Page 23 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

After I hang up, Mrs. Moore pats my hand like I’m some kind of special case. “We’ll keep practicing, dear.”

By Tuesday, I’ve mastered the correct phone greeting but still struggle with what Mrs. Moore calls spatial awareness. Translation: I keep knocking shit over.

The reception desk is a minefield of precariously balanced items. Stacks of folders, ceramic pet figurines—God, why?—and a large water pitcher positioned in my elbow’s trajectory.

I juggle an armful of patient files while filling the fish tank with my other hand.

Mrs. Donovan, our first appointment, approaches the desk to fill out paperwork. As she signs her name, her diamonds catch the light, momentarily blinding me. The Siamese in its carrier gives me a look of pure disdain.

“Just sign the last page.” I turn to set down the files.

My elbow connects with the water pitcher, sending it crashing to the floor. Water splashes everywhere, across the desk, over the files, and directly into Mrs. Donovan’s open designer purse.

“I’m so sorry!” I scramble for paper towels as Mrs. Donovan yanks her dripping bag off the counter.

“This is Italian leather,” she hisses, dabbing at it frantically. “It’s hand-stitched Prada!”

A guy with a hyper Jack Russell in the waiting area snickers. “Graceful.”

I shoot him a death glare while mopping up the flood with inadequate paper towels. My face burns hot enough to evaporate the water. “I can help clean?—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Mrs. Donovan’s voice could flash freeze lava. “Just finish my paperwork so we can get this over with.”

Logan materializes from his office, surveying the disaster zone with those piercing green eyes. He takes in the wet floor, my tomato face, and Mrs. Donovan’s rigid posture.

“Problem?” he asks, his voice calm but tight.

“Small spill. All fixed.” The words tumble out too quickly.

“It soaked my handbag,” Mrs. Donovan interjects.

Logan’s jaw twitches. “Be more careful,” he tells me, then turns to Mrs. Donovan. “We know a good leather cleaner if you need a recommendation.”

When they disappear into the exam room, I continue mopping, dignity in puddles around my feet.

Mrs. Moore appears at my side and helps me organize the damp files. “Don’t sweat it, honey,” she whispers. “I knocked that pitcher over twice last month. Why do you think Dr. Price switched from glass to plastic after the third one got smashed?”

I appreciate the attempt at comfort, but she moves the patient files to a lower shelf afterward—safely out of my disaster zone.

I’ve gotten the hang of the filing system and phone routine by Wednesday.

What blindsides me is the clinic’s... specialized protocols.

Mrs. Moore shows me the supply drawers when she pulls open the bottom one to reveal an odd collection: smelling salts, cold compresses, a first aid kit, and a bottle of Macallan 12.

“What’s with the whiskey?” I ask.

“For emergencies only,” Logan interjects, appearing behind us. He shoots Mrs. Moore a warning look.

Mrs. Moore winks at me. “The time Mr. Hoffman’s iguana escaped into the air duct was an emergency.”

“What kind of place is this?”

Logan’s mouth curves into a rare half-smile. “Welcome to veterinary medicine, Emily. Where every day brings something you couldn’t prepare for.” He glances at his watch. “I’ve got surgery in ten minutes. A Scottish fold with bladder stones.”

“Which reminds me,” Mrs. Moore says, pulling out a drawer and extracting what looks like a padded oven mitt. “You’ll need this after lunch.”

I take it gingerly. “For what?”

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