Page 8 of Slap Shot Daddies

There's no time to waste.

Hastily, I yank on a pair of black joggers and an oversized hoodie. With a quick shove, my feet find their place in my well-worn sneakers, their soles molded by my steps.

As I step outside, the crisp Minnesota morning air bites sharply, it’s a chilly embrace that jolts my senses awake.

The sky is draped in a deep indigo cloak, with the first hints of dawn just beginning to brush the horizon with tentative strokes of light.

A thin, ethereal mist clings stubbornly to the ground, swirling like a ghostly veil around my ankles as I jog purposefully toward my car.

Inside the Jeep, the air is frigid, the leather seat an icy surface against my legs as I settle behind the wheel. My fingersfumble to turn the ignition, the engine protesting with a groan before it finally roars to life, its sound resonating in the stillness.

For a moment, my mind lingers on my backseat adventures with the Marauders new player…

I’ve gotta focus. I throw the car into drive with a determined thrust.

The streets lie eerily abandoned. The city is cloaked in an unsettling silence, broken only by the hum of my engine as I press the accelerator a tad harder than prudence allows.

My mind races ahead, worried about the injured bird waiting for me.

By the time I glide into the parking lot of Feather & Fur Veterinary Clinic, the neon “OPEN 24/7” sign buzzes softly in the darkness, a flickering beacon that promises another arduous early morning.

I barely take the time to throw the Jeep into park before I'm grabbing my worn, trusty bag and sprinting toward the entrance.

The clinic is awash with the sharp scent of antiseptic mingling with the earthy aroma of fresh hay, a peculiar combination that immediately roots me in the moment.

As one of the only clinics in the area that takes exotic animals, I am often blessed with bunnies and other small animals that love to snack on and sleep in sweet-smelling hay.

Margo stands anxiously by the counter, her dark curls a tumultuous halo around her face, her eyes wide pools of worry. In her gentle hands, she cradles King, the small pigeon, swaddled with care in a soft, cream-colored towel.

A faint, plaintive coo escapes from him, his gray and white feathers fluffed up in tension and distress.

She swiftly transfers him into my embrace and his fragile body radiates warmth. I can feel the frantic rhythm of his tiny heart thrumming against my palms like a rapid, worried drumbeat.

His left wing hangs limply, drooping at an awkward angle, a telltale sign of strain or perhaps a fracture, eliciting a pang of concern in my chest.

“He just…he hit the coop door wrong when I was putting him away,” Margo blurts out, her voice tinged with urgency and worry. Her eyes dart between me and the bird in her hands. "He’s supposed to race in a month, Kenzie. You have to fix him."

I nod, my mind already transitioning into doctor mode, a practiced calm settling over me. “We’ll do a scan, see what’s going on under there,” I say, my voice steady and reassuring.

I gesture with a tilt of my head toward the dimly lit hallway. “Come on, let’s get him settled in the exam room.”

Three hours later, I finally breathe a deep sigh of relief, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders.

King is going to be fine.

The X-rays, developed with meticulous care, reveal no fractures, just a deep bruise along the smooth curve of his wing's radius. It's nothing a little time and tender loving care won’t mend.

I gently stroke the top of his head, my fingers sinking into the soft, downy fluff, and he coos softly in appreciation, a gentle vibration of comfort.

“All right, Margo,” I say, handing her a small amber bottle of anti-inflammatory medication. “Administer two drops every morning for the next ten days, and make sure he doesn’t fly at all. He needs to rest. Think of it like a human with a sprained ankle that needs cautious care.”

Margo exhales a heavy breath of relief, clutching King close to her chest as if he were a precious treasure. "Kenzie, I owe you big time," she says, her voice filled with gratitude.

I wave her off with a small smile, already turning to tidy up the examination room. “Just take good care of him, that’s all I ask,” I reply, my heart full with the satisfaction of having helped.

She nods vigorously, her enthusiasm palpable, but as my eyes dart to the wall clock hanging above the exam room door, a sharp twist of anxiety coils in my stomach.

I'm running late.

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