Page 12 of A Lot Like Lavender

“As long as you promise not to tell Charlie.”

She snickers, locks her lips, and throws the imaginary key over her shoulder with a smile that fills my half-empty cup, twice over.

“But first,” I say, opening the car door and taking her bag so she can slide in, “we have to stop at the vet’s office.”

5

ANIMAL

NOAH KAHAN

JORDAN

I’ve been working in veterinary medicine for about six years now. More if you count the fact that I grew up in the little vet office my mom founded before I could talk. But if I thought working with animals would be easier than working with humans, I foolishly didn’t consider the owners of the pets I’d be treating. I’ve obviously encountered this basic truth from time to time over the years, but the last three days have been a flagrant reminder of that lapse in knowledge on my part.

Mrs. Leigh Cotten sits in an exam room, for the third time this week, dressed like she’s headed to church in heels and a crisp red pantsuit, with her lapdog—a seventy-pound greyhound named Veronica—regally perched on her legs so that I can barely see much more of the woman underneath. Veronica, who I learned on her first visit is named for some sort of TV, teen detective Mr. and Mrs. Cotten enjoy, refuses to make eye contact with me. Though if I were what is arguably considered to be one of the most noble of dogbreeds, dressed in a strawberry outfit that says, “Berry Sweet” and being hand-fed string cheese by my owner, I guess I’d avert my eyes from onlookers as well.

“How are my two favorite ladies?” I ask, leaning against the examination table that, if their other visits from the last three days are any indication, will not be put to use.

Mrs. Cotten hugs the dog’s long neck, popping her face from behind to talk to me, human to human. “She just isn’t herself, Doc.”

That’s the same reason Mrs. Cotten visited for an after-hours appointment on Wednesday—catching me on quite possibly my worst day in years, post Emory’s hand-greeting—and then again yesterday afternoon.

“You said that, Mrs. Cotten, and I don’t want you to feel dismissed at all.” I stroll across the room, reaching my hand out for Veronica to sniff and feel at ease before I begin another quick examination. “But Veronica is, by all accounts, healthy. She’s strong, a great weight, has a beautiful coat and…” I let my hands begin to pass over her snout, up the length of her face and ears, and then down her back, methodically checking each area in case I’ve missed abnormalities in the last appointments. “As far as I can tell, and after the blood work we ran on your first visit this week, Veronica is in perfect health. She’s obviously a very loved and well-taken-care-of pet,” I add for good measure.

Mrs. Cotten deadpans, “She is my child,” while holding another string of cheese out for Veronica to reach for.

“Of course.” I listen to the dog’s heartbeat, counting the rhythm of its thumping in tandem with the number of minutes left in this day. One hundred beats per minute for her, and roughly one hundred and twenty for me. But who’s counting? “And you are a wonderful pet parent.”

Mrs. Cotten blushes, suddenly much more agreeablewith the honest feedback, and swats her hand my way. “Oh, I bet you say that to all the fur mamas.”

I really don’t.

“No, ma’am. You and your husband have taken excellent care of this Berry Sweet girl.” Veronica actually rolls her eyes. “And clinically, there is nothing wrong with her. Have you considered changing her exercise routine? Or…” I’m terrified to even mention it. “Maybe giving her a day or two without an outfit? It’s very possible she’s uncomfortable in these restrictive clothes.”

Veronica’s mother cannot believe I suggested such an idea.

“She chose this outfit herself. My Veronica loves her closet. And this dress is her daddy’s favorite.”

One hundred and fifteen minutes to go.

Yesterday, Veronica wore a beret, red scarf around her thin neck, and a striped T-shirt that read, “Bonjour, y’all!” A bold choice for anyone in my opinion, dog or human. But who am I to argue over pet couture?

“Now, since we’re getting to know one another so well,” Mrs. Cotten says, moving our appointment right along as she pats Veronica with one hand and grasps mine with the other before I even know what’s happening, “how is it that you are single? A handsome, young physician like yourself. I mean… you are single, right? I told Mr. Cotten after the other night that I didn’t see a ring on your finger, and of course, I asked your mama, but she’s a tough cookie to crack. God bless her. And the ladies in our bridge club have speculated, but no one can be too certain, even after our little visits here.”

That definitely explains the influx of elderly women bringing in their pets for out-of-cycle appointments in the last forty-eight hours.

“Umm…” Heat travels up my throat. I knew coming back to small-town medicine would mean the locals feel a sense of entitlement—for lack of a better word—to my personal business. It doesn’t make it any less shocking or invasive, though, especially coming from a large practice in a large city where I was one of many doctors and rarely had repeat patients. “I am single. Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, goodie.” Mrs. Cotten’s excitement is palpable. “And where have you been for all this time? Your mama mentioned you’ve practiced elsewhere.”

“I went to veterinary school in North Carolina and then popped around a bit here and there for a few years.”

She hums, invested in my vague history. “And, popped around? What does that mean? Were you… involved with anyone whilearound?Are you here to stay? What are your intentions while you're home in Honey Hill?”

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Mrs. Cotten, but I don’t know what this has to do with my care of Veronica.”

I, for one, don’t want to dive into the fact that I’m not sure Honey Hill is even my home anymore. It hasn’t been for some time, and a quarter of the people who made ithomefor me are gone. But after years of hopping from city to city in feeble attempts to find a place that might fill that gap, and a massively failed relationship, I could think of no place else I’d rather be.