Page 7

Abby laughs, soft and tinkling. “Yes, I am a veterinarian. Just not… conventional.”
“As long as you help Bubba, that’s all I care about.”
“A former military working dog,” she says with a tip of her head at the receptionist. “Were you his handler?”
“Yeah, we were together five years. My enlistment ended right around the time he was being retired, so I was able to adopt him.”
“Awesome,” she says with an open smile before her expression turns serious. “So, what seems to be the problem?”
I recount everything I’d already told the receptionist, adding, “I know that doesn’t sound like a lot, but—”
“If you think he’s off, then I take your word for it. It could be a simple upset tummy. Could be a blockage. Better safe than sorry.”
Reaching out, she takes the leash from me. “If you want to have a seat, I’ll examine him in the back. But X-rays are really the best way to go if we suspect a blockage. I’ll have to give him a mild sedative, though, so he doesn’t move.”
“Yeah, that’s fine… run whatever tests you need,” I say without hesitation, bending over and wrapping my arms around Bubba. I press my face into his fur and whisper words of encouragement. My stomach twists, knowing that it could be serious, but I push the fear back. No sense getting worked up about something that could be an upset stomach.
Abby disappears through the swinging door and Christy follows her, leaving me with only my thoughts.
When Bubba and I were in the Marine Corps, his life was in serious danger many a day. But I was able to compartmentalize that. I couldn’t afford to have my concern affect my attention and focus. He couldn’t afford that either.
In civilian life, though, it’s not so easy to push away the worries. He’s my pet now, not my partner, and that means I can’t help but feel nervous about the possibilities. I can’t go into cool Marine mode where danger is part of the job. We’re civilians now, and I don’t want anything to happen to my dog.
I ignore the seating bolted into the wall and pace the lobby. Back and forth past displays of specialty pet foods, toys, and treats. I check my watch a dozen times. I pull out my phone once, thinking I could surf Instagram for a bit but close it right back down when I see Adriana sent another message with a more insistent request for me to call her so we can talk about “things.”
Everyone says I need to block her, and I absolutely would, except for one very complicated reason—we have a tangled financial tie that hasn’t been sorted out yet. About a year ago, I helped Adriana open a vegan health-food store and fronted her the start-up costs. As such, I have a fifty percent ownership of the business. It does well, so we decided to keep it when it looked like we were moving to Pittsburgh. Adriana would train a good manager, and we considered opening another location when we settled here.
That’s obviously not going to happen. Adriana continues to run the store, but the profit margin right now is slim. I want out of the entire thing, but Adriana doesn’t have the funds to buy me out just yet. So I’m stuck until she can get financing to buy my half of the business. Right now, we’ve agreed to a low monthly payment that she can afford, but I’d prefer she take out a loan to let me out altogether. Part of me thinks she’s dragging her feet as a means to keep me involved because she holds out hope I’ll take her back.
Which will never happen. I don’t feel anything for her other than a faint distaste, like she was a bitter drink that I can’t quite wash out of my mouth.
I return to pacing.
It seems like hours, but when I look at my watch as Abby walks through the swinging door, it’s only been about forty-five minutes.
“Is he okay?” I blurt out, amazed at how panicky I sound. I’m normally cool as a cucumber under horrible stress. I mean, for fuck’s sake… I did bomb detection work, and I just spent eight days protecting civilians traveling through a dangerous country.
Abby smiles reassuringly. “He’s fine. A little sleepy, but it does look he ingested something.”
“Like what?” I ask dumbly. Bubba’s a well-trained dog. He’s not even a chewer, much less an indiscriminate snacker.
Abby’s eyes twinkle. “Sadly, our technology isn’t that advanced yet, but it does appear to be some sort of soft material. Maybe a sock, a stuffed toy.”
“Stuffed toy?”
She nods.
“He sleeps with one. I mean… he has several, but all he does is hold them in his mouth when he sleeps. He started doing that after he retired. I thought that was him starting to show his fun-loving doggy side after spending years doing serious work.”