by Amy Lane
Like magic, a pink tongue came out and swiped across his lips. He gasped in surprise and it swept inside.
“Oh, ew! Dog! What have you been eating!”
The kid’s voice came from far away. “Probably cat shit—I wouldn’t let her do that!”
Carter looked up in time to watch the kid jump into the passenger seat of a sky-blue Mustang Fastback, puppy box left behind.
“Oh my God!” Carter muttered as the car took off in a rumble of smoke. He looked at “Tuffy.” “Oh my God!” he said again.
His reward was a more cautious lick on his nose.
“Oh,” he said, mesmerized by the wide-set dark eyes darting under the dog-bangs. “My God.” He pulled the bangs back and fondled the little ears. “Lookit you. You’re not a gerbil, are you?”
The dog started licking his cheek again, and he swallowed. Then Carter spotted it, the tiny, brown six-legged nightmare crawling underneath the fur.
Sandy Corrigan hated the evening shift at Banfield Pet Hospital.
Morning shift was okay—you got older folks who were retired, people on the way to work, the occasional hausfrau in rumpled jeans, rumpled hair, and yesterday’s bra. All of them dropping their pets off at the beginning of their day, or going shopping while it was still early. The schedule was nice and pretty, the animals with their appointments were on the board—
And the crazy had not yet reared its ugly head.
The guy in the snazzy suit and shiny oxfords was part of the crazy.
Sandy took a deep breath and tried to put that crazy in a bucket. “Sir, sir—your dog appears to be fine.”
The guy’s hazel eyes—wide and sort of limpid, with black lashes—gazed at him with a wild hope. “She’s not my dog,” he said earnestly. But he was clutching the thing to his chest like it was his last, best prayer for salvation, so Sandy was just going to ignore that.
“Well, she appears to be fine.” The picture of health, actually, complete with wiggling black nose, speed-hazard tail, and pink tongue.
“How do we know it’s a she?” the guy asked. And then, sort of despairingly, “How do we even know it’s a dog? I saw guinea pigs when I walked in here—they seemed to be bigger.” He had brown hair and brown stubble—probably used to be blond as a kid. Sort of average in a good way—a nice, strong chin and a decent, medium-sized build—but his eyes remained his most redeeming feature. Big, hazel, dependable, and perhaps a tad shy. His eyes seemed to project someone solid and kind who didn’t make loud noises or bite.
Unfortunately, they were the things also projecting the crazy. Well, his eyes and his mouth. His mouth was definitely projecting the crazy.
Sandy smirked and looked at the little dog, who gazed back, as if to say, Well, yes, but he’s new.
Okay, fine little dog. Sandy would give the crazy guy the benefit of new pet ownership and see if he couldn’t calm the situation down some.
“Okay, sir, I assure you this is a dog,” Sandy said, his patience only a tiny bit exaggerated. “Now here—give her to me.”
Sandy took the creature from the man’s hands, noting that (a) the guy seemed reluctant to give her up, and (b) the dog seemed to really like this man. Sandy trusted an animal’s judgment—he decided to cut Crazy-pants some slack.
“’Scuse me, miss,” Sandy said solemnly, “this here’s a violation.” And with that he turned her around and pulled up her tail. “Yup. She’s a she.” Oh, gross. He saw them now—bloodsucking fiends crawling across her fuzzy white ass. “And she has fleas.”
“Fleas?” Mr. Crazy-pants said, his voice rising. “My dog has fleas?”
“I thought you said she wasn’t your dog,” Sandy told him, amused. He handed the dog back—bloodsucking fiends and all—and Crazy-pants took her without a flinch, even though the irritating monsters were probably infesting that snazzy wool suit.
The dog seemed important to him. Sandy’s estimation of Crazy-pants rose a few notches.
“Well, sir, it’s been a warm fall—the little bastards, I mean pests, propagate in warm, moist weather. So, yeah, fleas. You didn’t notice?”
“I just got her . . . I mean, she was sort of shoved into my hands and then the kid just took off and . . .” Crazy-pants looked at Sandy beseechingly. “He left the box. He said, ‘Here, she’s a Chow/Samoyed mix and—’”
Sandy couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing.
“What?” Crazy-pants sounded so absurdly helpless Sandy almost—but not quite—managed to control himself. “What’s so funny?”
“This dog?” Sandy wiped tears from the corners of his eyes—real tears. Not imaginary. “This dog is a Chow/Samoyed?”
“She’s not?” Crazy-pants asked, calming down for the first time since he’d walked into the PetSmart. “She’s not a Chow/Samoyed? What would that be, anyway? A Chow-moyed? A Sam-Chow?”
“A Who Cares?” Sandy shook his head. “Because those dogs get to be around forty pounds—Chows can get to be eighty or more. This dog will never be more than eight pounds.”
“Eight pounds?” Crazy-pants asked, looking at the dog. The dog looked back. Sandy could swear she nodded.
“I shit you not,” Sandy told him soberly. “If I’ve learned anything from the last twelve years, it’s how to spot a breed, even when they cross. For example, this is a cross between a Shih Tzu and a Chihuahua.”
Crazy-pants blinked and stared at him in bemusement. “That seems really specific.”
“Well, she has the big head and the dish face and the big eyes—it’s sort of a giveaway. But even more important, you see what she’s doing when you hold her?”
Crazy-pants shifted his attention to the dog—who stayed tucked into the palm of his hand as though this were her usual palanquin. “What’s she doing?” he asked blankly.
“Not a goddamned thing. Shih Tzu’s are bred to be lap dogs—which means they’re bred to be still when you hold them. They just sort of . . . sit on your lap.”
Crazy-pants looked at the dog and the dog looked back at Crazy-pants. “So, this is as big as she’s going to get?”
“No, she’s going to quadruple in size. She’s about two pounds now.” Sandy frowned and guestimated. “And I would imagine she’ll be between six and ten pounds when she’s grown. Ten if you feed her too much crap, six if she’s older now than I think she is.”
“Eight pounds.”
“Yes.” Was he deaf? “That’s what I said.”
Suddenly Crazy-pants melted. His lower lip thrust out and trembled, and his eyes got super big. “They said they would send her to the pound,” he whispered. “I mean . . . she’s tiny. How could they?”
Sandy’s heart began to feel a little squishy. “Sir, have you ever owned a dog before?”
The expression that he sent back was so honest in its self-deprecation that Sandy could hardly call the guy Crazy-pants anymore. “I haven’t even owned a goldfish before. I am so lost.”
Ah hell. “Okay. Sir, I’m going to make a couple of suggestions here. Are you game?”
The guy nodded and practically lolled his tongue. “Yup. I’m ready. Hit me.”
Good boy, Crazy-pants. Listen to the experts on this one.
“Okay—first of all, you’re going to want a health plan—now don’t freak out on me, it’s just like people insurance, but cheaper, okay?”
The guy nodded studiously—this one must have been the straight-A suck-up who would have done anything the teacher said. Well, there were worse things.
“I’ve got some options here—the one I’d suggest is for a new puppy.” Sandy grimaced. “It’s a good plan, but you have to pay it all the way through the year even if . . .” Well, hell, this part sucked to say. “Even if the puppy doesn’t make it. We can apply it to another dog if you’re ready for one before the end of the year, but . . . you know. You should know.”
Crazy-pants clutched that dog to his chest like the ghost of the grim reaper had appeared over Sandy’s shoulder. Wow. Love at first sight—Sandy had seen it
happen a lot on kitten adoption day, but it was still good to know it happened with other species as well.
“Okay,” Crazy-pants said, voice wobbly. “So, pet plan. What does it cover?”
“Immunizations, spay and neuter, wellness checkup, flea prevention, anal gland expressing, pedicure—”
“Grooming?” The new dog owner pulled the dog’s bangs back from her face and peered into her eyes. She peered back, but Sandy could see where he was going with that. Yeah, not making eye contact was disconcerting.
“No, sir, but the groomers are right there.” He pointed to the window that separated the groomer’s office from the store. An actual Samoyed was standing in the halter as they watched, getting his fur brushed and fluffed and tinted pink. The new dog owner’s mouth compressed into a full little bow as he obviously thought about somebody making the thing in his hands tangle-free and—possibly—pink. “As soon as she has her immunization cycle complete, you can take her there. In the meantime, invest in a small brush—we sell some in the store.”
“Okay, then.” Crazy-pants took a fortifying breath. “A health plan and a vet visit—where do I sign up?”
Sandy broke out the paperwork and offered to hold the dog while he filled it out.
“So, uh . . .” Sandy squinted over the standing counter so he could read upside down. “Mr. Carter Embree, what are you going to name your new friend here?”
Carter Embree glanced at him and then studied the dog. Delicately, with one finger, he moved the doggie bangs aside so he could see her eyes again, and he smiled.
“Don’t you think she looks like she has freckles?” he asked, smoothing the fur under her eyes. “Or, you know, like she would if she was human.”
“Yeah, sure.” Sandy didn’t see it, but he was starting to feel like the extra guy in a threesome, the one who was just there to make one of the other guys jealous. “Freckles.”
“Exactly.” Carter smiled up at him, a sort of joy suffusing his average, everyday features, and illuminating his plain hazel eyes until they seemed like limpid pools of infinite possibility. “Freckles. That’s what I’m going to call her.”
“Yeah,” Sandy muttered, his throat suddenly dry. “I’ll put her at the end of the day. Dr. Martin can check her out.” Carter pushed the paperwork at him, and Sandy gave him back his dog.
“How long will that be?” Carter pulled Freckles to his chest protectively and looked around the waiting room, seeming dismayed to find it was full. “I wasn’t really expecting this to sort of devour my night.”
And abruptly the appeal vanished, swallowed up by the ghost of Sandy’s career-obsessed ex-boyfriend.
Well, so sue Sandy—he was falling behind in running pets from their appointments in the back to the full waiting area in the front. He had in fact, been taking all his time with this asshole.
“About an hour, I’m afraid,” Sandy said shortly, wishing desperately that all of the cute ones weren’t so self-absorbed. “But if you like, there are some books on owning dogs over there—” he pointed to the rack with How To books on it “—and you can find a checklist and go shopping with your new friend there. She’s going to need a halter and a lead and all sorts of stuff—so how about you go shopping, and when you’re done, the doctor should be ready to see you.”
Carter looked around the waiting room again and nodded, sheepish. “You’re really helpful,” he said sincerely. “Should I pay you now or—”
“No, no—I’ll be here when your appointment is over. We’ll go over the invoice then.”
Carter addressed Freckles. “So, uh, shopping? You think we can make this work?”
Freckles licked his hand.
“What are you doing?” Cedar hissed an hour later.
“Shh!” Sandy held his fingers up and winked at her. A sweet, chipmunk-cheeked, happy girl, Cedar had dark curly hair and a boundless enthusiasm for her animal friends. Sandy was usually such a sarcastic bastard he was surprised he could be civil to anyone that sweet, but he’d developed an unexpected fondness. She was the people equivalent of Freckles—extremely intelligent, kind, bouncy, and good-natured. You couldn’t dislike her—it was impossible, like life on Mars without a helmet.
But because she was so straightforward, she might not have gotten what he was doing now.
“I just wanted to see,” he whispered fiercely, taking a look around the waiting room. It was empty, and so was the PetSmart that housed the Banfield vet office. Carter Embree and his new little friend were in exam room three, consulting with Doc Marty (as Sandy called her, because it was either Back to the Future or shoes, and Sandy liked the classics).
And Carter Embree had left his bags of new pet purchases on the wood-slatted bench across from the business counter and animal scale, and asked Sandy to watch them. Sandy wanted to investigate them, really, and that’s what Cedar might not understand.
His gaze collided with the night manager of the store—an intense, insanely good-looking young man with dark hair and brown eyes and a body to kill for named Tommy. Tommy raised a skeptical brow and asked, in a flat voice that spoke of South Boston and no fear, “The employee discount not enough for ya, Corrigan?”
“I’m not stealing his stuff, Callahan,” Sandy shot back. “I’m seeing if he got the right stuff.”
“Jonah showed him around,” Tommy replied. “He’s got what he needs.”
Well, Jonah was a pretty smart kid—Sandy saw him in classes at UCD, and they nodded in passing and even studied together. He had the feeling that Jonah’s boyfriend, and Tommy and his boyfriend, were all part of this elite little club of body-building student gods, but he couldn’t figure out why. Something about being too built and too beautiful to just hang out together without an agenda seemed a little strange—Apollo, Hermes, and Perseus didn’t just gather at a PetSmart in Sacramento. The fact that their new general manager, Mr. Worral, seemed to know them all and took special interest in hiring other gods (Thor, Osiris, Krishna—Jesus, how many pantheons were there?) fueled the speculation from the privately run vet hospital even more.
But that didn’t mean Tommy wasn’t right.
“Fine.” Sandy continued to riffle through the bags. “Fine, Jonah got him everything . . . pee pads, halter, leash, dog bed, crate—” Sandy glanced around. “I don’t see a crate. Why is there no crate?”
“Because he didn’t want to put his hamster in a box?” Tommy looked Sandy up and down like they didn’t see each other at least three times a week.
“Crates are safer.” Everybody knew that. “And you know those little dogs—they’ve got stomachs so small they don’t even know they’re pooping. How’s he going to potty train that thing unless he’s got a crate?”
Tommy shrugged. “Maybe he don’t like his rug too good. Poop’s not so bad, really. I gotta kid in diapers, thinks it’s a national sport.”
Sandy stared at him. “Aren’t you gay?”
Tommy blinked and adjusted his lean against the register. “Yeah.”
“Where’d you get the kid?”
“That’s a great question. Why are you going through a customer’s purchases and passing judgments on how he’s gonna let his dog poop his house?”
Sandy scowled. “I just . . . This guy’s way out of his league. I don’t want to see the dog end up in the pound, that’s all. Little dogs are a huge pain in the ass.”
Tommy laughed, and it came out dirty. “I know who needs a huge pain in his ass. Carry on whatyer doin’. By the way, note that he picked out the denim and pink cushion, with the matching chew toy and a sweater to accessorize.”
“So?” Squeaky toy, color-coordinated poop bags to go into the little pink plastic bow that went around the pink nylon leash, bows for the ears. Sandy knew where Tommy was going with this.
“So. If he had kids, that’d be one thing, but Jonah asked him, ‘Is this dog for your kid?’ and he said no. He don’t got no kids, he don’t know no kids—not even a niece to train him up right.”
“So?” Ye
ah, Sandy knew exactly where this was going.
“So, Jonah’s real good at getting people to spill their life stories. Your guy’s a lawyer—and he willingly picked pink and accessorized for a tiny fluffy dog.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that if you play your cards right, you could see that dog an awful lot, but not if her daddy catches you pawing through his shit!”
“Sandy!” Cedar hissed. Sandy left the bags alone and turned around casually, like he was just checking the stock on the special high-end foods they kept next to the benches.
The door to exam room three swung open, and Carter emerged, Freckles firmly tucked into the crook of his arm. The little dog was fast asleep.
“So,” Doc Marty was saying, her tone dry and comforting at once, “not too many treats, and be sure to get the food made for small-dog puppies—if you can, get one of the ingredients-based foods, because she looks a little young, and the young ones often respond poorly to the ones with all the byproducts—”
“The kid, uh, Jonah, he helped me pick out some—”
“Good!” Doc Marty was a tiny woman with a graying braid past her hips. She was one of the best—and most compassionate—vets Sandy had ever met. She got that people made pet mistakes, and she certainly understood that they weren’t made of money. If they could afford the high-end stuff, that was great—but if they couldn’t, she cast no judgments, and Sandy thought that was pretty great too. There shouldn’t be a rule that only rich people got to own animals, and he’d seen a lot of sleek, healthy cats and dogs raised on whatever the owners could afford. But when a new pet owner allowed himself to be guided, like this one was? The whole staff knew that was her favorite kind of client.
“Is there . . . I mean . . .” Carter was suddenly looking very nervous. “Where should she sleep?”
“Now, you said you didn’t get a crate, and I respect your reasoning for that. But that means she’s going to want to sleep near you. Did you buy a dog bed?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So put the dog bed near your bed—someplace you won’t step on it.” She smiled impishly, but Carter’s eyes widened like he was horrified. Yup, he’d had the vision. Every small animal owner did—the big foot coming down in the middle of the night, and the delicate little creature squashed flat like Bambi meeting Godzilla.
