Chapter 12
12
The next day is no-hump Wednesday, and the surgery lineup calls for a steady stream of snippety snip snips, both for patients and fosters.
I make my way through the alterations with sharp intensity, moving methodically and precisely through each one. Over lunch, my partner and I grab a quick bite at a nearby burger joint, discussing some of the more unusual ongoing cases I’ve been treating.
He’s aces when it comes to obscure and off-the-beaten-path maladies. We tackle a case of a poodle with some vision issues, and Doug suggests a treatment he heard about at the last conference he attended. When the meal is done, he taps his temple. “See? I’ve still got it going on.”
“You absolutely do. There’s no one better.”
We return to the office, and when he pushes open the door, he says offhand, “But someday soon, I’d like to retire. I have visions of playing golf and enjoying some salsa dancing with my favorite wife. Hell, maybe Sloane can give me grandchildren so I can enjoy them between tropical vacations.”
I cough so loudly and virulently, it turns into a bark.
“Let me get you some water,” Doug offers.
I wave him off. “I’m fine,” I choke out.
But really, I’m not. The thought of her having children is too much because that would require another man to win her heart.
And to fuck her.
The thought of either of those things is like an obnoxious song, grating as it loops in my head.
* * *
Sloane’s out for most of the day, but after lunch, she pops in my office wearing a huge grin. “Knock, knock?”
“Who’s there?”
She points to herself. “The most kick-ass dog rescuer in the city. I found a foster for Mr. Fox. She picked him up this morning, and she’s already sent me a few dozen photos of him for the rescue’s website. Check it out.”
She struts over to my desk and shows me the shots of the Papillion making himself at home. “One, you’re awesome. Two, he’s adorable. He looks like a Muppet.”
She beams. “That’s what I was saying earlier too.”
As she leaves, I flash back to the conversation with Doug from lunch. Yup, the prospect of her with someone else hits all kinds of wrong notes.
* * *
As the workday winds to its end, I stroll through the cages for the post-op visits, checking out the kitties and pups we spayed today. All are doing well, and I make my final stop at an orange kitten who hangs his head low.
“Hey, Apricat. You doing okay?”
Meow.
“You’re a little woozy,” I say as the kitty stumbles toward the cage door.
Another abject mewl falls from his lips. After unlocking the cage, I scoop up the little dude.
“You’re just a little lighter, Apricat. It’s like you went to the seamstress and had your birthday suit tailored. You’re going to be fine in no time.”
The sweet little guy rubs his head against me, a purr daring to escape from his chest.
“That’s right. Your foster is on her way. You’ll go home in a few more minutes, just like the song.”
I lower my voice, singing to the forlorn feline. “ When you're gone, I’m worried all day long. Baby won't you please come home. ”
“Something you just make up on the spot?”
I turn around. Sloane’s leaning against the wall, grinning. Has she been watching the whole time?
“Because that first line especially sounded vaguely familiar,” she continues.
And that’d be a yes.
“It’s ‘Baby Won’t You Please Come Home.’ Charles Warfield and Clarence Williams. 1919. A very oldie, but very goodie. Ella Fitzgerald covered it. So did Sam Cooke and a lot of others.”
“I bet that makes all the kitties swoon.” Her grin is borderline flirty, telling me she enjoyed the impromptu show.
Still, I play it cool, like I’m not a total softie, even though she’s clearly figuring that out. “I’ve been known to make a cat purr with my pipes.”
“So you sing to the cats?”
Be tough. Be a lion. You’re a badass alpha male.
“I can soothe even the most ferocious feline,” I say like a play-brag even though it’s the whole truth and nothing but.
“He can. And he does. I caught it on camera,” Jonathan says as he pokes his head around the corner.
I sigh as I pet the kitty’s chin. “You went Candid Camera ?”
“Oh, c’mon. You’ve been singing to the cats for years, Dr. Goodman. This isn’t the first time I’ve got it on video. It’s too cute not to capture.”
“Do you have a secret stash of videos of me?”
“Yeah, a private collection,” he jokes. “How will I ever bribe you someday if I don’t have them?”
Sloane glances at Jonathan, and a seed of an idea seems to cross her features. “Since Apricat is one of the rescue’s cats, could I post that clip on our feed? It would help him get adopted,” she says, dangling that little nugget before me.
“You so have to,” Jonathan says, nudging me but keeping his eyes on Sloane. “I hereby grant you permission.”
I pat my chest. “Hello? Isn’t the permission mine to grant?”
Jonathan waves me off. “You’re singing old standards to a cat. It’s not like you’re singing Panic! at the Disco. I feel like that’s the permission slip.”
I laugh and gently scoot Apricat back into his cage. “Fine, go ahead. It’s not like it’s going to ruin my street cred or anything.”
“That’s right.” Jonathan makes his way toward the front desk, calling back, “You’d have to have some first for that to happen.”
* * *
The fat white ball soars over the field majestically, rising higher until it drops into the great beyond. I pump a fist, and my teammates holler from the bench as I round the bases in the softball game that happens to fall on a Friday evening this week. As I cross the plate, my buddy Jason is waiting with a high five, and so is my cousin Nick.
“It’s about time,” Nick remarks, smacking my palm.
“If memory serves, I hit a homer the other week too.”
“Eventually you’ll learn to knock home runs in every single game, like I do.”
He’s not wrong. Nick Hammer is pretty much the gold standard when it comes to home runs, but I think I’m pretty damn close.
Jason scoffs. “What’s truly impressive is when a lad from the mean streets of London can knock ’em all in. And I do my fair bit occasionally.”
I laugh as we head to our bench. “Pretty sure you weren’t exactly raised in the slums of your nation’s capital.”
“I had a right rough time.”
“You’re from freaking Notting Hill.”
Jason scoffs. “Please don’t let that load of crap get around. I was raised on the wrong side of the river. All that street fighting I had to do toughened me up.”
“Wait.” The pieces clicked and the light dawned. “This is one of your backstories, isn’t it?”
“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t.” Jason has a closetful of identities, and he wears different ones for his job.
“Well, if it’s true, it’s a wonder you’re not better at jujitsu, then,” I say then point at Nick. “Speaking of, did you hear his sister-in-law wants you to do a tournament?” Nick’s brother, also my cousin of course, is married to Natalie.
“She mentioned it. But I’m usually booked on weekends,” Jason says.
Nick raises an imaginary violin and speaks in an imitation of Jason’s British accent. “Woe is me, lads. It’s so rough being a secret operative at fancy weddings, where I pick up women every single Saturday night.”
“It’s a tough job, no doubt, but someone has to be a best man for hire,” Jason quips as the three of us head back to the field.
When the game ends, we head out of the park, chatting about work as we go, catching up on the TV shows Nick helms. The man is a wildly successful cartoonist who’s created several successful late-night animated TV shows.
Nick smacks his forehead. “I almost forgot. I posted that video of you on my show’s Facebook page and Instagram feed.”
“One of me at Gin Joint?” I try to remember when Truly last shot a video.
“No. The one of you singing to the orange cat.”
“Oh yes, wasn’t that the dog’s bollocks? Your sister sent it to us so we could have a laugh,” Jason says.
“Thanks. Glad you enjoyed it. Be sure to tip the barkeep on the way out.”
“Anyway,” Nick interjects as we turn onto Fifth Avenue, “I called it The Singing Vet . And it did crazy well. Tons of views and shares.”
I furrow my brow. That was the last thing I expected him to say. “It’s odd sometimes, what people want to watch online.”
Jason strokes his stubbled jaw as if deep in thought. “It is bizarre, especially considering the obvious issue.”
“What’s that?” Nick asks.
Jason shrugs helplessly. “The fact that Malone’s so damn ugly.”
“Yeah, that’s true.” Nick sighs heavily. “I guess I can’t cast you in a new web series called The Singing Vet .”
“It’s okay. I understand how jealousy works. It’s hard for both of you to be around such a supreme specimen,” I say with a wink.
“And a humble one too,” Jason adds.
“Just like you.”
Nick pushes his glasses up the slope of his nose. “Seriously, though, the video did well. It doesn’t hurt that there’s a hot woman in it. The one who talks to you about the song.”
A Pavlovian reaction kicks in at the mention of Sloane. My senses heighten. My mouth waters. And my brain slides an image of her front and center. “That’s Sloane.”
Nick snaps his fingers. “Yeah, the camera loves her. I mentioned her rescue when I posted it. Who knows? Maybe it’ll raise some awareness for your practice and her rescue.”
When Sloane texts me later that evening, I learn it’s done more than raise awareness.