Page 41 of A Stable Daddy

“Poor Bootsie,” Beryl coos.

“Stop being a sook,” Shaz directs towards the carrier.

Sarah laughs. “I think we should definitely get this over with for Boots,” she says, then looks at me apologetically. “You don’t mind waiting? You can come sit in the lunchroom while you do.” She leans in conspiratorially, “We’ve got Harley, the cutest beagle puppy ever, in a kennel in there at the moment. He’s a bit sad because he’s just been desexed, so he could use some pats.”

“I guess if Ihaveto pet the cute puppy I will,” I tell her, as though the task is a chore.

“Two secs.” She turns to Beryl and Shaz. “Come on through.”

The carrier yowls again as Shaz lifts it, wobbling a little precariously with its weight. “You’re not getting any treats if you keep carrying on like that,” she tells it.

“Don’t listen to her,” Beryl interjects, stooping to address the feline behind the bars, “I’ve got your back.”

“You spoil him.”

“I do not. I just show him affection.”

They continue to bicker as Sarah leads them past me and down the hallway to the first of the doors on the right. Presumably, the treatment room, surgery, and kennel room/break room all back on to the reception area, one after the other, if the three evenly spaced doors are any indication.

“…this is why he’s fat.” Shaz’s words are the last ones I hear as Sarah closes the door behind them then heads back over to me.

“I feel sorry for the staff at the retirement village with that pair,” she tells me, but her tone is full of affection. Then she gives herself a shake and says, “Come on, this way,” like there was any other option.

We reach the final door, and she gestures for me to place the insulated bag on the two-seat folding table positioned flush against the right wall of the room. The far wall has two rows of three caged kennels mounted against it, and the left side of the room is home to a small counter and sink, and a small fridge which has ‘LUNCH’ emblazoned over it in black sharpie.

“The, uh, the last staff kept mixing up the fridge in here with the one in surgery,” Sarah explains with a roll of her eyes. “Because it totally makes sense to put your sandwiches in with the meds in the sterile surgical room, doesn’t it?”

“Wow,” I shake my head. “Some people are…somethin’ else.”

“You said it.” She moves over to the kennels and crouches down in front of the crate on the far right. “Hey, sweetie. You’ve got a visitor.” The puppy inside whines and noses his way out, and I feel a pang of sympathy for the big, brown eyes overshadowed by the cone of shame.

“Aww, pupper,” I crouch beside Sarah and reach out to scritch behind the pup’s soft, floppy ears. “What did the mean doctor do to you? Did he take away your manhood?”

Sarah snorts. “Don’t let Ryan hear you putting it that way. You’ll get a lecture.”

The idea of my sweet Boy lecturing me only makes me chuckle. “I’ll take my chances.”

The puppy gets impatient, bouncing his head under my hand as he whines again. I rub the top of his head with my fingertips. “Sorry, boy. Did I stop petting you?”

“Well, now that you understand the importance of your job here, I’ve got a few things to get organised. Shout out if you need anything.” She pushes to her feet again but hesitates before she turns. “And, um, thank you for being there for Ryan last week. I don’t know exactly what was going on, but it’s obvious that you’re good for him. I’m glad he’s got you.”

Before I can respond, she spins on her heel and leaves the room.

Harley whines and bumps my hand again.

“Sorry,” I apologise again, “guess I need a bit more training at this job, huh?”

This is how Ryan finds me maybe fifteen or so minutes later, only I gave in to the burning of my thighs and sat my ass down on the linoleum floor a while ago. He snorts as he approaches but bends to press a kiss to the top of my head. “Oh, you’re trapped now,” he tells me. “He’ll never forgive you if you stop patting him.”

“Well, that’s too bad, because there’s another very good boy I want to spend time with.”

Ryan groans. “That was a terrible joke.” Even so, he gently guides Harley back into his crate and locks him in, seemingly unbothered by the pitiful cries from the puppy. Then he extends his hand and I grasp it, allowing him to help me up.

We wash our hands at the sink, and I pull our lunches out of the cooler bag when we take our seats at the table.

Harley seems to have settled down by the time we dig into our salads, which is good because my heart couldn’t take the sad puppy sounds for much longer. I have no idea how Ryan does this for a living.

“So, you made quite the impression on Sharon and Beryl,” Ryan tells me as we eat, and I can’t help snickering.

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