Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Rhys
“Welcome to another episode of Follow the Vet,” I greet the camera. “Today we’ll be meeting some patients during morning rounds, and Noah will tell you more about the dogs entering our adoption program. But first, we have Poppy here with her owner, Gladys, for an update on her surgery.”
I smile directly at the camera for four seconds before the director, Stan, calls cut, and we stop recording.
This is becoming all about Noah, and I don’t actually mind.
Before, I was the face of the practice, introducing our patients and their treatments; now I’m the face of the show, introducing Noah, and whichever dog he’s chosen to feature.
The audience will be more interested in Noah than an old dog with kidney issues, and that's fine by me, because I'm more interested in Noah too.
I navigate around the cameras and the cables, finding filming days actually fit my controlling nature far better than days when the surgery is open. The film crew run about, and my staff are directed into position and scripted for the next scene, but my role feels perfectly organized.
“Okay, Dr Calder. Could we have you in the kennels giving an update on Toffee and her puppies? The audience has been following her since day one.”
I can do that, moving to my position where Noah is waiting. He's standing perfectly still while our hair and makeup team fusses around him.
“Don't forget to check his pockets,” I joke. “Always finding puppies asleep in there.”
“Traitor,” he calls back. “It was just the one time.”
One time he got caught. It seems he's still struggling to let Honey nurse all twelve pups. Either he’s got the runts tucked away to keep them warm, or he’s taken the biggest so the smaller pups can get to the milk.
“Are we ready?” The producer calls, entering the kennels.
“Yes, we are.” I look at Noah, waiting for his nod of agreement.
“Perfect.” Stan replies. “We want to focus on Toffee, and her feelings about being here. Being saved, awaiting adoption. We need to mention the open weekend and adoption process for the end of the month. The website has interest forms and profiles for all the dogs evaluated as eligible for adoption.”
“Toffee's feelings?” Noah frowns, standing up slowly. “She's gone from her kennel where she has enough room to walk around and can take herself outside to pee whenever she wants, to being trapped in a tiny box where strangers walk past her all the time. Is that what you want me to say?”
“Yes,” I answer, jumping in faster than Stan. “Don't make her sound depressing, and stress that we understand this and are doing everything in our power to help her through. Then mention the barn where we're actively building them something better. Viewers can donate to the project on the website.”
“Uh, yeah, sure.” Stan nods. “Just remember every time you say a negative thing, you say a positive right after.”
“So I can say she's stressed by so many strangers walking back and forth through the kennels as long as I say everyone is minimizing the stress by moving slowly and always addressing her by name so she can get used to them?”
“Exactly. You're a quick learner.”
I smile at Stan’s praise. It was aimed at Noah, but I’m the one who set all of this up, bringing Noah and the dogs here. Even if I can't take the credit, I can enjoy it.
“Right. Dr. Calder, we'll count you in three…two…one.”
“Now folks, we come to the section of the show I know you all love as much as I do.” I turn further into the kennels.
“As you know, we've been housing all the nursing mothers from the puppy farm here, so we need to keep the kennels calm and quiet. And here he is, Noah Humphries, with our daily doggie update.”
Noah thanks me for the introduction and starts into his piece.
He talks to me, but aims his words at the camera, now over my shoulder.
He speaks perfectly. No added ums and ahs as his mouth and brain try to keep pace with each other.
It’s the main reason Chloe has been told to keep quiet on camera.
Every other word out of her mouth is filler.
After a summary of the last twenty-four hours of Toffee's uneventful life, Noah stops talking and kneels down to open the kennel.
He mentioned it all, how cramped Toffee is, unable to leave her pups to stretch at will, relying on us to offer those breaks.
He mentioned the barn and the larger kennels we're building, stressing the donation link as a lifeline to our vital work.
As he opens the kennel door, Toffee stands, tail thumping against the back wall with a tinny sound.
The moment the door opens, she rushes out to greet everyone, leaving Noah to grab the pups that tumble around their bed.
Chloe, who is also sitting ready on the floor, is the first target.
Toffee plops down in her lap for compulsory strokes.
It's this affectionate nature that has made Toffee as much of a fan favorite as Noah is.
Noah holds up each puppy, effortlessly finding the ideal camera angle.
Bertie is easy to recognize with his pure white face and bright pink nose, but he's the only one I can pick out instantly.
Noah gives them the necessary weight check, then hands them to me for an unnecessary health check right under the camera's gaze.
Today, we're doing something different. Chloe takes Toffee on a little walk while Noah and I move to the next kennel.
Toffee's friendly nature makes her the perfect case study, and all her puppies have an adoption waiting list as long as my arm.
We need to turn the attention to the oldest litter, the ones who don't come with an eight-week wait.
“We have a treat for you this week. This litter of eight-week-old puppies has been staying in our large pens on the farm animal side of the practice, but today, we're going to introduce you to each of them.”
I open the door to the large kennel at the end, struggling to navigate over the dozens of tiny puppy feet instantly around my ankles. I sit down, facing towards the door and the waiting camera, and let the puppies bundle on me with excited yaps.
“These energetic guys will be available for adoption on the website from Saturday.” Noah informs the camera as we effortlessly switch roles.
“Remember, the moms are being adopted out to forever homes for voluntary donations, but for the puppies we’re asking for a fixed donation fee, all funds going towards ongoing expenses related to puppy farming and our ongoing project to raise awareness.
” Noah really knows how to get the money flowing.
The viewers look at me and see a successful vet, making lots of money, and they're right.
They don't see a man who needs them to open their wallets and fund my expansion projects.
But Noah, standing there in exactly the same clothes, using exactly the same expensive body wash, can plead with their heartstrings and get thousands of pounds in donations with each smile he flashes at the camera.
All the time he's talking, I focus on the puppies, and Noah gives a play-by-play commentary.
“The puppy chewing on Dr Calder's fingers is Heron. He's a beautiful black and white spaniel, like his mother, Sizzle. Eight-week-old puppies are at the chewy stage, so mind your slippers if you fill in an interest form for these guys. But don't worry, the biting stage doesn't last for long.”
I react to his words by grabbing a rope chew for Heron, playing a little game of tug until he gets bored.
“All the toys you see here are for sale on our website. Everything here is for sale, except Dr. Calder.” Noah turns to the camera for a brief moment, pulling a sad face.
“I know, I know. We'd all want to invite our favorite vet over for tea and cake, but unfortunately for us, he is far too busy saving lives.
You'll have to make do with me, because I will be checking in personally with every one of these wonderful pups.” His voice drops to a low, conspiratorial tone, “Tea, white, no sugar.”
He's a cheeky little sod, but the film studio is paying him ￡200 per home visit, so the little con-artist is just getting more of them to say yes to his naturally flirty nature.
After an exhausting thirty minutes playing with puppies, my butt is cold and sore. But Noah has introduced them all and done his best to sell them to the nation.
“And we're done.” Stan calls.
Thank goodness. I jump up at the exact moment Noah steps forward, and we both freeze, barely centimeters apart. Neither of us move, caught in the other's stare.
“We should have kept rolling,” Stan chuckles, “started a feature called ‘Fall for the Vet’, the ratings would be through the roof.”
Noah flushes bright red before slipping around me to turn those devoted eyes on something much more worthy.
“Let's hope we have a few applications for these guys.” Not just because they deserve happy lives, or so I can get my large animal pens back before lambing season, but so there’s less competition for space inside Noah’s heart.