Page 24 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“The feral cat appointment at one thirty. You’ll be on bite-guard duty.”

“I’ll be what?”

Logan’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “Mrs. Moore will show you where the tetanus shots are, just in case.”

“That’s not funny,” I protest.

“Who’s joking?” Mrs. Moore asks with perfect innocence.

That afternoon, the feral cat, with murder in its eyes, takes one look at me and decides I’m its eternal enemy. The thing twists in my grip like a furry Houdini, somehow managing to sink its teeth through the supposedly bite-proof glove.

Logan doesn’t laugh when it happens, which somehow makes it worse. He extracts the cat’s teeth from my hand with practiced efficiency, cleans the wound, and gives me a tetanus booster with the calm of someone who’s seen it all before.

“Animals sense fear,” he tells me while bandaging my hand. “Try to project confidence next time, even if you don’t feel it.”

Next time? I’ll be lucky if I survive until Friday.

Thursday introduces me to the clinic’s more dramatic clientele.

“Mrs. Kensington and Precious at three o’clock,” Mrs. Moore announces, tapping the appointment book. “You’ll need to be ready with the smelling salts.”

“What?”

She nods grimly. “She faints when her dog gets vaccinations. It’s not the dog we worry about. It’s the owner.”

Sure enough, Mrs. Kensington arrives at three, clutching a perfectly groomed Pomeranian. The moment Logan appears with the vaccine, she begins to sway dramatically.

I catch her as she collapses backward while Logan administers the shot to Precious, who seems embarrassed by his owner’s theatrics.

“Is she okay?” I whisper to Logan as we fan Mrs. Kensington with a magazine.

“She’ll be fine,” he mutters. “She does this every time.”

I’m not sure if he’s joking until I notice a small business card in Precious’s file for “Dr. Barkley, Pet Behavioral Therapist.”

The rest of the day brings a parade of equally memorable clients.

First, Mr. Jenkins, whose parrot has learned to mimic the smoke detector, resulting in the fire department being called to their apartment three times last month. Then Mrs. Albertson, who is convinced her perfectly healthy Labrador has caught depression from watching too many commercials.

By closing time, my feet ache, my hand throbs where the cat bit me, and I have a newfound appreciation for Logan’s perpetual scowl. If I had to deal with this level of ridiculousness every day for years, I’d be grumpy too. But it’s almost Friday, and I’ve survived the whole first week.

Then Friday afternoon comes, and I already feel nothing worse could happen. And yet, when I think I might survive my first week, Amelia sits down, and the first client of the afternoon comes in.

“Perfect timing!” I babble as what I swear has to be the hundredth woman in her forties to come in today sashays toward the desk.

She’s got some kind of miniature dog in her bag. Why do people do things like that? I would hate being carried around in some knock-off leopard bag if I were a dog. But it’s none of my business.

All I need to be doing is writing down general information about the woman and her dog.

It turns out, little Brutus needs to have his temperature checked. Mrs. Summer comes into the vet clinic with her little darling at least twice a week. You might think it’s because she genuinely loves and cares for the hideous little creature, but the truth is, while the poor little thing’s got a thermometer stuck up his butt, Mrs. Summer’s shamelessly flirting with the sexy vet.No wonder the poor beast’s got that expression on his ugly little face. If I were him, I would jump out of that stupid leopard bag and run for my life, as far away as possible.

The afternoon passes slowly as I make appointments and receive clients. They’re all women, of course. Toward the end of the day, a boy comes in. He’s the only male I’ve seen in this place besides Logan. His eyes are shiny with tears as he rushes up to the reception desk.

“Good afternoon, dear. Do you have an appointment?”

The boy, who must be thirteen or fourteen, shakes his head. “No,” he says with a sob, “but I need to see the doctor. Rico ate something, and now he’s sick.” He stops talking and bursts into tears.

I try unobtrusively to scope out whatever’s in the carrier the boy’s holding. I’m curious as to what Rico is. The crate’s pretty big, so I imagine there’s something big in there.

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