by Amy Lane
Freckles heard the ruckus and ran over to lick his cheek. Carter closed his eyes and felt what seemed to be an entire thirty-two-ounce Slurpee’s worth of dog piss seep into his pajamas.
“Oh, Freckles,” he mumbled. “We’re so going to have to work on this.”
The spray bottle of disinfectant, the paper towels, and a pee pad.
As he hobbled away from his newly cleaned floor, desperate for a shower, he had the feeling this would be the story of his life for the next few months.
When he got out of the shower, Freckles was waiting to lick the water off his feet.
“Okay, Freckles, I’ve got an idea.” He looked at the clock and figured he had an hour and a half to get dressed, take her for a walk, and change into work clothes. “How about we start this day over?”
Freckles licked his big toe, and he took it as a good sign.
The halter thing took . . . an embarrassingly long time. Wiggle leg, wiggle dog, wiggle leg, wiggle dog, lick Carter’s hand, do the clasp wrong, wiggle dog some more—but eventually, after ten minutes of saying the dog’s name so much she was starting to look up when he said it, they were ready to go for a walk.
Or at least she was ready to go for a walk. Carter wasn’t so ready to go for a walk with the dog.
Freckles liked to bark. She liked to bark at everything. She barked at other dogs, she barked at fences that might contain dogs, she barked at cars, she barked at lawns, she barked at people opening their doors to get their papers while scratching their balls.
Carter trailed around after her like a goofy bundle of “Sorry!”, waving to people apologetically and hissing, “Freckles!” every so often with a little jerk of the leash to maybe get her to think about what she was doing.
Oh, she thought all right. She thought about the next thing she was going to bark at! And when she wasn’t barking, she was smelling. All the smells. All of the poopy, pissy, dead, and decaying smells in other people’s frosty lawns that he had to pull her away from, and every time, she gazed at him with her heart in her eyes. Please, Dad? Please can’t I smell the dead thing in the middle of the neighbor’s yard? Please?
“No!” he snapped, finally finding the line he would not cross for his dog. “You may not bring that home.”
Freckles contritely dropped the dead bird she’d been prepared to walk off with and trotted dutifully ahead. Carter made a mental note to (a) give her a bath when they got back, and (b) buy one of those little hand sanitizer holders to go on the leash. He knew the benefits of the hand wash were mostly in his head, but right now his head was filled with dead-bird germs, and he could deal with a germ-killing placebo, he really could.
He’d planned to walk two miles, because he usually ran three, so he figured two was a nice compromise with the new and tiny dog on the little pink halter and leash. He ended up doing one, because he had to stop and give the leash a little jerk to get her away from the dead birds, enchanting telephone poles, and spots on the yard that had been despoiled by an animal Carter was beginning to call “Dogzilla.” Someone—some dog had left outstanding piles of poop nearly three times the size of Freckles herself at random intervals along their paltry mile.
Carter had needed to call her away from Dogzilla’s crap more times than he could remember having to do anything involving poop in his life.
He had never met this dog, had never laid eyes on it before, but, like Freckles, he was beginning to develop an immeasurable antipathy toward it.
If he had a yip that could slice through the sound barrier like Freckles? He’d be barking his fool head off, that was for sure.
As it was, he pulled his filthy, happy, hopefully-void-of-urine-and-feces dog home and threw her in the sink with some hand soap, pretty much as soon as they stalked through the door.
He washed her, dried her, and settled her on her little cushion on his bed, and then dashed for a second shower—this one to wipe off all of the imaginary dead and poopy things—before he could be late.
When he got out of the shower she was lying on her back, trying desperately to scratch her back and bite her rump at the same time. By the time he’d put his suit on, the skin under the wet, white fur was now a heightened, more furious pink.
Oh hell. Oh crap. He’d managed to give his dog the plague.
He forgot his tie and barely remembered his belt, keys, and wallet. With a quick call to Banfield—a different vet tech answered, one he didn’t know—he grabbed his cushion and his lead and his dog and loaded the car.
He had to stop and get out and get his briefcase from the hallway while he left his car idling in the drive, because yes, he really had lost his head over a goddamned dog.
“Oh my God.” Sandy looked at the patient board. “Please tell me that’s not the dog we saw yesterday.” For a moment he felt a crushing amount of guilt. God, he’d sent that poor dog home with that crazy-pants barbarian who didn’t know anything about dogs. The guy had practically hyperventilated at the thought of being alone with the helpless baby—what had Sandy been thinking?
“Freckles?” Melissa peeked over her shoulder to double-check where he was looking. Melissa was a little older than Cedar, her hair a little more brownish blonde and her demeanor a little less perky, but Sandy liked how they balanced each other out. Cedar carried with her boundless enthusiasm and energy. Melissa had reasonable enthusiasm and a solid, grounded sense of practicality. Together, they sort of held the place together with the strength of their hearts.
And Sandy needed heart, especially now when his disappointment was so very acute. “Yeah. What happened? The guy was so . . .” Not excited—that wasn’t the word. “Careful,” Sandy figured. “He was so careful when he left the store last night. I was sure this was going to be the most pampered dog in the world.”
“She is!” Melissa said, laughing. “Yeah—he brought her in because he took her walking and then came back and washed the dead everything off her. But he used hand soap, and, you know, all that white fur . . .”
“She’s allergic to hand soap.” Great. Poor guy—it would figure they’d forgotten to tell him the one bit of information he’d needed.
“Yup.” Melissa shrugged. “He had to bring her in for some Benadryl and prednisone, and since she’s so small, they wanted to keep her under observation. He’ll be back after work.”
That perked Sandy up. “Yeah? He’s coming back?”
“Uh, yeah. They usually do.”
Sandy tried not to smile like a perv. “I hope so,” he said, but Melissa was way too curious to just let that slide.
“You want him to come back?” she pried coyly.
Sandy grunted and started to organize the front, setting up clipboards and wiping off the counters. In ten minutes or so he was slated to go into the back with the animals to clean their cages, check their meds, and make sure the ones still unconscious were getting their IVs. But right now, he sort of wanted to gossip.
“Well,” he said casually, “did you see the guy come in?”
“Sort of average,” Melissa said, and Sandy scowled. He’d liked Carter Embree. Yeah, the guy might be a bit conservative, but he had potential. Plain brown hair and hazel eyes and pale, blushy skin held their own attractions, as had his wire-frame glasses that he’d kept pushing up.
And his panic over whether or not he could take care of the dog had been sort of heartbreaking. Anyone could take care of a dog, couldn’t they? Hell, Sandy’s last boyfriend had gained custody of their dog—and Sandy had no doubt that Rick would be able to take care of Kansas like a pro. He’d been a hopeless workaholic who would rather text his office than talk to Sandy during dinner, and an insensitive bastard who’d resented the hell out of Sandy’s desire to go back to school to be a vet, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take care of an animal. Hell, he’d been a commitment-phobe who had practically wet himself when Sandy mentioned moving in—but by golly, he hadn’t hesitated to buy the super-extra-spiffy insurance for Kansas, and a grooming package to boot. Yeah, Rick hadn�
��t been so great at taking care of Sandy, but Jesus, he’d at least loved their frickin’ dog.
So here was this guy: smart, nice suit, tiny dog—Sandy was getting the first paintbrush stirrings of a picture to crush on. And it wasn’t an average portrait.
“When’s he coming back?” Sandy asked hopefully, and Melissa rolled her eyes at the same time she smiled impishly.
“Are we on the prowl again, Alexander?” she asked primly.
Sandy clapped his hand over his eyes. “He was cute!” he protested. “And he loves that dog. I mean, insta-love, love at first sight, the kind of love they write movies about.”
“Your last boyfriend loved the dog too—remember that?”
“Well, yeah—but he hated the cat. Maybe this one will get the cat.” Because Sandy’s cat, Valkyrie, was a royal pain in the ass. Unlike Kansas, who was a midsized dog and loved everybody, Val was a tremendously fat calico with a stumpy tail who liked Sandy and Sandy only.
She used to hiss whenever Rick walked by, and he’d started locking his clothes in the bathroom when he stayed over so she wouldn’t piss, vomit, or crap on them—when she left Sandy’s roommates’ stuff completely alone. Yeah, Val had a mean streak—but she was also the best companion that Sandy had ever known for watching old romantic comedies. She had a real fondness for Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore, actually, but she tolerated movies from Sandy’s parents’ generation as well as could be expected. About the only thing she didn’t like was Nicholas Sparks movies, and Sandy was forced to agree. If it didn’t end with a syrupy-sweet happy ending, it just wasn’t worth his time.
So Sandy was between boyfriends right now—and Mr. Crazy-pants had appealed to him on a basic, be-kind-to-lost-puppies level. So sue him. Sandy wanted to be a veterinarian—he had a type.
“Well, you take it easy on Mr. Embree,” Melissa told him, her expression full of concern for the human. “He’s had a rough morning.”
Sandy took her to heart, but it wasn’t until he saw the damage that he realized how rough the morning might have been.
After nodding and smiling, he spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning out the patient crates and making sure everyone had IVs that were in and water and food if they could have it. There were three cats recovering from their dental cleanings who were still completely out, and they’d been easy—a little fecal clean up and good to go. A few dogs recovering from spays or neutering, a few more in for their shots, and one poor Shih Tzu puppy who’d gotten a perfectly normal twig poked completely through her naked pink paw. Poor thing—she was wearing a cone of shame and her paw, wrapped in purple, was sort of the ultimate woobie wound. Sandy walked in, and she raised the damned bandage up, looking for sympathy. It was easy to give, really, so he spent some time rubbing her between the eyes.
And then there was Freckles.
Still tired from her allergic reaction, she was simply lying on her side, panting, as the Benadryl and prednisone calmed down her immune system. Sandy petted her a little bit, rubbing the silky ears and talking to her about nonsense—mostly asking if she’d seen her daddy naked yet, and if he was worth the fuss. Watching her regard him through the big brown eyes, whiskered eyebrows twitching as she weighed and measured everything he said, he started to wonder—if Carter had been freaked out the night before with all of the might-happens, how was he going to deal with an almost-happened?
So when Embree called to check on Freckles, Sandy wasn’t surprised to find that Mr. Crazy-pants needed to be talked out of the Crazy Tree.
“Vet services, Sandy speaking!”
“Sandy? Uh, this is . . . uh, Carter Embree, from last night. My dog is there? Uh—”
“Freckles!” Sandy grinned almost like Carter could see him. “Yes, she’s doing great.” Great was an overstatement—but she wasn’t in any danger, just a little tired. “She’ll need to sleep tonight, and probably need some supervision tomorrow, but don’t worry. She’s going to pull through just fine.”
“Good,” Carter said, a wealth of relief in the one syllable. “That’s . . .” His voice wobbled a little. “So, uh, do you know of anyone who wants a dog?”
“What?” Sandy couldn’t have heard that right.
“I’ll keep paying the health insurance!” Carter put in urgently. “And the vet’s bill and . . .” A certain wistfulness crept into his voice. “And I’d love to visit her. Like on the weekends.” He firmed up a little. “But look—I’m obviously not the person to take care of this dog. I mean . . . I had her less than twenty-four hours. Fourteen hours I had this dog, and I almost killed her. I mean, don’t you have a list of people who’d want something that small and wouldn’t almost kill her by giving her a bath?”
“Okay, Carter? I’m going to call you Carter. You need to calm the hell down right now.”
“But I almost killed my dog!”
“But you saved her instead!” Sandy exhorted. A little bit of an overstatement, but still. “You spotted her skin rash and got her straight to us—how great was that! I mean, somebody was bound to give her a bath with the wrong kind of soap, but you spotted the allergic reaction immediately.”
“But what if I hadn’t?” Carter wailed. “I’m usually sort of a clueless bastard. You know that, right? I was just going to take off and leave her—I mean, I didn’t think about it until I called, but I was going to be gone all day. All day. Just leave her there to eat and crap. What kind of pet owner does that?”
Sandy’s chuckle was a little bit evil. “A pet owner who doesn’t mind picking up garbage or fixing furniture. Is there any way you can go over during lunch to check on her?”
“A couple of days a week,” Carter confessed. “But not every day. I mean . . . people do eventually leave puppies home, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do,” Sandy reassured. “But, I have to admit this, usually they’re crate-trained if they’re going to spend so much time at home alone. You say you don’t want to do that—”
“I spend my entire adult life locked in a box,” Carter snapped. “Who wants to do that to a dog?”
Sandy rubbed the knot between his eyebrows and refrained from telling Carter that he was anthropomorphizing in the extreme, and that dogs didn’t really think about it as a cage when they were well trained but more like a cave, where they were safe and cared for and happy. If Carter took his dog out to play and walk and cuddle, the crate wasn’t a prison sentence, it was a comfort zone—but maybe a guy who spent all his time in an office wasn’t going to see that as clearly as a guy who spent his day caring for animals and dealing with customers. Sandy had learned a long time ago that any pet owner who lobbied actively for his pet’s good was going to make the right decision for that pet/owner family. Yeah, sure, Kansas had loved his crate, and Rick and Sandy had worked hard to make it work for Kansas—but Carter Embree wasn’t Rick or Sandy.
“Okay,” he said, keeping his voice calm and soothing. “So you don’t want to do the crate. I can see it. How about a dog walker? We have the numbers of a couple of companies we recommend, and I know someone starting her own business.”
Carter sounded baffled when he spoke next—but he didn’t sound desperate, and that was an improvement. “Dog walking is a business?”
“Well yeah.” Sandy laughed, leaning back in his chair and tapping his pen against the Formica. Now that they were on a first-name basis and Carter wasn’t freaking out, Sandy could relax into the convo. They’d hit a dead pocket in activity—Melissa was working with a customer drop-off, but the vet section was relatively quiet and the man-gods working the floor of the store all seemed to be occupied with stocking. It was just Sandy and his guy in a suit—which suited Sandy fine.
“The walker will come to your house and take your dog for a walk. They need a key—which some people don’t feel comfortable giving, in which case there are day-kennels too.”
“Like a dog-sitter for the day?” Carter sounded suspicious.
“Exactly. But those are pretty pricey. You may just want a dog-walkin
g service. It’s a flat rate per month, usually, and the walker will come by at an established time. Your dog gets walked, gets some attention when you’re not home, and you hopefully get home to a little less destruction.”
“So, if I can get off a couple of times a week, should I—”
“I’d still have the walker come, even if you do,” Sandy told him. For one thing, his niece needed the business. Alexis had tried college, but the science courses hadn’t stuck. She’d tried working insurance, but that had been too claustrophobic.
She was driving Sandy’s sister bug-shit, and she needed to move out—the dog-walking enterprise seemed to be the best fit for her temperament, and maybe the only hope Sandy had for getting his sister out of his hair the one time a week she whined to him about her daughter: “Talk to her, Sandy—you were young and flaky once. You picked a vocation and stuck with it, now look at you!”
“Yeah, Shell, look at me try to earn a living on barely a decent wage while I go to school for another six years. That’s going to make her want to enroll in tech school right fucking quick!”
But getting Alexis another customer wasn’t Sandy’s only motivation. “It’s all about routine,” he said to Carter now. “Having you show up a few times a week is great as a surprise—but not having the dog walker show up will stress your pet out.”
“Routine,” Carter said, like he could see the subtle glow of a lightbulb.
“Yes,” Sandy encouraged. “Routine.”
“But . . . allergies and—”
“The doc ran a panel,” Sandy told him. “You’ll get the talk when you come to pick her up. Usually dogs don’t have that strong a reaction to household chemicals—but she’s really small. There are some things you can do, don’t worry.”
“Are you sure somebody else won’t . . .” He was weakening to the idea—Sandy needed to go in for the kill.
“Carter, are you aware of how many animals need to be euthanized every year because they can’t find a family?”
