Page 5 of The Minotaur's Valentine

I’ll be lucky to find her, too...

Chapter Six: Libby

“How bad is the bite? Well, it wasn’t—” Dr. Peterson shuts the door to his closet-sized office.

He does that a lot, especially later in the day.

Pine Ridge Pet Clinic is open from 8:30 to 5:30 Monday through Thursday and until noon on Friday. But, it seems that right around five, the phone goes nuts. I guess a lot of people work nights and sleep during the day? Or something. Anyway, all of a sudden, I can’t fill in appointments fast enough. (Even though I’m the vet tech, I also make the appointments and mail the letters. Dr. Peterson does all the invoices and billing. It’s a two-man show.)

“Libby. You can go on home. I’m going to work late.”

Dr. Peterson emerges from his office, his thin, papery face and watery blue eyes giving an air of extreme age, but also kindness. He’s a genuinely nice person and one of the few men I trust. Not just because he’s old. I’ve met some old perverts before, believe me.

It’s because he’s so nice (and because I’m a coward who is a little afraid to try forcing my way into a social scene that I can’t even find) that I pipe up, “I can work late tonight. I could stay and make sure the overnight stays are taken care of.”

“That’s very kind of you, Libby. Perhaps another time. I... have to make a house call.”

“Oh. Okay. Wow, the vets in my hometown would never do that.”

Dr. Peterson smiled and nodded as he tucked his round, wire-rim glasses into the pocket of his long tan overcoat. “Well, sometimes the problem is bigger than my office.”

“Like a horse?”

“Yes. Like a horse.”

I study my boss for a minute. Again, I trust this guy. He’s never been rude, patronizing, late with my check, or unkind to a customer. The amount of respect people show him is off the charts. The way animals instantly purr at him or race to nuzzle his hands blows my mind.

It was the way he said, “Like a horse” that caught my ear. My boss sounded... guarded.

“I’ll lock up on my way out if you have to run,” I offer. “And I really don’t mind staying until eight to take care of the overnight stays. Then you won’t have to rush back.”

Dr. Peterson (whom I often call “Doc” in my mind) is hurrying to grab supplies and stuff them in a big leather rucksack. I think he was in a car accident or maybe took a nasty fall skiing when he was younger because of the way he walks. It’s not like normal, smooth strides, even when he’s not in a hurry. He takes quick little trotting hops as if both his feet and knees are permanently hobbled.

Like a mountain goat.

But a lovable mountain goat.

Dr. Peterson hesitates just for a second. I assume it’s because he doesn’t trust me. After all, his house is attached to the clinic. Maybe he thinks I’ll use this time to case the joint, or get in through the connecting door and rob him.

That’s what you’d think if you grew up in my neighborhood.

Then Doc says something that melts my heart and makes me so glad I found this place.

“Here’s a key to the front door. Now, you be careful staying here alone—I know what a hard worker you are, Libby. You’ll tell yourself you’ll leave at eight and I’ll find you here in the morning! Promise you’ll leave right at eight and you’ll bundle up in the extra coat I keep in the front closet. It’s cold and drizzling out tonight. Oh! And you’d better order something in or take a dinner break and grab something. No, no, take this—” he hands me a second key, one that’s tiny and silver, “and get twenty dollars from the petty cash box. Ah! And make sure you write down the hours for me so I don’t forget to pay you! Is time and a half okay?”

My voice is a little croaky when I answer. “You don’t have to pay me any extra. Just normal rates. Minus dinner break.”

“No,” he protests, patting his forehead for the glasses he just took off, “the dinner break is a necessity if you’re staying until eight. It’s paid for. I really must dash, Libby. See you in the morning!”

“See you in the morning.”

I hug myself as the door closes. It probably didn’t mean much to him, but that little exchange is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a dad telling me to take care of myself and be safe.

It’s not a social life, exactly, but it’s a start.

Chapter Seven: Libby

My mom was an old-school metalhead. My earliest memory is of her freaking out and dropping a whole bowl of pudding when she found that I had managed to get out of my old collapsible playpen (Deathtrap circa 1989, gotten for cheap from a yard sale) and colored all over her signed Siouxsie Sioux and the Banshees poster.

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