Chapter 4 #2
Blanket limps forward, still cautious, but the pull of something familiar overrides his suspicion. I wish I’d driven into the city. Getting him to a vet would’ve been easier that way, though I’ve never tested him in a car before.
We slowly make it a block before I spot a vet’s sign swinging over the sidewalk.
But I know Blanket. He doesn’t do doors.
I tried walking him to a shelter, and every time we hit the threshold, he grabbed the nearest thing off me and vanished like a pickpocket.
He’s no longer a four-legged escape artist in his prime, so maybe I stand a chance of keeping him under control this time.
“Come on, Blanky. You can do this.”
The tempered glass door looms ahead. He stiffens. Then comes the panic. His haunches bunch, his ears twitching. He’s ready to bolt.
“Not today.” I hook an arm around his chest and scoop him up. He kicks, but not hard enough to break free.
He whines and trembles in my arms.
“I know. I know you hate this. But it’s for your own good.”
Inside, the Chelsea practice is a different universe, with sleek white counters, glass displays of organic treats, and dogs with designer collars and coats brushed to a shine.
Blanket has no leash. He doesn’t even have manners. The second a Pomeranian yaps at him, he loses it. He leaps from my arms before I can stop him, his hackles up, teeth flashing, and a growl shaking his chest. The Pom shrieks, its owner gasps, and the whole waiting room lurches into chaos.
“Blanket, no!” I drop to my knees and clutch his scruff before he can lunge. His muscles are iron under my hands, the infection in his leg forgotten as instinct takes over.
The receptionist is already on her feet, her face pale. “Miss, you need to leave. Now.”
I press my forehead to Blanket’s, breathing hard. “Easy, boy. Easy.” Then I straighten, my shoulders squared against the stares drilling into me.
We’re shoved onto the sidewalk and threatened with a police call if I ever show my face again. Blanket’s still quaking with leftover fight, and I’m burning with a mix of humiliation and fury.
The pristine doors slam behind us, which is not surprising. But still, it’s a kick in the gut.
I glance at Blanket. He’s wagging faintly, clueless about the disaster he’s just caused and clearly relieved to be back on the street.
“You can’t do that. You just can’t,” I scold, as if he’d ever understand.
What can an angry artist and a sick stray accomplish?
I scan the block. This is what you get in this part of Chelsea. High-end retailers won’t be much help. Human hair salons would’ve been a bit more relevant if we were not dealing with injury, and Blanket’s coat was like how he was born to be with that name.
A patch of silver catches the sun.
“I’ll be damned,” I breathe.
Avelis.
If there’s ever a moment to go extreme, it’s now.
The day’s already bottomed out. And even if crashing into an ultra-luxury beauty clinic gets me arrested, it won’t compare to the noise I’m willing to make if it means saving Blanket.
“I’m gonna make this happen, Blanky. You are not living another day with that leg going bad on you. You hear me?”
He cowers behind a bin, his ribs shuddering.
“Okay, fine.” I scoop him up, ignoring the squirming. “Let’s see what Dr. Perfect does when the cameras aren’t rolling. Charity, giving back, miracles-for-the-unfortunate. Let’s find out if any of that means jack when it’s not staged.”
The stairs are hell with a panicked mutt in my arms.
“Come on, Blanket. You hate vets, right? Lucky you, he’s not a vet.”
And honestly? This isn’t even the strangest thing Manhattan’s seen before lunch. People in this city take their miniature goats to fertility specialists and their parrots to acupuncturists. A surgeon getting a surprise dog is practically tame.
At the top, I shove the glass door open with my hip.
While the vet was pristine enough for me to stare, the lobby of Avelis hits me like it’s a different reality, with its marble floors, gold trim, and velvet seating.
A wall of orchids glows under perfect lighting, and in the corner, a woman in designer sunglasses clutches her Hermès bag as though I just dragged in a corpse.
Her voice cracks. “Oh, the stench!”
The receptionist shoots out from behind the desk, sure-footed even in stilettos. Good for her. I’ve held my own in heels before. Today, attitude will do.
“Miss? Miss, you can’t bring that animal in here,” she says.
“I need to see Dr. Lockwood,” I snap, holding Blanket higher against me.
“This…isn’t a veterinary practice,” she says, her voice teetering between panic and politeness. “I can call one for you. There are several just around the corner.”
“Lockwood’s a doctor, isn’t he? Or does he only play God when it suits him?”
A male staffer rushes over, his grip closing on my arm. “Miss, you have to leave.”
I twist against him, holding my chin high. “Try me. I’ll make a scene Charles Pompeo could only dream of.”
Blanket whimpers, wriggling hard against me.
The staffer tugs harder, dragging me toward the door, but my feet plant firmly.
They think I’ll give in. Well, they have no idea.