One thousand to one?
No.
One million to one, easy.
No way can any man have that yummy of a voice and as fine a face to go with it.
He’ll be a nottie.
I turn around.
There go the odds.
2
Liam
A few days before
* * *
I’m a glass-half-full kind of person.
Life gives you lemons?
Don’t just make lemonade. Make lemonade with vanilla bean extract, organic lemons, and homegrown honey from your own beehives and sell it at a roadside stand. You’ll make a mint.
Yes, I did that when I was younger. I made a pretty penny with Liam’s Roadside Lemonade, thank you very much.
Wake up well before the alarm clock? Log ten extra miles on the bike as the sun rises and the birds chirp, and don’t forget to stretch your hammies when you’re done.
Sounds like my day yesterday, and I like to think my heart thanks me for the cardio love I give it every morning.
But being asked to diagnose a malady I don’t treat? That ranks right up there with eating broccoli.
That happens to me more than one might think. Not the consumption of broccoli—one of the greatest benefits of adulthood is never having to eat a veggie you hate. Goodbye, broccoli. Farewell, brussels sprouts, and see you never, radish.
But I can’t escape people telling me about their corns, even though my work has nothing whatsoever to do with feet.
My profession is paws.
Trouble is, when your patients can’t speak, their owners make up for it by flapping their gums, mostly about themselves. When someone’s beagle has an allergy to fish, you learn about the owner’s reactions to salmon, and Have you ever heard about salmon allergies, and what should I do about it? When Rover comes in with an upset belly, you’re the audience to a soliloquy from his master about his own digestive woes.
To hear or pretend not to hear—that is the question.
But ignoring a client goes against my nature, so I wind up listening to all sorts of ailments every time I examine Fido and Fluffy, Puss and Boots, and Lucy and Rex. I love my job, but this is one of my least favorite parts of it, and that’s saying something, because I have to give rectal exams daily.
Thankfully, that’s something I don’t have to do at the last appointment of my last day at my practice on the Upper East Side.
It’s simply needle time for Cecily.
I administer a distemper shot to a sleek black cat decked out in a bejeweled velvet collar, then scratch the kitty’s chin. “There you go, Cecily. What a good girl.”
The cat lifts her head, eagerly accepting the chin rub—give it up for the cat whisperer in the house—while her owner smiles demurely and taps her lip. “One more thing, Dr. Harris.”
“Yes, Blair?”
She flips her red hair off her shoulder and poses her question. “If Cecily is having trouble sleeping, like, say, she’s waking up in the middle of the night and can’t fall back asleep, what should I do?” Perhaps realizing her blunder, Blair straightens, clears her throat, then smooths a hand down the cat’s back. “For her. What should I do for Cecily? The cat?”
Of course. Because so many cats suffer insomnia. It’s amazing there’s not more research into the problem.
“Well, funny you should ask, Blair,” I deadpan. “I see a lot of cats who have trouble sleeping through the night.”
“Really?” Blair’s green eyes widen, looking delighted by my answer. She must really want validation. Or really not want to see her internist for her sleeplessness woes.
She’ll be so disappointed to learn I can’t prescribe Ambien.
I nod, still straight-faced. “It’s true. It’s a very common problem with nocturnal animals.”
“I had no idea.” She misses my irony completely. “What do you recommend, doctor? Is there something she should take?”
First of all, I recommend asking a human doctor. As in, a doctor for humans.
I don’t say that though, because as much as I dislike twofers, they’re a part of life as a vet. And being a glass-half-full person, it’s not that hard to pass along a little tip.
Ugh, I’m such a softie sometimes. If I were a country vet, I’d be that guy with a llama, a goat, and an emu roaming my garden.
Come to think of it, raising an emu isn’t such a bad idea. Will I have room for one in Duck Falls, I wonder?
I shake my head, force my straying thoughts back to the present. There will be time later to daydream about patches of land and the possibility of flightless birds.
“For starters, you’d want to look at Cecily’s sleep habits,” I say, stroking Cecily’s chin—such an Upper East Side name for a cat. “Ask yourself: Is Cecily going to bed at a decent hour? Is Cecily drinking too much caffeine late in the evening? Is she turning off her phone?” I rattle off all the bad habits that might lead to poor sleep for, ahem, cats. “And more so, is she looking at her mobile in the middle of the night when she wakes up to use the litter box? That is the single biggest cause of sleep interruptions.”
