Chapter 7 Liam #3
"Yes, absolutely," Violet says with relief. "It's ten dollars for cats, and we can fit you in Tuesday morning. Shall we say nine-thirty?"
She finishes the call and slumps in her chair. "I keep forgetting what we charge for things. And whether you do certain procedures. And apparently I've been telling people the wrong hours for the past hour."
"What hours have you been telling them?"
"We're open until six on weekdays. But the sign says five."
I try not to laugh. "Well, I suppose we could start staying open later if there's a demand."
"You're being very patient with me," she observes, and there's something almost suspicious in her tone, like she's not used to people cutting her slack when she makes mistakes.
"You're learning," I say simply. "Everyone makes mistakes when they're learning. After all, this is only your first day."
"My ex used to say mistakes were just evidence of not trying hard enough."
The casual way she mentions her ex makes my alpha instincts prickle with warning. There's too much pain in those simple words, and history behind the careful way she says it.
"Your ex sounds like an ass," I say before I can stop myself.
Violet's eyes widen in surprise, then she laughs making her whole face light up. "He really was."
"Good for you for leaving him."
"Yeah, well... it wasn't exactly a choice. More like an escape."
The phone rings again, and she reaches for it with renewed determination.
"Mairi Veterinary Services, this is Violet. How may I help you?" A pause. "Oh, hi Tom. Yes, Shep's appointment is Tuesday at ten. What's up?" Another pause, longer this time. "You want to know if we board animals overnight?"
She looks at me questioningly, and I shake my head. Then, her fingers fly over the keyboard, like she's searching for something.
"I'm sorry, we don't offer boarding services," she says. "But I think there's a place in Millfield... oh, you need someone local." She bites her lip, thinking. "Have you tried asking at the feed store? They might know someone who pet-sits."
It's a good suggestion, and exactly the kind of helpful problem-solving making for excellent customer service. I give her a thumbs up, and she beams.
"You're welcome, Tom. See you Tuesday."
"Perfect," I tell her when she hangs up. "Going the extra mile to help solve his problem instead of just saying no. Exactly what good customer service looks like."
"Really?" She looks almost surprised by the praise.
"Yeah, you're getting the hang of this. You really are a writer, the way your fingers just tapped so quickly on the keyboard."
She keeps beaming as the afternoon continues with a mix of successful calls and minor catastrophes.
Violet accidentally schedules two appointments for the same time slot, quotes the wrong price for vaccinations, and somehow manages to hang up on Mrs. Henderson in the middle of discussing Whiskers' dietary needs.
But she also successfully handles a distressed cat owner whose pet is showing signs of illness, calmly takes down information for an emergency call, and manages to reschedule three different appointments without any scheduling conflicts.
"I think I'm getting better at this," she says during a brief lull around three o'clock.
"You definitely are. It just takes practice."
"I hope I’m better at it already. I used to write marketing copy for small businesses, so I'm used to dealing with clients. But somehow this feels different."
"Because you care," I observe. "It's one thing to write about someone's business, but when you're dealing with their beloved pets, the emotional stakes are higher."
"Exactly." She looks at me with something like relief. "These animals mean everything to their owners. I don't want to screw up something important."
"The fact you understand makes you perfect for this job."
The front door chimes, and Frank Stern shuffles in with Buster padding slowly beside him. The old golden retriever looks tired, and there's something in his gait making my professional instincts kick in.
"Afternoon, Frank. How's Buster doing?"
"What I'm here to find out," Frank says, his usually cheerful demeanor subdued. "He's been moving slower than usual, and Dorothy noticed he didn't finish his breakfast this morning."
I crouch down to examine Buster, who greets me with his usual gentle tail wag but doesn't get up from his lying position. His breathing is a bit labored, and when I listen to his heart, there's an irregularity wasn't there at his last checkup.
"How old is Buster now?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Thirteen this past spring. I know it's getting up there for a big dog."
It is. Golden retrievers typically live ten to twelve years, so Buster's already beaten the odds. But doesn't make this conversation any easier.
"I'd like to run some tests," I tell Frank gently. "Blood work, maybe an EKG. See what we're dealing with."
Frank nods, his weathered hands stroking Buster's head with infinite tenderness. "Whatever you think is best, Doc."
I glance at Violet, who's been watching this exchange with obvious concern. "Could you get Frank set up with some paperwork while I take Buster back for his tests?"
"Of course."
An hour later, I'm reviewing test results confirming what I suspected. Buster's heart is showing signs of failure – not immediately life-threatening, but definitely a decline we'll need to manage carefully.
I find Frank in the waiting room, chatting quietly with Violet about his late wife's famous cinnamon rolls. There's something comforting about the scene – two people of different generations finding common ground in shared memories of good food and better times.
"Frank, can I talk to you for a moment?"
We discuss Buster's condition, treatment options, and realistic expectations. Frank takes it all with the stoic grace of someone who's lived long enough to understand everything has its season. But I can see the pain in his eyes when he thinks I'm not looking.
"How long?" he asks quietly.
"With medication and careful monitoring? Could be months, could be a year or more. Dogs are remarkably resilient, and Buster's got a strong will to live."
"He's been my companion since Dorothy passed," Frank says. "I don't know what I'll do without him."
"Let's focus on keeping him comfortable and happy for as long as possible," I suggest. "And when the time comes... we'll make sure it's peaceful."
Frank nods, blinking back tears he's too proud to shed in public. "Thank you, Doc. For everything."
After he leaves with Buster and a bag of heart medication, the clinic feels subdued. Violet is quiet, her smell carrying notes of sadness suggesting she was more affected by the interaction than she's letting on.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Hard to watch," she admits. "Frank loves him so much."
"He does. Buster's been his constant companion for years. It's never easy when we start having these conversations."
"How do you handle it? Knowing you're going to lose patients you care about?"
It's a good question, one every veterinarian grapples with.
"I try to focus on the good years," I tell her. "Buster's had thirteen happy years with Frank. A lifetime of love and care and companionship. And when the time comes, I'll be able to help him pass peacefully, surrounded by the person who loves him most. There are worse ways to go."
"I guess I never thought about it like this."
"It's part of the job. The hard part, but also the important part. Being there for people and animals during the difficult moments."
She nods thoughtfully, and I catch the way her smell has shifted again, because it’s less sharp sadness, more of warm honey sweetness suggesting she's processing something significant.
The late afternoon brings a few more routine appointments from vaccinations for a litter of puppies, to a wellness check for an elderly beagle.
Later on she has appointments for a prescription refill for Dr. Chen's own border collie.
Violet handles the scheduling and customer interactions with growing confidence, and I find myself genuinely impressed by how quickly she's adapted.
Around five, as I'm finishing up paperwork and she's organizing the reception area for tomorrow, she suddenly speaks up.
"I should tell you something," she says, not looking up from the appointment book. "About why I really need this job to work out."
"You don't have to tell me anything you're not comfortable sharing."
"No, I do. Because if this doesn't work out, I don't have a backup plan.
" She takes a deep breath. "My cousin Emma, the one in Dallas?
She's struggling financially too. She lost her job last month, and she's got two kids to support.
When I called her from the road, she tried to sound encouraging, but I could hear it in her tone. She can't take me in."
Now I understand the desperation. She's not looking for work, she's fighting to stay alive.
"So I can't fail at this," she continues. "I don't have anywhere else to go, and I can't afford to keep running. I need to make this work, even if I suck at the animal parts of it."
"You don't suck," I tell her firmly. "You had a bad reaction to cleaning up after a sick animal, which is completely normal. And you screamed when you unexpectedly encountered a snake, which is understandable. Neither of those things makes you unsuitable for this job."
"But I threw up. And I forgot half the prices. And I accidentally hung up on Mrs. Henderson."
"And you also showed genuine compassion for every customer, figured out creative solutions to their problems, and managed to calm down a cranky Persian cat barely tolerating its own owner. You've got good instincts, Violet. You just need time to learn the technical stuff."
She looks up at me then, and there's something vulnerable in her blue eyes making my alpha instincts flare with protective intensity.
"You really think I can do this?"
"I know you can. But more than... you mentioned you're a writer?"