Page 40 of The Ruin
“Great. I’ll take him back, then,” she says, holding her hand out for his leash.
Gulping, I look over at Brooklyn, but she’s just standing there with her arms crossed, smirking a little. Apparently she’s amused by how nervous I am about our dog having a minimally invasive operation. But I’m not.
“I was, uh, just wondering,” I tell the vet. “Do you think if maybe we didn’t take Mr. Kibbles out in public, we could skip the neuter?”
Her brow wrinkles. “You live in an apartment building. Eventually, your dog will have to do his business outside of the apartment. Unless you plan to keep him inside your home forever, but I certainly can’t condone that.”
Yeah, that’s a no. “Right. Well, how about if we just rig sort of a tent around his harness, like those blinders that horses wear except full-body? That way he can’t see any lady dogs.”
Brooklyn grabs my arm, turning me toward her. “First of all, no. Second of all, he can still smell the pheromones even from miles away, and third, did I already say no?”
“Mrs. Zoric, if you’d like to resched—” the vet starts.
“We’re good, Dr. Liu. Today’s great,” Brooklyn says, tugging the leash from my grasp and handing it over to the vet along with the rescue paperwork. “Just give us a call when he’s ready to be picked up, and thank you so much.”
With that, my wife hustles me out of there, but I can’t help looking back at Mr. Kibbles as the vet leads him into the OR. Dread washes over me. That poor son of a bitch won’t know what hit him. When Brooklyn and I step back out into the late morning sunshine, I can’t help feeling like I’ve betrayed man’s best friend.
“I should have fought harder for him,” I say dejectedly. “Someone has to be his advocate. He’ll never be the same after this.”
Brooklyn wraps me in a hug, murmuring softly in my ear about how he’s going to be fine. “Why don’t we go grab brunch while the deed is done?” she suggests. “Maybe a stiff mimosa will help calm your nerves while we wait for them to call us.”
“I guess we could do that.”
We go to a bistro not far from the veterinarian’s office. I set my phone on the table next to me in case the vet calls with any problems. I know plenty of dogs get neutered every day, but I can’t help feeling worked up about it as I sip my drink and poke at my steak and eggs.
“Luka, for someone who didn’t want a dog, you’re awfully worked up over a simple snip-snip,” Brooklyn says.
“Don’t say that,” I chide her.
“Say what?”
I make a scissoring motion with my fingers. The corners of her mouth tighten, her eyes sparkling as she struggles to hold back a laugh.
“Go ahead and laugh. Just remember, if anything goes wrong, it’s on you.” I slurp my drink loudly, pretending to be annoyed at her.
She finally lets out that laugh. “I love Mr. Kibbles! You know that. But I’m tired of him humping everything in sight. Besides, we have a good vet, she’s done this a million times, and he’ll be fine. Just think of how much more energy he’ll have for walks when he’s not bumping and grinding the furniture all day long.”
Fine. She can mock the sacred bond between a man and his reproductive organs. Not me, though.
The patio we’re brunching on is nice, and we were lucky enough to get a shaded table under a huge tree, but all I can think about is the dog going under the knife while we act like this is any other Saturday. Brooklyn tries to distract me with chatter and YouTube videos, but how can I possibly be carefree at a time like this?
My wife finishes her blueberry pancakes, eats half of my steak, and then orders an affogato. Normally, I’d share the espresso and gelato with her, but I don’t have much of an appetite right now. She seems to have stolen it from me. I’ve never seen her eat this much in one sitting. Perhaps stress has the opposite effect on her as it has on me.
Finally, as we’re waiting for the check, my cell rings. Mr. Kibbles is ball-free and out of recovery.
Throwing a wad of cash on the table, I pull Brooklyn out of her seat and practically drag her back to the vet’s office. When they carry the dog out to us in the waiting room, plastic cone of shame wrapped around his head, I jump up from my chair. I’ve never been so happy to see that damn furball in my life. He’s wrapped in the blanket Brooklyn brought with us when we signed in earlier, and he looks groggy from the anesthesia.
“Kibs!”
“The e-collar needs to stay on for the next ten to fourteen days,” the tech instructs, “and they’ll give you his pain meds when you pay at the counter.”
The dog looks up at me, eyes glassy, tail barely wagging. The technician assures us it’s normal, but I’m not buying it.
I sit in the back seat next to his carrier on the way home, and then take him out and hold him in my arms as we ride the elevator up to the penthouse floor.
“Pull his bed over to the couch,” I tell Brooklyn once we’re through the door, “and get him a couple warm towels from the dryer. Hurry.”
“Sure thing, Florence Nightingale,” she mocks, heading for the laundry room.
