Page 3 of Vetted for Vengeance
I move to the nursing dogs' kennels, the place where I lose most time. The block is warmer than the others, with heat lamps above each bed casting an eerie red light across the wing. Each kennel has damp bedding that needs changing. My body runs this route without thinking. It always has.
Feed the mums, change the beds, weigh the pups and give a supplement bottle to any pup who hasn't put on weight since yesterday. Not really an in and out job, but I'm on a schedule.
The first kennel in the nursing wing is chaos, six bouncing pups and their mother, Arya, or Bitch Eleven. She gets a bowl of kibble and then I have one big bowl of slop for the pups. One by one, I lift the pups from the mush and place them on the scales. It's a good day if all pups have put on weight, meaning I can move to the next kennel with little fuss.
Next is Bitch Eighteen, or to me, Misty, and her three week old babies. While Misty eats, I weigh Tizzy, the smallest pup. She hasn't put on enough, so I pop her in my lap, grab a bottle of formula and hold it steady, allowing her to guzzle while I weigh the next pup. The pen ends up between my teeth as I weigh and record each pup one-handed. Tizzy finishes her bottle. Twenty-five minutes is a good night. Some evenings I'm still here an hour later, coaxing a weak pup to take a bottle or changing bedding for the third time after someone decides the clean blanket is the perfect toilet. By the time I finally switch the lights off, the rest of the building is quiet again, the adults settling after their dinner while the puppies tumble into warm piles beneath the heat lamps. I leave wishing I could stay longer, but knowing I don't have time if I want my dinner hot and eaten by the night rounds.
Chapter three
Rhys
Filming days are long and grueling. We condense a nine-week season into just a few days of filming. I put in the hours, keep the grin wide even when my nerves are fraying at the edges. It gives me the perfect excuse to become unsociable afterwards. No one even asks me anymore. I’m Mr. Happy for the rest of the month. Social and approachable.
But what no one realizes is that these unsociable evenings are my gift to myself. Where I go home bone-tired and do the opposite of sleep. I research my itch; the part of me that can't be sated by a camera or an operating table. Holding a cherished pet's life in my hands doesn't bring the same peace as my nocturnal activity, because that pet is fundamentally good. Strays give me even less thrill because their need for sympathy is greater. I thought maybe euthanasia of a dangerous dog might cure the itch, but even the most aggressive dog is simply a product of its owner's treatment.
The only thing that eases the itch is holding the life of someone truly guilty in my hands.
The pressure of someone hanging between life and death, with my scalpel the only thing that can save them. That is what I long for. The clarity to make the decisions society refuses to make.
Tonight, I have a puppy farm in my sights. They won’t be missed.
The expected exhaustion from my filming commitment gives me the perfect cover, and when the media broadcasts about the situation, I can use it to highlight the sins hidden behind a puppy's wagging tail. I'll be hiding in plain sight, just like every time before.
It's a long drive, but everyone at the practice is so accustomed to my first-day tiredness, they won't think anything of it. Everything I need is checked and double-checked in my duffel bag. I'm ready.
The routine never changes. Routine keeps mistakes from creeping in. Gloves first, folded neatly beside the bag. Then the syringes, already prepared and labelled in my careful handwriting. A second set goes in as a backup. I rarely need them, but planning for failure keeps failure at bay.
A small torch. Spare number plates. A clean change of clothes sealed in plastic.
Finally, the scalpel case.
I open it for a moment, letting the lamplight glide across the steel. The instruments are polished to a mirror shine, every edge sharpened earlier in the week while the rest of the practice chat about weekend plans.
To them, it looks like diligence. A vet caring for his tools.
To me, it is preparation.
I close the case with a quiet click and slide it back into the bag.
Bypassing my usual car, I unlock the Metro kept safely stored in my garage. Something small and unobtrusive, unlike my day-to-day Land Rover. Something that wouldn't link my presence to the puppy farm.
My companion for the drive is an audiobook ofPersuasion, the film airing tonight on my lonely TV, its only companion is a side lamp on a side table. Signs of life, should the night shift glance out of the practice windows toward my home.
The plot will be fresh in my mind should anyone wish to test my alibi.
The motorway is almost empty at this hour. My headlights sweep across reflective signs and hedgerows while the narrator of Persuasion murmurs politely from the speakers.
Jane Austen understood restraint. Characters living entire lives inside carefully maintained appearances. Smiles and manners hiding desperation and regret.
I suspect she would understand me.
I pass dark farmhouses and sleeping villages, each window glowing faintly against the countryside. Somewhere behind those windows, people are cuddling their dogs on sofas, scratching soft ears and laughing when tails knock against furniture.
They imagine puppies appearing in pet shop windows as if by magic.
They never imagine the kennels.
As I arrive at the dark puppy farm, the lovely Miss Elliott wins her man and her future.
