making his usual rounds, whistling something by Creed. His mailbag bounces against his side as he waves a fat manila envelope in my direction.
I shift the box and take it, rain already smudging the corner. “Please tell me this is a job offer I can’t refuse.”
Michael chuckles, his breath puffing in the chilly air. “Better. It’s from Montana. A law firm called Browne, Browne, and Associates. Looks impressive.”
The envelope is thick. My name is scrawled across the front in elegant handwriting.
I duck under the overhang of the clinic’s entryway, wedge the box between my knees, and tear open the envelope. Inside, the letterhead confirms Michael’s words: Browne, Browne, and Associates, Attorneys at Law. Everwood, Montana.
My eyes skim the text.
Dear Dr. Thomas,
We regret to inform you of the passing of your aunt, Penelope “Penny” Thomas.
There had been no funeral to fly to. Penny had planned it like she did everything: tidy, private, and stubbornly on her own terms. So very Penny.
The words tug hard at memory. Aunt Penny: purple-ink birthday cards, glitter explosions in the envelopes, chartreuse slippers at Thanksgiving.
She once mailed me a cactus with a note that read, Resilience isn’t being unbreakable, Milly.
It’s about being stubborn enough to grow anyway.
My throat tightens as I read on.
She has bequeathed to you her entire estate, including property located in Everwood, Montana, contingent upon your agreement to reside at said property for a minimum of one calendar year.
Michael leans casually on the mail cart, peering at the paperwork. “Montana, huh? I hear winters there either kill you or make you stronger. No middle ground.”
I huff a laugh, more nerves than humor. “Encouraging.”
The rain patters harder against the pavement as I tuck the papers back into the envelope. Denver traffic rushes by behind me, but suddenly, it feels a million miles away. Fired. Inherited property. Required to move to a place that, until five minutes ago, only existed in birthday-card memories.
I can still smell disinfectant under my nails, even out here in the rain.
That was the thing about being a vet: it didn’t clock out when you did.
It followed you home, sat on the edge of your bed, and asked if you’d remembered the geriatric lab’s meds.
Being a vet wasn’t just a job. It was a lifestyle that left little time for yourself.
And somewhere deep inside, against all logic, a tiny flicker of possibility starts to glow.
I stand under the overhang, the envelope trembling in my hands, the rain a steady percussion against the street.
Penny Thomas.