Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 28557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
In my family, nothing stays a secret for long. "You say one word to anyone and I'm denying everything. And I’ll stop babysitting your animals." We both know that’s one threat I’ll never carry out.
He stands up, pretending to dust himself off. "Okay, Romeo. I’ll keep your secret. For now."
Pork dashes past us, already reclaiming his spot in my living room as Beans waddles in and attempts to hop up on the sofa. Beckett leans down and gives them each a good ear scratch before helping the pot belly pig up. "Be good, you two."
I watch him drive off, the weight of his teasing still clinging to me. As Pork and Beans snuffle around my feet, I can't help but let my mind drift back to Sage. No one has ever thrown me this off balance.
“We need to get out of the house.” Yes. I talk to them. We head out to the park, the pig and dog leading the way. It’s turning into a beautiful day, and the park is filled with loud kids and parents half-heartedly trying to keep a lid on the chaos. The smell of fresh-cut grass and hot dogs from the street vendor hits my nose, and I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I’m going to waste away if I don’t get ahold of myself.
While Eloise heads out to run a few errands, I take Winnie to the kitchen for her breakfast. When my always-hungry dog refuses to eat, I start to worry something is wrong with her.
By midafternoon, I’m sure she’s really sick so I Google emergency vets in the area. Lucky for me, there’s one right up the road, so I pack up Winnie and rush out.
The vet clinic has a waiting room full of concerned pet parents, and I'm breathless at the counter, trying to explain how my dog is basically at death's door.
The woman taking forms is oblivious, indifferent, working through a paper pile that's swallowed the right side of the desk. Behind me, the pet parents waiting in their vinyl seats cast practiced looks of empathy and superiority like they can't decide if they feel worse for me or my unfortunate animal. Winnie lays it on thick, slumping into a heap of misery on the counter. Either she’s got one foot in the grave or she's giving Oscar-worthy work.
"Did you fill out the emergency intake?" The receptionist finally looks up, giving me about two seconds of eye contact before glancing at her watch. It's probably synced with the phones of the five people sitting around us, and none of them are about to croak.
"She's very sick," I say, shoving my paperwork into her uncaring hands. "It was sudden. She stopped eating. Laying around, listless. She's usually the best girl in the world and now..." I gesture to the furry ball of drama beside me.
She nods with a precision that's probably clocked too. "Someone will be with you as soon as they can."
The counter creaks as I sink into it. Don't they understand this is a crisis? Winnie moans and gives a delicate tremble, pulling attention her way. My poor baby is dying and this woman doesn’t care.
When the tech finally comes out, she’s holding a clipboard instead of a gurney, but at least she’s calling our name. I give the room one last look, broadcasting my concern to anyone still watching, and gather Winnie into my arms.
In the exam room, my panic ratchets up. I lean toward the technician as she examines her chart. "How long will it be?" I ask. I'm like one of the kids at the end of the school day, hopping from one foot to the other, desperate for the next thing to happen.
"It depends." She's not encouraging. She's also not impressed with the shivering mess that is my dog. “The vet will be in soon.”
After she steps out, I distract myself by thinking about Ian Hot. The man radiates cool confidence, which is why I can barely string two words together when he’s within fifty feet. Yesterday, he strolled into my classroom for Career Day in full firefighter gear, leaving me the most breathless I’d ever been in front of a bunch of eight-year-olds.
A full thirty agonizing minutes later, the vet pushes open the door, Winnie's tiny tail wagging furiously ahead of him. "Winnie?" he asks, flipping through some notes.
"Yes!" I say, louder than I mean to.
He slowly examines Winnie, and my little shit eats up the attention.
Before my eyes, the little faker goes from near death to perky and enjoying the attention. The vet looks up and regards me with a look of professional patience. "I can’t find anything wrong with her. She’s perfectly healthy."
"But she’s acting so weird!"
"Her vitals are fine and her examination looks great. Probably just anxiety. Sometimes they feed off their owner's stress."