Last But Not Leashed, page 23
Mari and I dropped back as Chloe wandered out into the main house. Did we just hear her accuse her husband of murder?
My assistant started to speak, but I whispered, “Later.”
Little Man moved restlessly in the improvised cat carrier. Did he need to go to the bathroom, I wondered? Daffy had slipped a harness on him, which made it easy to put a leash on the little escape artist.
“Chloe,” I called out to our client, who was quite a bit ahead of us, “is there a place where I can let this Chihuahua do his business?”
“Business…ah, go wee-wee. Of course, the two boys can go together.”
Following her at a brisk pace, I only hoped Little Man liked dogs more than he liked people. The snow height might be tricky for our eight-pound patient, more used to spending winters inside.
Guarding the front door was Aldo, a big frown on his face and an even bigger bandage on his finger.
“Yo, Doc. Does that mutt have his shots?”
“Yes. He’s healthy and completely up-to-date on his vaccinations. Including rabies. Would you like to file a bite report? Our receptionist can provide you with the information you’ll need.”
“You should never have stuck your finger in front of him,” Chloe said, while sticking her finger in his face. “This is a tiny doggie. He fits in a cat box. His bite can’t be that bad.”
Personally, I thought someone had overdone the bandage material.
“That’s what you think. It hurts real bad.” He held it up again to show all of us his boo-boo.
This guy wasn’t as tough as he looked.
Inside the cat carrier, Little Man shifted around again.
Chloe opened the door and pointed to an unfenced area off to the left of the pathway. “Here’s where my Baby goes potty.” As if to demonstrate the accuracy of her statement, the Frenchie almost jumped out of her arms, eager to lift his leg on an incongruous plastic fire hydrant about ten feet away. Snow still fell. Almost two inches topped the roof of the truck.
“My husband hates our Baby going in front of the house, but he also hates wee-wee pads. Once the winter is past, he’s promised to build an internal covered courtyard, with grass and flowers, for the doggy to use.” Chloe stayed under the overhang as we all watched the bulldog do his business.
From the stoic look on the other bodyguard’s face, I guessed one of his duties was cleaning up dog poop.
Snowy woods stretched as far as my eyes could see. “I’m not going to risk Little Man running away,” I whispered to Mari. “Let’s get going.”
“Chloe,” Mari said, “we have to leave, but I’ll send you an invoice by email, if that’s all right.”
“Perfect,” she replied. “Aldo, go put a bottle of champagne on ice—no, two bottles. My husband is on his way home.”
Her joy felt infectious. I almost forgave her until I looked up at the gray skies and felt the wind rising.
After a brief farewell, I put the truck into low gear and started down the driveway. There were two areas I felt I had to watch out for—the first hill, which was steep and ended at a curve, and the second slope shaded by overhanging tree limbs, which might be icy.
“We should have taken my SUV,” Mari said for the second time.
“Chloe shouldn’t have locked us up for an hour,” I answered back. “Make sure you are buckled in,” I reminded her, “and Little Man, too.”
The truck dug in. We’d almost made it down the second incline when a black limo appeared directly in front of us.
“Hang on,” I told Mari as I carefully downshifted. There’d be no slamming on breaks in this snow unless I wanted the truck to slide off the driveway.
The driver of the limo didn’t get that memo. We watched as the limo skidded in slow motion, its right rear tire catching in the runoff ditch along the driveway. There was nothing we could do but watch the limo try but fail to stop the back end from sliding into the four-foot ditch.
Almost immediately, a man leaped out of the back seat. His polished leather shoes, appropriate for Wall Street but a disaster in snow, slipped on the icy sloped driveway. He landed butt first in the snow and almost cracked his head.
Mari and I jumped out of the truck and tried to help. The limo driver opened his door and pulled a gun on us. “Don’t move,” he said. “Put your hands over your heads.”
“You’ve got this wrong,” I said. “I’m Dr. Kate Turner, a veterinarian. This is my assistant. Chloe called us to come look at her French bulldog. We were on our way back to Oak Falls Animal Hospital.” With my hands in the air, I gestured to the sign on the driver’s side panel.
“Would someone help me up?” The man on the ground was in his late thirties, quite good-looking in a rough way, and obviously used to giving orders.
“Sorry, boss.” The bodyguard holstered his weapon. Mari inched over and the two of them hoisted the man off the ground. I assumed we were about to meet Chloe’s husband, Arthur.
Once on his feet, he looked at the limo and said, “Crap.” Planting his feet carefully in one of the tire tracks, he said, “Hello. I’m Arthur Gambino. I own this mess.” He turned and smiled a million-dollar bright white smile at us. “Can we hitch a ride to the house? Please?” His thick hair was lightly dusted with snow.
“Sure. Climb in,” I told them.
With both men wedged into the back seat, Little Man stuffed between them, I put the truck into reverse and carefully backed up the driveway.
Arthur took his cell phone out and left someone a verbal message. “Have the driveway in the Woodstock house completely redone. Include an area to turn around and widen the approach to the gate.”
Little Man growled at having to share the back seat.
“I’m so sorry for the gun,” he said as if apologizing for a restaurant seating delay. “Both my wife and I have recently been dealing with threats,” Arthur explained. “There was always a possibility you were trying to kidnap me.”
A remote possibility, but I couldn’t blame them for being on high alert. “No worries,” I said. “I’m glad we were able to help.”
Arthur turned to his bodyguard. “I’d like to kill that real estate agent who promised the driveway would be no problem in the winter.”
“Sure, boss,” the driver said.
“It might be a while before I can get the limo towed,” Arthur said. “I’m sorry if this will delay you.”
“Dr. Kate,” Mari said, “we really should try to get back to the office.”
As we approached the house the cleared area widened. I saw Chloe ahead framed in the doorway, waving. Better to try our luck with the driveway than risk being locked up again. A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed that Arthur seemed unconcerned about our predicament.
“We’ll just drop you two off,” I said to our passengers. “I’m pretty sure we can squeak past your vehicle.”
As soon as we stopped, the two men clambered out of the back seat. Arthur rushed over to his wife while the bodyguard hurried them inside. In seconds everyone had vanished behind the massive front door leaving us alone in the snow.
“This day has been a disaster,” I told Mari.
Little Man barked in agreement.
For the second time that day, we started down Chloe’s driveway. The snow had continued to fall this whole time, adding an additional half inch on the ground. I drove slowly and carefully, and the truck performed admirably. With Mari guiding me, we moved past the stranded limo with only inches to spare.
My hands tightly clutched the steering wheel. I didn’t relax until we reached the bottom of the driveway. When the gates opened, I set off for home, the road a bit slippery with new snow but sanded and drivable. Normally, it takes about fifteen minutes to get back to the animal hospital, but tonight the trip took twice as long.
Mari cheered as the hospital sign loomed ahead. Pinky had already done a quick plow of the parking lot, for which I mentally thanked him. Cindy was long gone, and I was delighted that only Mari’s truck remained in our parking lot. No police cars. No suspicious vehicles, no ex-boyfriends, just a large expanse of dark asphalt under the newly fallen snow.
“Why don’t you head home?” I told Mari. “I’ll be marooned here all night with Little Man. We can pull bloods in the morning.”
“Thanks,” she said. “It’s been a very long day. I wonder if Daffy will even fly out tomorrow.”
“Daffy decided to leave early because of the storm,” I told her. “She’s staying with her girlfriend in New Jersey. I’ve already received an email and a text from her, asking if Little Man is okay.”
“Don’t forget to send a picture,” Mari admonished. “I promised her.” She climbed out of the truck, taking the laptop with her.
With one hand holding my medical bag and the other holding Little Man, I bade her goodnight and told her to drive carefully.
As soon as I opened my door, the three musketeers began barking and dancing with happiness, sniffing the cat carrier holding Little Man like I’d brought tonight’s hors d’oeuvres.
“Go potty,” I commanded them all. Once everyone finished, I shut the door and brought Little Man into the hospital. Certain that he lived the spoiled life of a tiny dog, I did the best I could and arranged a double-sized cage with blankets and a water dish. A reasonable portion of the bag of dog food Mari had brought from Daffy’s place went into a second bowl.
Although I anticipated problems transferring Little Man into the cage, he remained surprisingly cooperative. “Good dog,” I told him, closing the cage door. He stared at me in astonishment when I took his picture and emailed it to Daffy.
Looking forward to taking my boots off and sitting down, I went back into my apartment. I think I got as far as putting a frozen dinner in the microwave before the howling started.
You would think the animal hospital was full of coyotes singing arias by the plaintiff yowls and howls originating from Little Man. Desi raised his bass voice in agreement. After ten minutes straight, and with Buddy’s tenor bark joining the chorus, I suspected Little Man had won a reprieve.
Daffy’s client information included her cell phone number, which I called out of desperation.
“Dr. Kate, is everything okay?” Anxiety oozed from the receiver.
“Everything is fine,” I told her. “I just want to know if Little Man sleeps in a dog bed. Also, we’ve got dry food for him. How often does he eat?”
There was dead silence on the other end. At first I thought I had a dropped call, but later I realized Daffy was scripting her answers.
“Well, Little Man has slept with me every day of his life, since he was a puppy,” she began. “He loves to cuddle. Make sure you cover him with a blanket, or put a sweater on him at all times because he tends to get cold.”
The image of me cuddling with this grumpy Chihuahua was enough to provoke a nightmare.
“As far as feeding him dog food, well, that’s down all the time as a snack.”
What more? I wondered.
“I usually feed him some of my food. Mostly chicken and ground beef, with a little pasta or rice. He’ll eat the tops of the broccoli but not the stems. Oh, he hates peas. Before bedtime I let him have a little saucer of beer. You know, to settle his stomach.”
Too astonished to say anything else, I murmured, “Okay.”
Daffy chatted away, oblivious of the fact that I was contributing nothing on my end. “Let’s see. When it’s really cold outside, he uses his wee-wee pads. Take them up right away because he won’t use it twice. He likes ice cream as a treat, and a little vanilla yogurt first thing in the morning.”
“How does he like his coffee?” I asked facetiously.
“With half and half. Don’t give him too much because it revs him up and I have a hard time getting him in for his afternoon nap.”
This was a dog we were talking about, I almost reminded her.
Another heart-breaking yowl rang out.
“What was that?” Daffy asked.
“Nothing. Thanks for all that information,” I told her. “Have a wonderful vacation.”
She sighed over the phone. “I still feel a little guilty leaving him.”
“It was the right decision.” I hung up before the Chihuahua and friends sang an encore.
Trying to wait him out, I gave Little Man another ten minutes of yowling before admitting defeat. The Chihuahua would be sleeping in my apartment tonight, although I vowed not to snuggle in bed with him.
Now I’d be sharing my living space with four dogs. All dudes. I’d almost forgotten why Desi had taken up temporary residency. With the identity of the mysterious strangers as bodyguards, I didn’t feel I needed a trained attack dog at my command—an attack dog afraid of a Chihuahua.
As soon as I’d taken the leash off the tiny terror, he commenced barking at all the other dogs, warning them to stay away. If they ventured near him, he nipped at their heels, forcing them to scurry back to their beds.
“No,” I told Little Man. “Be nice.” He looked up at me as if to say what’s the problem? I picked him up and deposited him on his comfy bed. Reluctantly, I removed one of my soft throws and threw it over him. Immediately he tunneled around and stuck his face out of the folds.
“Sit,” I told him.
Since he was under a blanket, I gave him the benefit of the doubt and offered a treat.
No interest whatsoever.
I left it in front of his nose. After putting each remaining dog through basic commands, I rewarded them with a savory treat.
Little Man was studying the other dogs from under his blanket hood as if his final exam was tomorrow and he had to cram for it. Since he and Daffy lived alone, I assumed they’d fallen into predictable patterns that long ago eliminated canine commands. Owners of little dogs often carried them around, treating them more like babies, or dolls, than dogs. My veterinary continuing education seminars on behavior taught a class on little dog syndrome—the observation that small dogs are bossy or aggressive for reasons having to do with vulnerability because of their size, all the way through inadequate socialization with other dogs or people.
For now, Little Man fit in and, more importantly, wasn’t yowling.
Which meant I could get some sleep.
I glanced over at my nightstand and the small pile of Posey’s notebooks, still unread. I’d marked the page I stopped at in the second notebook, True Love Blooms. Remembering this focused on the vampire/servant girl romance, I began to read.
She longed for his bloody vampire fangs to pierce her to the brim and beyond. His hot lust was peanut butter to her jelly.
Yikes, peanut butter and jelly again. Not an image conducive to sleep. I put the notebook down and picked up a veterinary journal. Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow I’ll read about horny vampire/teachers, steamy servants, and stolen golden doubloons.
Chapter Thirty-Three
After taking care of the whole crew of animal guests in my apartment, I corralled Little Man and brought him with me to the animal hospital treatment room. Maybe it was the surprise, but I only got a brief protesting growl out of him.
“You two look like you’re getting along,” Mari said. She sat at the small table in the employee lounge, sipping her coffee and reading a dog magazine.
“We’re trying,” I answered, opening his cage and placing him inside.
With my second cup of coffee in hand, we sat together for a few minutes and were chatting about an article Mari had read when Cindy arrived.
“Take your time, ladies,” she said, holding a granola bar in her hand. “Thanks to the weather, we’ve had a bunch of cancelations this morning.”
That didn’t surprise me. Many of our clients needed their driveways plowed out before they could safely travel. Often it was easier to reschedule their vet appointment than their plowing.
“Good. That gives me more time to work on Little Man.”
Cindy raised her eyebrows. “I can’t believe you pried that dog out of Daffy’s hands for a week. How did you do it?”
“Serendipity.” Mari and I explained her vacation trip to Florida.
“What kind of tumor do you think it is?” Cindy asked.
“Well, I can tell you what I hope it isn’t, a mast cell tumor or squamous cell carcinoma. I’m going to do a needle aspirate and check it under the microscope.”
“That reminds me,” Mari said. “We need to draw all his lab tests this morning. Maybe I can call the lab and order an early pickup.”
“Good idea,” I told her. The office phone began to ring.
“Anyone heard a weather forecast?” I asked.
“Snow,” Cindy said, reaching for the phone. “More snow.”
Mari held him while I drew blood from Little Man, who was still being unusually cooperative. As my assistant hugged the dog tightly to her chest, I drew a small amount of fluid from the round mass on his belly.
“Keep the gauze pressed hard against it for a few minutes,” I cautioned Mari. “If it’s a mast cell tumor, it’s going to bleed a bit.”
While Mari stayed with Little Man, I prepared a slide, stained it, and took a look at the cells under the microscope. I’m no pathologist, but I didn’t see any mast cells lurking in the sample. Of course, that wasn’t diagnostic, since it was only a random sample, but I felt hopeful we might soon be able to rule out that type of tumor.
The day bumped along at a slower than normal pace. Given the forecast of more snow, the lab happily arrived early to pick up our samples. That meant Little Man’s surgery could proceed as early as tomorrow. I had to admit I wasn’t looking forward to it. There is a vast difference between doing surgery on an eighty-pound Labrador retriever versus an eight-pound Chihuahua—plus Little Man’s abdominal skin was thin and particularly transparent.
“At least you’ll have a map of the vessels,” Mari joked.
