“Aw, Bucker, what did you get yourself into,” I talk softly to the horse and kneel down to pet his thick grey neck. He snorts like a greeting when his startled eyes find me. Horses are so intelligent and having a relationship with him helps.
I cautiously work my hand down his flank, reassuring him with my comforting touch and sounds. My gentle stroke stops above his knee, just up from the bite on his cannon. I work fast with my other hand to open my medical bag, simultaneously grabbing the disinfectant. He flinches a little as the cold liquid hits his small open wound. I take the opportunity of distraction to inject a shot of antibiotics into him as well. The owner's doing a great job restraining him, and when I check his pulse it’s a healthy tempo.
We let him lie there for another thirty minutes as I monitor his heart rate and reactions. All turns out well, and before I know it, I’m back in my office on wheels, heading back into town for lunch.
Caring for these beautiful creatures and helping them out is my life’s calling. Every time I walk away knowing the animal is going to be okay, it brings joy to my soul.
4
This is the day the project kicks into gear. My mind bounces, visualizing concepts for the Winters’ family den. I snatch my sketch pad to jot down ideas and organize my flurry of designs. Then, after a warm splash in the shower and a damp messy bun later, I rush out of the door and head straight to their house to get started. I’m like a devil possessed, color swatches and wallpaper samples still whirling in my brain. I jog past the coffee shop and don’t stop until a paint brush is in hand. It doesn’t take long to stain the walls with a new coat of paint and step back to see the small change that has made a big impact on the massive room’s transformation.
“Roxy, no!” Crash, clank, clank. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Roxy, oh no!” The pan falls in slow motion, spilling paint everywhere. Paw prints scatter the dust sheets as the small dog scampers away from the devastation. It’s certainly not a masterpiece creation but more of an unsightly disaster. I chase her in circles, frustrated that she thinks it’s a game. “Come on, Roxi,” I groan.
I finally get the opportunity to scoop her tiny body up out of the slick mess. Her head shakes, wrestling it against my chest, trying to reach splattered paws. I know she’s desperate to lick away the paint, but I can’t let her - what if her tongue swells up, or worse, she dies? I need this job and killing the pet would definitely seal my virtuoso fate. Paint plasters my old shirt, but I take the tails to wipe her snout, moving paint from her nose to below her eye. That quick swipe only gives her a patch like spot, dangerously close to her frantically batting lashes.
I’m sure this stuff is toxic. My heart rate skyrockets when she squirms and sneezes. Oh shit, she’s going to die if I don’t do something! With her wedged under my armpit, I grab my phone and yell at Siri, “Hey, Siri, dial 911!”
“Calling, 911,” Siri’s quick response comes out robotic and annoying. I could drop kick my phone because of her calm and collected tone.
When she dials the number, I feel like the phone rings for an eternity, okay, it’s maybe only five rings, but no one answers right away. What kind of emergency line doesn’t pick up on the first ring?
“911, what’s your emergency?”
Oh, finally. “Hello, yes, uh… I urgently need help.” I have no idea what to say. How can I tell the operator my client's dog is wearing a paint suit?
“Okay, ma’am, I need you to calm down and take a deep breath. First of all, what’s your name? Are you hurt?”
Is this woman for real… she wants to know my name when this dog's life is hanging in the balance? “Calm down, I can’t calm down. It’s everywhere… she’s going to suffocate and die. Please, come to the Winters’ house on Second Street, right away.” Panic makes me snappy, and I pace the room shushing the wriggly dog. “Roxy, is covered head to toe in toxic paint.”
“Can you give me Roxy’s age?” The operator is just toying with me now. How the heck should I know what age the dog is?
“I have no clue. Please, can you just get someone out here before she dies.” I don’t mean to come across so abrupt, but the room looks like a paint bomb hit, and the Winters’ beloved pooch has matted fur and a possible expiry date.
“Okay, stay with me, what is your name?
“Romi… I’m Romi.”
“Romi, is Roxy a child or an adult?”
“I don’t know, she doesn’t look like a puppy. I think you can tell by their teeth, but I wouldn’t know what to look for. In her state she might bite me.” I’m rambling and glancing out of the doorway to make sure the Winters’ aren’t coming home early.
“Ma’am, did you say Roxy is a dog?”
“Yes, she’s a dog. Now, please hurry up. I need this job, and I don’t want this cute little thing to die!”
“Oh, ma’am, this is your lucky day.” I’d hardly call this a lucky day. This woman is plain crazy. She’s truly lost her rocker, yet she continues, “I’m changing the dispatch from the Sheriff’s office to the emergency animal veterinary clinic. Dr. Wrangler will be with you as soon as possible. Please tell him Ms. Pearl says hi.”
“Ahhh, okay. Thank you.” See, I told you. Crazy with a capital C. The call disconnects. “Oh, Roxy, for such a small thing you sure as hell make a lot of trouble. Next time you’ll have to stay in the kitchen.” I keep my voice to a whisper, to keep her calm, or is it to keep myself calm. I know the job is important but so is this poor pup. “I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to you, Rox.”
I peer out the window, antsy with worry. I’ve been waiting for the vet to get here for over five minutes and counting. If she snorts up any paint particles, who knows what lasting damage there might be. And the fumes, phew they’re strong. I crack the window open and let in fresh air.
A doorbell chimes, and I hear a deep burly man’s voice call out, “Dr. Walker here.”
“Oh, thank God,” I bluster. With Roxy still trapped in my arms, I dart out of the den and notice my boots tracking paint over the polished floor, so I back track.
“Come on in, the door is open.” The creak of the large front wooden door echoes through the foyer and into the den. “We’re in the back, covered in paint.”
“Okay, I’m coming to you.” The voice is calm and chilling, like ice-cream slipping down your throat on a warm day. Footsteps gradually get louder. “Well, well, what on earth have you two been up to?” The reassuring depth to his tone instantly settles my thrumming pulse, taking it from erratic to stable. With my eyes still on Roxy, I note the wet paint has started to dry in clumps. She looks bedraggled like a kid with face paint who’s tried to remove it with a sticky hand.
“Oh dear, this is bad.” I gulp.
“It ain’t that bad.” My gaze cuts from Roxy’s miserable appearance to bewitching light brown eyes. I stop pacing and stand in silence, studying the mixture of both light and dark. They’re an earthy shade of fascination, with a darker mahogany circling a paler brown like my favorite hazelnut latte. “It’s going to be okay, I got you.” Soft lines wrinkle the corner of those dreamy eyes when the stranger smiles. “Now, let me see. It’s Roxy, right? Did any of the paint get in her eyes?”