Murders of a Feather, page 15
He chuckled and said, “That is a short story. Want me to come over and take a look at him or her?”
A big grin he couldn’t see signaled a yes. “That would be perfect. As you know I live in the luxuriously converted garage attached to the hospital.”
“What a coincidence? I also live in a luxuriously converted garage rental. I gather that many locals convert garages into rental units for extra income up here.”
“Really?”
“Sadly, yes. I keep telling myself it’s temporary. See you soon.”
After our call ended I took a look around. A quick cleaning and laundry systemization was definitely in order. Stat.
Mike looked exactly as I remembered. A little rumpled, although he had obviously put on a brand new shirt for our meeting. The crease marks from being folded up were distinctly present in the button-down blue shirt that complemented his eyes. A sizing tag, M, stuck to the sleeve.
When I peeled it off for him, he said, “Oops. All my shirts were in the dirty clothes hamper.”
Buddy greeted him with a cautious bark and then a wag of the tail. Mike bent down to pet him and asked, “King Charles spaniel?”
I nodded. “Rescued.”
“Heart issues?”
“Not yet.”
We’d quickly fallen into a sort of shorthand veterinary speak. It proved a far cry from my usual dates, who asked dozens of questions about treating animals, then wanted you to check out their pet for free. I wondered if proctologists fielded the same problem?
“Where is he?”
“I’ve got him in a cardboard box for now. I’d feel more comfortable opening it up in one of our cages, so he doesn’t escape.” I had visions of us trying to catch a flying bird in my apartment, dodging bird poop—or worse—seeing a crow flying around in the hospital with Mr. Katt lunging, mouth open hoping to score big.
Mike obviously agreed. “Just a second.” He went over to his coat and dug around in the pockets. “I’ve brought some peanuts, dry kitten kibble, and a few mealy worms, just in case he’s hungry.” He smiled and held up a plastic ziplock bag.
“Okay. See, I knew this box would come in handy.” I’d placed the cardboard box on top of the sideboard table, wedged behind some canned goods, in case the crow started trying to break out.
“I always keep a couple of sizes of cardboard boxes around, in case I have to rescue a critter,” he confessed. “Got some stashed in my car, too.”
I was beginning to like Mike more and more.
Once we were inside the animal hospital, I placed the cardboard box in an upper cage.
“Let me get Mr. Katt out of here,” I said, searching for our hospital cat.
A quick flash of fur over by the computer station signaled that our cat had found us. Unbidden, he leaped onto Mike’s shoulder and gave him a head butt.
“Mr. Katt, I presume?” Mike rubbed under Mr. Katt’s chin just the way he liked it.
“Come on, big guy,” I said and carefully removed him. His long back nails tended to get stuck. “I’m going to put him in my office and bribe him with some wet food.” I figured the crow would appreciate not having a big fluffy cat staring at him.
With our hospital kitty safely stowed away, Mike walked me through how to approach our wild visitor. It involved hanging two sheets in front of the cage, poking his head through, and carefully opening the box. I served as the backup catcher, armed with a towel in case of escape. All our fears were for naught. Although the crow appeared to have recovered from the head blow, he couldn’t be released yet.
“Let’s feed him, give him a water source, and cover the cage overnight. He’s got no obvious leg or wing damage, although it looks like he injured one of his wings in the past. See the uneven feathers? My guess is he’ll be good to be released in the morning when he can orient himself.”
“Thanks so much for your help,” I told him. “Want a quick hospital tour? Last time you had to hightail it out of here.”
He smiled again. “Sure. Let me wash my hands first.”
We started at the front of the hospital with the reception area and our in-house pharmacy. He asked some questions about what drugs we stocked and the length of our appointments. As we continued to stroll around. I noted his strong profile, with a firm chin and slightly bent nose, as though it had been broken. His hands were working hands, short nails, a healing scratch on his wrist. I assumed he’d been doing a similar inventory of me.
I suddenly became acutely aware of all the hearts and Valentine’s Day stuff decorating the front office.
“This is a nice card.” Mike had stopped to read one of our thank-you cards from a grateful client. “Very complimentary.”
My face flushed a bit. “You’ve got to excuse the decorations,” I said. “Cindy loves to celebrate all the holidays.”
“Our staff celebrates every holiday too but goes all out for Halloween,” he told me. “Everyone dresses in costumes. We even have twinkling orange lights with skeletons outside. Last year they made me wear a bloodhound mask.”
“I’d like to have seen that,” I laughed.
When we got back to the treatment room, I stopped in front of the surgery doors. He’d been inside already, when he performed the hernia repair on Porky the piglet. Did I want to revisit where Babs died? He must have noticed my hesitation.
“We can skip the rest,” Mike said. “Let’s go back to your place, and I’ll give you some tips on our crow friend.”
Very grateful our tour was cut short, I opened the connecting door, and Buddy immediately began his doggy dance.
“Want some coffee? Tea?” I asked him, not sure what snacks I had on hand. I’d been so careful about only putting healthy items in my cart I forgot to buy things to stick in the pantry. After pushing some big cans of tomatoes aside, I discovered a package of biscotti a friend had brought as a gift. Even better, they were individually wrapped.
“I’ll take some tea,” he said. “I’m trying to cut down on my coffee intake when I’m not working.”
“Tell me about it,” I said, placing a handful of the biscotti in a bowl before putting the kettle on.
He sat down at the kitchen table. Buddy, of course, sat next to him, eager for extra food. “I think you’re out of luck, Buddy,” he told the dog.
Once the water boiled I loaded the teapot and put it out with two cups. “Earl Grey okay?”
“Great.” He glanced down at his phone after a text message pinged. “Sorry. One of our techs is worried about her horse.”
“No problem.” I joined him at the table and waited for the tea to brew.
After entering in a long text, he sighed and put his phone on the table. “She’s got a sweet Appaloosa who’s recuperating from a hoof injury and she’s double-checking something. Tea ready?”
I poured some into my cup. The color looked perfect.
As we ate our biscotti and drank our tea, we swapped stories of vet school and discovered we had some mutual friends.
“Of course, I haven’t seen most of them since graduation,” he explained. “Too busy working and paying down my student debt.”
“Same here. Not having to pay any rent here is a godsend. I do think I’ll stick with a small-animal practice after all, though a mixed-animal job is a temptation.”
He shifted his weight, making Buddy double up on his begging stare. “I’m still torn between academics and working at a mixed practice. I suppose I don’t have to exclude one or the other at this point.”
We chatted for a bit. He asked when Doc Anderson was coming back and what I was going to do.
After another long sip, I answered, “I’m not quite sure. Ask me in a few more months.”
“Oh, there’s another odd thing we have in common.”
“What’s that?”
“The couple that died, Alicia and José. They were my clients.”
Of course, I wanted to hear every detail. It seems that José owned an older ferret named Hobo that developed lymphoma, a type of cancer. Unlike many pocket pet owners, José elected to treat it, so he and Alicia would come into the hospital every week for injectable chemotherapy.
“This was at least six or eight months ago. Hobo did well for a while, but eventually went out of remission. I got to know them over that period of time fairly well.”
“What was your impression?”
“I liked them. José worked as a physician’s assistant, so he understood the chemotherapy protocol. He asked me about malpractice in vet medicine since he’d been agonizing over a lawsuit. I think they both wanted to relocate and get a fresh start.”
“That’s what I heard, too.”
“They did tell me that they might elope. Get married outdoors just the two of them and a minister. Someone they knew had a license from an Internet church to perform weddings. It’s sad to think their lives were cut short.”
The whole situation was sad. Babs, José, and Alicia didn’t deserve to die, and so far their killer or killers were getting away with murder.
“You know,” I told him, “this is the second time you’ve helped me out. When can I return the favor and wrangle those barn cats for you?”
“Any weekend is good, preferably in the morning. The older couple whose barn cats need their vaccinations found bats in one of their outbuildings. Updating all the kitty’s rabies shots is essential. Most of them, I might be able to do by myself, but you never know.”
“Got it. I’ll check my schedule with Cindy and get back to you.”
“Looking forward to it.” He chugged down the last of his tea, got up, and put the cup and saucer over by the sink. “Sorry, I’ve got to run. I told my tech I’d swing by and check out her horse.”
“Alright. See you soon?” I realized how similar our lives were. Too similar perhaps?
When I opened the outside door, Buddy immediately ran to his outdoor run, intent on doing his business. Nearby, angry crows started cawing, one flying down and dive-bombing us.
“That’s probably our crow’s bird family,” Mike said, staring up into the trees. “They’re angry with you.”
Images of Crystal glowering at me and Rob shooting me a dirty look made me think—sorry, crows. You’ll have to get in line.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning before work, I lifted the towel from the front of the crow’s cage after again securing Mr. Katt in my office. The crow had popped the top off the cardboard box and was standing upright, his eyes on mine. I noticed birdseed scattered around. He’d eaten most of the sunflower seeds, all the mealy worms, and all the shelled peanuts.
The bird tried to flap his wings. I quickly covered the cage back up and thought about the best way to get him outside. A combination of a metal strainer to keep me safe from his beak and another larger box did the trick.
Moving quickly with my now-agitated, wild friend, I glided through my apartment and out the side door, slamming it before Buddy could sneak out. Hoping for the best, I placed the box on my doorstep, turned it on its side, and opened it.
The bird stuck his head out, assessing his situation and getting his bearings. In no time he hopped out, looked around—then spread his midnight black wings and flew up into the nearby trees. A chorus of cawing ensued.
I still had a bit of the seed mixture left in my pocket that I’d intended on feeding him. Since he was recuperating, I didn’t want to throw it in the snow. I bent down and pulled up the rubberized mat I usually wiped my wet boots on.
Walking over to the truck, I cleaned off the hood, placed the rubber mat on the level part, and then sprinkled the bird food mix on it. At least for the time being, the crow might be able to easily enjoy some food without digging in the garbage or foraging in the snow.
When I returned to my apartment, a confused Buddy greeted me with a woof. “Sorry, guy,” I told my dog. “We’ll go out in a minute. I promise.”
From behind the living room curtain, I snuck a peek out my window into the parking lot and watched first one crow, then another, then another fly out of one of the pines and land on the truck hood. Within no time the three birds had finished up most of the food.
One of them was my patient. I could tell by the uneven wing feathers on one side. To avoid another flying accident, I planned to spray the shiny metal of the outdoor camera over my door with a matte finish paint, leaving the lens clean and functional.
It felt good to be able to help such a beautiful wild creature return to his natural life with his crow family.
I envied them.
“You’re not going to believe what they named this little dog.” Mari was waiting in the treatment area for me as I prepared to meet my last patient of the day.
I’d fished out my lip balm and paused for a drink of water. “Don’t make me guess.”
“Their dog is having some behavioral issues they want to discuss with you. I’ll meet you in exam room number 2.”
“Come on. You’re not going to tell me?” I begged to her disappearing back.
All I saw was the back of her head, shaking no, strolling down the hallway. Her curls bounced with each step.
People named their animals the strangest things. Besides the usual pet names, like Brownie or Mittens, we’d examined many named after famous people. Keanu, Clint Eastwood, Marilyn Monroe, and Cher had all been clients of mine. Types of liquor are favored, like Whiskey or Baileys, along with cities or towns or even countries. Movie and book characters remain popular as are the made-up names and descriptives, such as Pudgy, Fatso, Stinker, and Fluffy.
From Mari’s reaction, the name my next clients picked for their pet must be a doozy.
After a short knock I opened the door to find a mixed-breed white dog on the exam table, with two outwardly normal owners. Mari approached and handed me the medical record with her mouth contorted into a grimace to stop from bursting into a grin or a laugh.
I glanced at the dog’s name. Yep, it was a good one.
“So how is Booty Call doing today?” I asked with a perfectly straight face. I heard a concealed snicker escape from my tech.
“Booty boy is having some issues,” his dog mom explained.
I placed my hand on the dog and started my exam. He immediately latched onto my arm and started humping away, a determined expression in his eyes.
“Stop that,” the owners said in unison. Predictably, their saying “stop” didn’t stop anything.
“He’s driving Polly and me nuts. We have to lock him up before guests come. It’s so embarrassing.”
Mari came over and held the small dog while I extricated my arm. I was going to make a joke and say I guess this means we’re engaged, but the wife looked too forlorn for humor. My first step would be a urine sample, which I asked Mari to try and collect.
“See if Cindy can help,” I added as she walked the little white dog out of the exam room.
“Now, there’s no need to be embarrassed,” I began. “How old was Booty when he was neutered and did he hump things before his surgery?” This kind of behavior could have its origins in so many things, including medical problems. A good history was essential. The urine sample would be our first diagnostic step.
The husband and wife looked at each other. “We got him at a dog rescue event, already neutered,” she stated.
“Okay. When did you first notice the behavior?”
Again the couple shared a look. “Maybe after the first week? We gave him several stuffed toys to play with, but he picked a teddy bear and…”
“Went to town on it?”
“You got it, Doc.”
So far. So good. “What was your reaction?”
The wife stared at her shoes and the husband stared at the wife. “I’m afraid we thought it was funny. Sort of cute and funny.”
“So you probably laughed and smiled at him.”
The husband answered this time. “Wrong reaction?”
“Not the best choice. The dog took that as your approval of his behavior.” I entered some notes into the computer.
“If that’s all he ever did, it wouldn’t be so bad,” the wife commented. “But he goes after our guests and even children. Our niece is three, and she’s afraid of him. He followed her down the hall, latched onto her leg, and pushed her onto the floor.”
“How did you handle that?”
“Jason picked him up and locked him in the spare bedroom with his toys.”
“Did you scold him?” I asked the husband.
“Sure,” he said. “But he didn’t mean to hurt her, so I didn’t come down on him too hard.”
His wife frowned and said, “What does that mean?”
“Uhhh. I gave him a few biscuits.”
“You gave him treats after he scared my sister’s only child so bad she was crying?” Her voice started going up as the sentence progressed until at the end it had morphed into a shriek.
It looked like I might have to step in and referee these two.
“A few biscuits at this point doesn’t really matter,” I explained. “If his behavior isn’t caused by a medical issue, such as a urinary tract infection, then you might benefit from help with an animal behaviorist.”
“A shrink for a dog? You’ve got to be kidding.” The husband rubbed his forehead in amazement. “What’s next? Prozac for puppies?”
His wife looked like she had chosen her side and come out fighting.
“I wouldn’t mind,” the wife admitted, frowning at her husband.
“That might be one option. First let me go check on that urine sample,” I said making haste for the door. “I’ll have Cindy stop in with literature on breaking bad dog habits. Believe it or not, there are plenty of worse things a dog can do.” With those comforting words, I got out of there. The couple resumed their argument before I’d closed the door.
When I entered the treatment room, I heard the spinning of the autoclave, which meant we had a urine sample.
“Nice one, Mari,” I told my technician.
“I thought you’d get a kick out of it,” she answered.
