Walk the Dog

by Isabel Jolie

  Walk the Dog

  Isabel Jolie

  Walk the Dog

  The West Side Series, Volume 3

  Isabel Jolie

  Published by Isabel Jolie, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  WALK THE DOG

  First edition. June 6, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Isabel Jolie.

  ISBN: 978-1734849707

  Written by Isabel Jolie.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Notes & Acknowledgements

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  Also By Isabel Jolie

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Delilah

  The singalongs from last night coalesce in freeze-frame mental snapshots. Once again, I’m cocooned in my bed, hoping with all my might there’s no photographic evidence. It’s another Saturday morning.

  A retching sound drifts through my bedroom. Nausea curls in my belly. It’s the most revolting sound. What is that sound?

  I peer down at the floor. A mound of brown hair wheezes. Fuuuuck. I’m dog sitting.

  The dog continues to heave, and I sling my legs off the bed, searching the ground. Where’s the vomit?

  She stands still on all fours, tousled hair partially covering her eyes. Something’s wrong. She’s not looking so good.

  I stumble into the kitchen, almost face-planting when I trip over my black stilettos from last night. My head pounds. That dog’s sounds are not helping my nausea.

  I pop a Starbucks thingie into the Keurig. While I wait for my mug to fill, ripped paper all over the floor catches my attention. What the...?

  Remnants of dry food lie around my kitchen floor mixed in with frayed edges of the dog food bag. The colossal bag that I set down in front of my dishwasher yesterday no longer blocks the stainless-steel door.

  Oh, Mylanta. That dog ate the whole blooming bag. That can’t be good.

  I frantically hunt for my phone to call Olivia. I finally locate it underneath my jeans on my bedroom floor.

  There’s a text from an unknown number saying he’s glad he met me. I vaguely recall a guy with brown hair. For the love of nuts and berries, I need to stop this shit. I block the number. Nothing good can come from that. Drunk Delilah doesn’t meet good guys. Not even halfway decent guys. Sober Delilah needs to lock drunk Delilah up in a vault and throw away the key.

  I press Olivia’s name. She’ll know what to do. Voicemail answers, and I hang up then text her to call me.

  I pace the room. Think, Delilah. Think.

  I snap my fingers and grab my laptop. Google.

  I search “what to do if my dog eats a whole bag of food.” And nothing is coming up when she vomits. But I don’t type the extra stuff. That’s too long of a search.

  I scan the search results. Canine bloat. Can die within hours. Gastric torsion. Panting, drooling, acting like wanting to vomit. Retching.

  Yup. That’s the sound.

  I’m the worst dog sitter on the planet. My friend’s dog, dead. RIP, Chewbacca.

  Okay. Vet. I search my kitchen counter for the piece of paper with dog information on it. Two bills, one credit card solicitation that claims they have great news for me. I close the Cheetos bag. Thank goodness it’s not empty. At least I went to bed before polishing off the family size bag. See, Chewie? That’s how you do it. You don’t finish the whole darn bag.

  Where is that paper? Is it in my pocketbook? Coffee in hand, I empty the contents of my tote bag. A crumpled piece of paper catches my eye. That’s it.

  Anna’s handwriting is a scribbled mess. I can make out the words Chelsea and Veterinary. I Google, and yes, there is a Chelsea Veterinary Center.

  The cab drops me and my brown, furry, unwell overeater on 26th Street. A chalkboard sign hangs on a glass door with stainless steel trim.

  The chalkboard sign reads 50 Shades of Spay. No Litters, Baby.

  I double-check the address on my phone. 248 West 26th Street, but it’s feeling a lot like Fuck Me Lane. Chewie, the enormous, sixty-five-pound labradoodle I’m dog sitting, curls in on herself as she dry heaves. When I tug on the leash, she extends her neck but refuses to follow. Stubborn. Animal.

  I bend down and hoist her up in a half fireman hold. Tufts of brown fur tickle my face as I manage to catch the door handle and stumble inside the clinic.

  The musty smelling fluorescent-lit room holds three rows of hard black plastic chairs with shiny silver legs. Framed posters of dogs and cats line the wall on one side. Bags of dog food and treats fill shelves on the other side. It’s similar to clinics I’ve been to in the past, but this one is in Manhattan, and the waiting room is narrow and noticeably smaller than what one would typically find in Louisiana. On the opposite end of the room, a slim shelf and a bank teller style window beckons.

  A woman with bright magenta hair in a loose poodle perm sits behind the glass. She’s on the phone, chatting away. There’s a small black sign with white plastic letters beside her window that reads Dinosaurs never went to the vet. Look What Happened.

  Cute. I make a mental note to ask Anna how she went about picking her vet, then I send off a quick plea to the spirits that this is indeed her vet.

  The receptionist greets me with a warm smile the moment her call ends. She confirms yes, Chewbacca is a patient, and as luck would have it, I am listed as an emergency contact.

  As I’m midway through explaining the emergency at hand, the tiny woman thrusts an extremely long violet fingernail into the air and says she’ll get someone and disappears behind a door. Within minutes, a woman in plum scrubs enters the room. She pauses in front of me, and before I can repeat my story, she bends over Chewie, hands roaming all along her mangled, unkempt brown fur. “What’s going on?”

  “I couldn’t get through on the phone, and I had to carry her in here, literally carry her, and—” My hands fly in the air, as bottled-up freak-out emotions rise.

  “With the dog?” The woman is calm and stern.

  “Oh. She ate a whole bag of dog food. She’s dry heaving, but nothing is coming out.”

  As if on cue, Chewie emits a wheezing, cough-like sound. I jump back in case something finally emerges.

  Plum’s face contorts, and, if I didn’t know better, I’d say a bit of animosity spews my way. She mutters to herself, “Wouldn’t want to get anything on those shoes of yours.”

  “What?” I’m wearing beat-up tennis shoes, a pair of Golden Goose I found at Barney’s. I like the extra inch they give me in height and the casual vibe.

  The woman’s hands cover Chewie’s belly on both sides, as if she’s hearing through her palms. “How much did she eat?”

  I fidget on my overpriced but coveted, beat-up shoes. When I don’t answer, she stops and stares at me. This woman lacks a positive bedside manner. Her aura is all kinds of ne
gative.

  She seethes the words as she repeats her question. “How much did she eat?”

  “I don’t know. I’m dog sitting. The bag was about like this big.” I hold out my arms to show her how big the bag was. “I wouldn’t have left it out if my ESP was functioning last night.” And, you know, if I had limited myself to one or two bars as opposed to turning the night into more of a pub crawl.

  The woman huffs and barges off toward the door. She mutters something that sounds like, “I’ll be back.”

  Her statement comes across like a threat. Or maybe a villainy kind of promise. For the tenth time, I call Olivia.

  Olivia is in Canada and should have cell reception but is not answering. I type out yet another frantic text to her. She’s the one who told me I could do this. Me. Delilah. The blonde. I’m, like, two mental steps out of college. Yes, chronologically, college was a while ago, but it feels like yesterday.

  Me: Help me! Chewie is sick. Super sick. Call me!

  Finally, finally, three bubbles appear then a text comes through. A lifeline. Someone to help me calm the fuck down.

  Olivia: Take her to the vet.

  Me: Help me!

  Olivia: Didn’t Anna give you the info before she left?

  Jesus, Mother, Mary, and Angels. I press her name to call her. Before I can say anything, Olivia answers the phone with, “I can’t do anything. I’m in Canada. Call the vet.”

  I screech, “Anna loves this dog and I think I killed it. For the love of nuts and berries, why did she ask me to watch her blessed dog! I can’t keep plants alive! I hire someone to water my plants. Why’d she ask me?”

  There’s a pause while I’m panting. My insides roil and I pace back and forth in the empty waiting room. “You hire someone to water your plants?”

  “Oh, Mylanta! Pay attention! Her dog is dying. And it’s my fault!”

  “What did you do?”

  “I left the food open. The dog ate the whole freaking bag. Like, all of it. Even some of the bag.”

  “But Anna keeps the food in a canister. The lid snaps shut. How—”

  “The dog is at my place! I didn’t carry that enormous canister home. Now the dog won’t stop dry heaving.”

  “Calm down. You need the vet.”

  This phone call, my lifeline, is no help. My heart pounds. I can’t possibly tell Anna I killed her dog. Olivia’s speaking to Sam, the new guy in her life. I focus on my breathing to calm down. I hear Sam say something about taking Chewie to the vet. And walking her. As if she’s up for a jaunt down Fifth Avenue. Fabulous advice. Thank you, friends.

  Eventually, Olivia asks, “Did you hear that?”

  “I’m already at the vet! This place is a small hole in the wall. The vet here is treating me like I’m a criminal. I’m half expecting animal protective services to come and arrest me any minute now. So, if I call you again, you pick up the bloody phone because it means I need you to bail me out of jail.”

  “You aren’t going to jail.” Olivia’s calm voice rings through the line. “These things happen.”

  No. I’ve never heard of this happening to anyone. “They should have asked Chase. He’s a better human than me.”

  “Oh, please. Hush. Chewie is going to be okay. Besides, Chase would probably come home drunk and throw up on the dog.”

  Chewie’s lethargic, her sides expanding and contracting. A big, heaving, brown mass of hair. Everything about her, from her jerking body to her sad eyes, says she’s in pain. Tears blur my vision. What have I done?

  An incognito door opens to the side of the reception desk. Bitch on wheels pushes a low cart past the line of chairs. I set the phone down and grab Chewie’s front while mean girl helps with her behind. She doesn’t say a single word to me, treating me as if I forced open the dog's jaw and poured food into it.

  She’s charging out of reception, pushing the cart away, leaving me dumbstruck, when the cheerful magenta-haired woman slides the glass window open and says, “You don’t have to stay out there. You can come on back here with your doggie.”

  I pick the phone up off the chair and whisper-shout, “I’m being allowed back with the dog. I swear this woman hates me. If I call, answer!”

  I slip the phone into my jeans pocket. The magenta-haired woman stands by the door, holding it wide open with a warm smile. I clutch her hand and squeeze, grateful to be the recipient of kindness, as she says, “Hi, sweetie. I’m gonna get some information from you, and then you can head on back to be with your baby.”

  “Oh, she’s not mine, remember? Her name is Chewbacca Hendricks. I’m dog sitting. You know, I’m the one on the emergency contact list.” I add the last part to remind her of the conversation we had three minutes ago.

  “Well, that explains why I don’t recognize you, sweetie. I’m so good with faces. You had my brain whirring trying to place you. I’m Elisabetta, but most people call me Bet for short.”

  I bounce from foot to foot and tap a pen on the counter. Tap, tap, tap, click, thud, thud, tap, tap, tap.

  “Sweetie, what’s your name?”

  “Oh. I’m Delilah. Chewbacca’s mom’s name is Anna. Anna Hendricks.”

  “Oh, yes. Sweet Anna. How is she?”

  “Good. She’s in the mountains. No cell service.” I tap the pen frantically on the counter, hyping up my heartrate as I do. A gentle hand falls on mine. Her long nails are rounded and thick. I glance up, and Bet pats my hand then takes my pen away. “Honey, you’ve got a case of the nerves. Let’s get you on back so you can be with your baby.”

  Not my baby, but that’s fine. I inhale and exhale and long for my yoga mat.

  She points me to a small room. Chewie’s been placed on a long stainless-steel table.

  “Dr. Herriot will be in soon. Wait here and make yourself comfortable.”

  After Bet leaves, I watch Chewie’s still form. She is standing, head hanging low. I rub her ears and scratch underneath her neck. Kind, golden-brown, soulful eyes peer up at me. She swallows and strains. Her rib cage expands and contracts, filling the room with barely audible wheezing sounds.

  Minutes go by. My heartrate calms. Chewie has all the markings of a sick patient, but she’s not vomiting. She’s still dry heaving, but they left her here with me. They must not see her case as mission critical. I bury my face against her neck and rub the brown, mangled mass of fur. Please be okay.

  The door opens, and I slowly straighten. A deep male voice rumbles, “Hi, I’m Dr. Herriot.”

  I’d expected bitch in scrubs, but I much prefer this vet. He extends his hand as I admire his dark hair, faded navy scrubs, and white lab coat. A tuft of curly black hair surfaces near the V in his scrub top. He has a rugged doctor image befitting a poster for any TV hospital drama. His warm hand engulfs mine, and the muscles on his forearm flex slightly as we shake. His energy flow passes through, and a tingling sensation follows. Ms. Zelda from home would say he has a vibrant aura.

  A stethoscope hangs out of one of the long, rectangular pockets. The man’s eyes are enigmatic, an unusual green, infused with hues of saffron and honey. The extraordinary color has me leaning forward to analyze the shade. Dark stubble creates definition along the lines of his jaw. This man should be on one of the sexiest veterinary calendars. I’m not positive there is such a thing, but if not, there should be. I’d buy twelve photos of him in calendar form without pause. I wouldn’t even care where the charity money went.

  Sexy man slips his hand into his coat pocket, a scrumptious smile on his face.

  I follow his gaze downward and notice my boobs. You can almost see the darker color of my areolas through the cotton. I curve my shoulders forward, as if by hunching my back my braless boobs will disappear. The white top I threw on in a panic features a support shelf. In my rush out the door, I didn’t remember a bra or check for see-through cotton, but with my boobs, I should know better. These puppies need full support and coverage. I didn’t think. About much of anything, really, other than Anna’s dog. That’s the moment I
realize I didn’t put on makeup, and my hair is one wild, crazy rat’s nest on top of my head.

  His thick, dark eyebrows lift with expectation, and it’s apparent he’s waiting for me to introduce myself. Because that’s what normal people do in situations like this. “Delilah.”

  A low, barely audible rendition of Hey There Delilah comes out, hummed in a deep timbre as he flips through Chewie’s file. Guys sing this song to me all the time. On a normal day, in a bar, it’s my signal to head the other way. I like originality. In his case, though, right now, he may not even realize he’s humming the song. Even if he does, I don’t mind. He’s going to work magic on Anna’s dog. And he’s being a bit of a goof. Goofiness is good. The weight of my worry lightens, and without thinking, I sway to the overplayed song.

  Chewie wheezes and emits one of her stomach-churning vomit sounds. Poor, sick doggie. I stroke her ears and scratch her throat, below her collar. His attention shifts from the file to the patient. “What have we got going on here?”

  “She ate a whole bag of dog food.” I cringe, anticipating judgment. It’s my fault. There’s no sugarcoating it.

  “When?” He feels her sides and stops at her belly, groping all around.

  “Sometime this morning.”

  For a fleeting moment, he observes me before the dog consumes all his attention. Concern flashes across his face as he listens through his stethoscope. When he finishes, he washes his hands, dries them on a paper towel, then leans against the counter and addresses me in a calm, instructional, doctor voice. “Chewie is experiencing canine bloat. Overeating causes pain receptors in her stomach to stretch, which in turn causes discomfort. Did she eat dry food?”

  I answer affirmatively, and he nods like somehow he already knew this.

  “The dry food absorbs moisture from the body and causes dehydration. We have two things to worry about. One, the hydration, is easily solved. We can give her fluids through an IV. Our other concern is GDV, which stands for gastric dilatation volvulus. The fear is that her stomach will twist. If her stomach or intestines start to twist, she may require surgery. I’d like to take an x-ray, see more of what we are dealing with. Then we’ll complete a baseline radiograph now and possibly another one in twelve hours. Does that sound okay to you?”