Page 44 of Hello Stranger

I just knew, you know? I sensed in an instant something was wrong.

I tried coaxing him over, holding up a piece and taking a nibble myself, hoping he’d come take it. (He didn’t.) I tried picking him up and setting him in front of the dish, like that might inspire him to dive in. (It didn’t.) I tried giving the dish ten seconds in the microwave, like that might make it seem fresh-baked and more appealing. (Kind of the opposite.)

But nothing.

All Peanut wanted to do was hold himself still like a statue.

I squeaked his squeaky squirrel, but he just stared at me, like,Really?I tossed it across the room and ran after it like we were racing, but he just blinked at me, like,Please.And when I finally picked up his leash and jangled it at him and watched himfully not respond,that’s when I called the vet.

The new vet—because it was closest. They weren’t even open yet, but I told the answering service it was an emergency.

They said they’d page one of the vets to meet me at the clinic.

And here’s how worried about Peanut I was: I didn’t even think to request Dr. Addison.

IT WAS Asmall clinic, not some big 24-hour place. But they did have weekend hours.

They were open only from eight to noon on Sundays, but I wrapped Peanut up in his favorite velour blanket, cradled him in my arms, powerwalked the entire two blocks over because I still wasn’t allowed to run for skull-related reasons, and was sitting on the bench by the clinic doors at 7:45.

My heart was wheezing. I don’t even think it was pumping blood at that point—just straight adrenaline and a dark feeling of dread that Peanut was dying.

Which was unacceptable. Even though he was fourteen years old.

This was no joke. I’d done a pretty impressive set of mathematical calculations involving the life spans of all the different dog breeds he was a mix of, and by every analysis, I was guaranteed at least two more years.

Some dogs in his general category made it to eighteen, even.

That’s all I could think as I sat on the bench with tears positively shellacking my face. I was not letting this dog die. I was not losing the only person who loved me. Not today. Any treatment.Anything.I’d call Lucinda if I had to. I’d beg my dad. No bill was too high. No humiliation was too great.

A few minutes later, Dr. Oliver Addison himself showed up, and I heard his leather dress shoes tapping the pavement of the parking lot before I saw the man himself.

When I looked up, I swear he was walking in slo-mo like a superhero. That’s how I remember it: backlit with a lens flare, the good doctor already wearing his white lab coat, which was unbuttoned and flapping behind him, cape-like, in the wind. This was no casual-Sunday ensemble: the man was bringing his professional A game, wearing a tie, suit slacks, and that epic, slicked-back Clark Kent hair.

And let’s not forget his gait: that confident, badass, I’m-going-to-save-your-pooch stride.

How had I never noticedgaitsbefore?

They were practically a love language all to themselves.

In another situation, I would have melted at the sight—dripped through the bench slats and puddled on the sidewalk.

But I stayed focused. For Peanut.

I stood up as Dr. Addison got closer, totally unaware that I was rocking the opposite of hisGQcover shoot vibe: I was still in the cotton calico baby-doll pajamas I’d slept in. And I should’ve popped on my sneakers as I headed out the door, but I somehow traveled two blocks to the vet clinic in my fuzzy slippers shaped like bunny rabbits, instead.

But the mortification of that would hit me later. Right now, there were only two things in the world: the little fuzzball dog burrito in my arms and the man who needed to save him.

Dr. Addison slowed as he got close, taking in the sight of us.

“There’s something wrong,” I said, my voice trembly from crying. “He won’t eat. He won’t move.” And now, we both noticed, he was panting.

Dr. Addison nodded like an unflappable hero and said, “Let’s get him inside.”

He led us straight past all the exam rooms, back to the back, where the real veterinary medicine took place. All the boarded dogs in their kennels woke up as we came in and started barking and whining and rattling around.

Dr. Addison didn’t even notice.

When we got to an exam table, he said, “Remind me of his age?”

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