Page 42 of Vetted for Vengeance
“Maybe. I need to find a house…”
“You can keep her.” I repeat. He already has a house. I'm offering him the dog.
“Would I make her lucky for the rest of her life?”
“Do you have any idea how much she loves you?” I resist calling him an idiot. It isn't hard to make a dog happy, especially one who is already middle-aged and grateful for anything outside her box. I finish the spay worrying that Honey isn't his favorite, just the most pregnant.
Maybe he was this devoted to all of them around their due dates, but I like this one, so this is the one we will keep. I love the devoted way she looks at him, the way he clung to her as he passed out in my arms.
Maybe I just love the way he slumped in my arms. I shouldn’t remember that moment as clearly as I do.
We move on to suturing Honey back together, and she's done. Noah is clearly torn between monitoring her recovery and checking on his new puppies. Kindly, and while fighting a yawn, I grab some damp gauze and start wiping the iodine from around the wound. My hand comes down on top of Noah’s, though he withdraws his like I've burned him.
“Sorry, just thinking that stuff would taste gross,” he mumbles.
“Why would you care what it tastes like?” I’ve never been struck with the urge to lick a surgical site, but I've never operated on an animal I consider mine.
“The pups will need to suckle soon.”
“Oh, right. I'm just tired.” That makes perfect sense.
His eyes meet mine, a fierceness in them I haven't seen before. It's cute, but I do prefer them filled with fear.
“You thought I wanted to lick her, didn't you?”
“No,” I lie. “I thought you were better than that.”
He smiles widely, which turns into a chuckle. “I was thinking it smells too weird to lick it. That's why I decided the puppies wouldn't want to lick it either.”
Tree rudely leans across the body right in front of us, putting her head right between ours.
“The camera is still rolling,” she hisses softly.
Noah, with his back to the camera, pulls a cheeky face and then whirls around.
“The operation on Honey is a success. We already suspected a six-year-old carrying so many pups would have difficulties, even one with Honey's experience. And here they are, so let's officially meet our newest patients while their mother recovers in peace.”
That boy has gone from flushing red as we discussed licking iodine, to him performing perfectly for the camera. His mask is almost as good as mine.
That’s… dangerous.
I clean the iodine with one hand while watching him examine each little pup in front of the camera, checking they all have the right number of toe beans, and a nubby-stubby. I can’t tell if it’s the tail or the umbilical cord, but he makes it sound adorable in that cooing voice.
But under that cutsie voice that's used on dogs and children, I know why he's checking each pup. If they’re defective, they aren’t sellable. On a puppy farm, there is no point wasting energy raising pups that won't sell.
I wonder if he has the heart to do it. To take an innocent life to spare its future, or whether he tried hiding those ones from the brothers.
“And this last one is clearly the runt.” His angle is perfect for the camera, but it means I can also see the small black body he's introducing to the camera. “See how it's so much smaller than the siblings.”
He compares another next to it; the size difference isn't massive. Most owners would give the runt a chance, but most owners aren't running a puppy farm.
Like it or not, Noah was very successful in running a puppy farm.
“Okay, well, I usually name these little puppers myself, but I might need help with this many.” He looks directly at the camera as if he's challenging the audience to write in.
“And that's where you come in,” Laura tells the camera as it pans around to her. “We'll add a photo of each puppy to the website, numbered 1 to 12, and for the next week, you can suggest names for them. But for now, we'll say goodbye and get these adorable bundles settled with their mommy.”
“And cut.” The cameraman says the words that make the entire room relax.
