Chapter 16
Dr. Brother, DVM
Jonah
There are too many plants on my property that could kill my animals.
Thelma, Louise, and the ducks can eat just about everything, but I’m worried about the dogs and Ginger.
Apparently, I have many red oak trees, and their fallen leaves are poisonous to horses.
How the hell am I supposed to watch everything she eats?
How can I sleep knowing there’s water-hemlock growing and it’s fatal to my babies?
That’s why after two days of walking around my land with my phone and a notebook in hand, scouring the internet, I’m here, at my brother’s veterinarian office with anxiety pits and the dogs in tow.
I walk through his office door one minute before they close and Kendra, the receptionist, is already packing up. Dane is fiddling with a file next to her.
He’s already annoyed, but my dogs chase away his frown when they jump up on him. “What are you doing here?”
“My land is full of dangerous, animal-killing plants, bro. I’m freaking out.” I throw my notebook on the counter and flip through the pages I’ve scrapbooked together with printed images of the offending plants and angry red exclamation points all over. “What do I do?”
He glances over to Kendra. “You can leave. I’ll finish up here and lock up.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” she says.
“What do I do?” I ask again once she’s gone.
“First of all”—he sighs, then tosses a small bit of treat to each dog—“an appointment would have been nice.”
“Okay, sure,” I rush out, eager for him to skip all the brotherly jabs and get to the answers I need.
Dane flips through the pages before he speaks. “You can always try to remove the offending plants, but many of these are stubborn and will come back year after year.”
“Shoot.”
“You can also try barricading some of them off if you find them grouped together. You could spray them with diluted vinegar solutions, but with the size of your property and the amount of vegetation you have, that’s gonna be a full-time job and still might not even guarantee your animals won’t eat them.
I once had a Labrador in here who would eat anything.
The owner tried putting hot sauce on the legs of their dining table, but he still ate it. ”
“This is not reassuring.”
“Just make sure your animals eat at the same times every day and receive physical and mental stimulation. Dogs chew things they’re not supposed to when they’re bored.”
A flashback plays in my mind of what Yogi and Rugger were like in my old rowhouse.
They literally ate the bunk beds we made them, ripped our couch to shreds, and knocked over my television while wrestling.
But they haven’t done any of that since moving to our new place in the country.
Not that I have much furniture for them to destroy anyway.
“They haven’t given me much trouble since we moved,” I say. “I take them on at least one long walk every day, and they like to run with me.”
“And with the horse and the ducks and the goats... these guys are always working.”
I suck in a deep breath for the first time since my research started and smile to myself. “The girls too.”
“The girls?” Dane asks.
“My neighbors. Professor Wilde’s daughters. The boys love them.”
Dane crosses his arms and smiles. “Hey, goat, horse, child, it doesn’t matter. Guardian dogs like this don’t discriminate. I wouldn’t worry too much. Keep ‘em busy and they probably won’t eat stuff they shouldn’t.”
“But what if they do?”
“Then you call me. Take a picture of what they ate, if you can. And if I don’t answer, call poison control. You should probably program the number in your phone, regardless.”
“And you won’t get mad if I call you?”
“If it’s about the health and safety of an animal? No.”
My arms are around him in a bear hug before I speak. “You’re the best.”
Before he can reply, a chorus of barking from down the hall echoes off the laminate floors and wood panel walls.
“Damn it,” Dane mutters as he pushes me off and heads back toward the sound. I follow him to the kennel ward where my dogs are wagging their tails and barking at a German Shepherd.
“Sorry,” I say, and hook each dog on their leash. “What’s this guy doing here?”
My brother runs his hands through his sandy brown hair and sighs. “His name is King. His owners dropped him off for a minor procedure and never came back.”
I gasp. “What? Just today?”
“About a week ago. Between the staff, we’ve been taking turns bringing him home every night to care for him.”
“What happens if they never show up?”
“We press legal charges. And if no one on our staff can take him, then he’ll have to go to the animal shelter.”
I lower myself to get a better view of King.
He’s old judging by the white around his face, but he still has that puppy-dog quality about him—like he’s always ready for a fetch and scritches behind the ear.
He can’t possibly go to an animal shelter!
Those places are all cinderblocks and noise, tough little cots and a singular sad blanket for each poor animal.
My heart hurts just thinking about King in one of those places.
“I’ll take him,” I say.
“Dude, what? You already have two.”
“So? I have the room.”
“Yeah but... he has medical needs.”
“Like what?”
“He just had a small mass removed from his chest, and he has diabetes.”
“Okay, that’s no big deal.”
Dane’s eyes widen. “No, that’s a very big deal, dude. He needs insulin injections every day. No matter what.”
“I can do that.”
“Is this what you wanna do with all your money? Start a farm?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I haven't really figured out what I wanna do yet. But... I know I can’t let this dog go to jail.”
“It’s an animal shelter.”
I roll my eyes. “Tomato potato.”
“The phrase is tomato tomahto.”
“What the fuck is a tomahto?”
“It’s about comparing two—you know what”—he throws his hands up—“Never mind. It’s not gonna help.”
“Please,” I whine. “You’ve seen how good I am with Ginger, and I had no idea how to care for a horse before I got her. I’m mature as heck now.”
“Mature as heck?”
“I’m trying not to swear. Between Ana withholding churros for swearing in front of our niece and nephews, and the Wilde girls next door, I’m trying to stop.”
My brother takes his time assessing me before looking down at King, who’s smiling in his kennel.
“I will admit,” he drawls, “you have shown some increased maturity lately.”
I remind him of the facts. “I’ve been on time for every practice this summer. I’ve been to every training facility renovation meeting, aaaand I’ve kept my mouth shut about my lottery winnings.”
That last one has been the hardest of all. I want to scream it from a mountain and buy everyone everything. I want to buy a generator and central air conditioning for Renée. Matter of fact, a whole new house would be ideal.
Dane plucks a dog treat from his scrubs pocket and feeds it to King through the metal grating of the kennel door. “Promise me you’ll give him back if he’s too much work?”
“Of course. But there’s nothing to worry about because he’s gonna be spoiled rotten.”
After the dogs become acquainted in the clinic, Dane sends me off with the new addition to my herd, diabetes medication, special food, and wound care for King’s chest. As soon as we get home, we all take a hike out back so our new buddy can scope out his new home.
King stays on his leash so he doesn’t run, which would damage his stitches, but I can tell he’s excited for the day he can run.
When the sun sinks below the treetops and the temperature drops, I take care of Ginger and the Quack Pack in the barn and leave Yogi and Rugger to their guardian business.
Once we’re inside, I give King his evening insulin injection exactly the way Dane showed me. By the time I set a recurring reminder on my phone for his morning and evening shots, King is exploring every square inch of his new home.
I take a picture of him sniffing my hand and shoot it off to the family group chat.
Jonah: Meet the newest member of the Johanssen family: King!
The texts are flying in within ten seconds.
Ivy: Look at that sweet old man face!
Angie: OMG HE’S ADORABLE
Angie: Also, WTF, another one?
Jonah: Blame Dane! He gave him to me.
Dane: He needed a new home. His last owners left him at the clinic.
Robyn: That poor angel baby!
Dad: Why does he have a cone on his head?
Jonah: He had a b9 mass removed from his chest
Rafael: B9?
Isaiah: B9?
Dane: He meant benign (non-cancerous)
Dell: You almost got yourself a proper farm, bro. All you need now is a barn cat.
Isaiah: Don’t encourage him.
Robyn: GET A CAT
I pocket my phone while the group chat blows up and search for King. When I find him upstairs in my room, he’s sniffing around a couple of unpacked moving boxes. I scratch his neck. “That smell good, buddy? Here, lemme see.”
I plop on the floor of my walk-in closet, and he does the same—curious to see what’s inside.
The first thing I pull out is the diary my mom kept for me.
The one she wrote in from the time she was pregnant with me until I turned one.
Angie didn’t let me have this physical copy until I moved in here.
She scanned each page and sent me an electronic copy that I.
.. never opened. I don’t really know why.
I was so young when she died, and I’ve always felt bad that I never had a strong connection to her like my older siblings did.
Now that I look through this box a little more, it’s all stuff Ang packed for me. Old trophies and pictures, sheet music to the first song I wrote with my brothers (long live Agony Nectar). All kinds of sentimental stuff I haven’t seen in years, if at all.
When I open the diary, there’s a pink sticky note on the first page written in my sister’s handwriting.
Congratulations on your new home, little brother. Please take good care of this. You may not find it meaningful now, but someday you will. —Angie