3. Brendan #3
“You’ll want to get him fully vaccinated. He’ll also need a round of deworming and flea prevention. I’d recommend a wellness visit every three weeks for the first few months.”
“Every three weeks?” Adrian repeated.
“It goes fast,” I said. “He’ll be six months old before you know it.”
“Six months.” He watched Mofongo attempt the table edge again. “He’s going to be bigger.”
I smiled and nodded. “Oh, yes.”
“How much bigger?”
“Beagle mixes typically get to about twenty-five or thirty pounds. He won’t be a massive beast, but he’ll be a lot bigger than what you see now.”
Adrian looked at Mofongo.
Mofongo looked at him.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. That’s fine. I can do that.”
“He’s going to be great,” I said.
Adrian looked at me.
“First dogs are terrifying,” I said. “But only for the first week—then they’re just your dog.”
Something in Adrian’s expression shifted, a small settling of someone receiving exactly the confirmation they needed. “Yeah?”
“I have a ferret,” I said. “In that first week, I took his temperature four times because I was convinced something was wrong.”
“Was something wrong?”
“He was fine. I was the problem.” Without thinking, I reached over and put my hand on Adrian’s arm. “Owners usually are. Pets adapt and learn, but owners are stubborn.”
Adrian grinned, then his eyes drifted down to where my hand was still on his warm, smooth skin.
I jerked back.
His smile widened.
Mofongo had given up on the table edge and was now sitting in the center of the metal slab with all the dignity a puppy could muster, looking between us with the attentive expression of a dog following a tennis match.
“He’s listening,” Adrian said.
“He’s eight weeks old,” I said.
“He’s smart,” Adrian said, with complete certainty. “You can tell already.”
Mofongo sneezed again, lost his balance, recovered, and sat back up with his dignity still somewhat intact.
“He’s very smart,” I said.
Adrian reached over and picked him up. Mofongo immediately went for his chin again. Adrian submitted and was quickly slathered in puppy slobber.
“Same time next week?” Adrian said, looking at me over the top of Mofongo’s head.
“Three weeks,” I said. “For his first vaccines.”
“Three weeks,” he said in the same way he’d said, “Okay,” earlier, like he was putting it somewhere specific. “Good.”
I walked them out to Marcus, who took one look at Mofongo and lost approximately forty percent of his professional composure, which for Marcus was seismic.
“Can I—” His hand was almost petting Mofongo’s ear, but he stopped and pulled back. “He’s very healthy looking.”
“His name is Mofongo,” Adrian said.
Marcus smiled. “That’s a good name.”
“Thank you,” Adrian said, like he’d been waiting for someone to say so. “My grandmother is going to love that someone agrees with her.”
Adrian settled his bill with Marcus, tucked Mofongo back against his chest, and looked at me once more from the doorway.
“Thanks, Doc,” he said.
“Brendan,” I said.
“Brendan,” he said, flashing another brilliant smile before stepping through the glass front door. Mofongo’s small face watched me from over his shoulder until they vanished into the parking lot.
Marcus and I stood at the front desk in silence for a moment.
“Thanks for staying late. See you tomorrow?”
“Same bat-time, same bat-channel,” Marcus said with a mock salute.
I walked back to my office and sat, mentally preparing to resume notating charts. Before I could even pick up my pen, Diane appeared in the doorway. She had her bag slung over her shoulder and her keys in her hand.
“Good night, Dr. Davis,” she said.
“Good night, Diane.”
“Go home sometime before midnight. You’re only young once.”
“Yes, Mom.”
She flicked me the bird and left.
God, I loved my team.
Puck was at the door before I had it open. He climbed onto my arm, settled on my shoulder, and dook’d with intent.
“Rough day,” I said, carrying him to the kitchen. “Good ending though.”
He made a quiet sound.
Gerald was on the windowsill in his correct spot. I checked his soil. He looked good, exactly as he always looked.
“There was a puppy,” I said to Puck. “It was eight weeks old, a beagle mix.” Puck chittered. “His name is Mofongo.”
Gerald said nothing, which was his standard position.
“The owner was—” I stopped.
Puck blinked at me.
“He’s coming back in three weeks,” I said.
Puck dook’d once.
I fed him, watered Gerald, and ate leftovers for dinner standing up at the island, because Alan wasn’t there to have anything snarky to say about it.
Puck stood at the edge of the counter, watching and judging as all ferrets did.
“What? Fine. Yes, he was hot.”
Dook.
“No, I didn’t get his number. I’m a professional. I mean, technically, I have his number. It’s in the system. But it would be unethical for me to use a number given by a patient for personal reasons.”
Dook. Dook.
I set my fork down and squinted at my stubborn pet.
“I’ll see him for the next checkup in three weeks. There’s no need to go crazy.”
Puck shuffled forward, then sat on his haunches a few inches from my plate. He glanced at my plate, then up at me and dook’d three times in rapid succession.
I blew out a sigh. “Fine, I’ll go back to the bar.”
I swear Puck raised an eyebrow and grinned.