by Laurie Hess
“I learned my lesson last year,” she bristled. “Do you remember? No reservation, no photo.”
Last December, when Colette had suggested that the hospital host a pet photo day, I’d actually laughed. “You mean, like those glossy photos we all have of our kids sitting on Santa’s lap in the mall? I’m not sure our clientele will go for it.”
“Are you kidding me?” she’d insisted. “Our clients will absolutely love it.”
I’d all but forgotten about the event until the day I walked into a crowded waiting room full of exotic animals in detailed holiday costumes with ornamental props: twinkling lights, pet-sized stockings, teeny-tiny fir trees, and even a miniature manger scene. I was especially impressed by the chinchilla wearing angel wings, a ferret flocked with snow, and a family of eight geckos posing on the family menorah.
“I expect over one hundred animals this year,” Colette nodded with certainty.
“I can’t wait to see who shows up,” I returned her enthusiasm. “We can start prepping for our holiday boarders too.”
“The calendar’s already nearly full. Only three spaces left. Maggie dropped off Sadie and Lou this morning.”
Maggie was a corporate event planner who divided her time between Westchester and Manhattan, with a home in the suburbs and an apartment on the Upper East Side. In December, when holiday events are at their peak, Maggie stays in the city and boards her two Major Mitchell’s cockatoos, Sadie and Lou, with us.
“I’m afraid to ask,” I said to Colette. “Any special instructions this time?”
While I was accustomed to receiving a variety of special instructions for our boarders, Maggie’s requests went far beyond what we routinely accommodated. I flashed back to the first time she left Sadie and Lou at the hospital.
“When they become restless and bored, I dance for them,” she said.
“Dance?” Had I heard her right?
“Yes, dance! And also they go gaga for masks. Here”—she handed me a tote bursting with beads and feathers—“I brought these back from Mardi Gras. Aren’t they sensational?”
I explained to Maggie as respectfully as I could that recreating a parade through the French Quarter wasn’t included in our standard pet boarding service.
“You know Maggie.” Colette handed me another Post-it. “She always has the most entertaining requests.”
I braced for the unknown and looked down at the scribbled handwriting in Colette’s hand.
“Classic holiday music dot com?” I read out loud.
“She wants you to stream it in the boarding room. Says it’ll create a festive mood.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“No dancing required.” Colette smiled.
12:15 P.M., EXAMINATION ROOM
NUMBER THREE
MY FIRST AFTERNOON appointment was Susan and Rosie, in for a check up.
Susan and her elderly guinea pig were nose to nose, affectionately nuzzling each other like old sweethearts. Susan’s eyes brightened as soon as I entered the room.
“Look, Rosie,” she said. “It’s Dr. Hess.”
“It’s a pleasure to see you too.” I smiled at them both. It was a relief to see Rosie looking so well and recovered from her surgery. I picked up the small brown-and-white guinea pig and ran my hand through the peach fuzz starting to grow back on the areas of skin previously covered with ulcers and dry, crusty scabs. Rosie was no longer scratching furiously at her sides with her back legs, as she had been when her skin was so inflamed by the staph infection. Instead, she lay relaxed in the towel I was cradling her in.
“Quite a change from the last time I saw you,” I said to Rosie as she nuzzled me with her brunette nose.
“I wanted to bring her in for a quick checkup before we go on vacation. Keith’s taking us to Hawaii for the holiday,” she said. “To get away from the cold.”
“Us?” I raised an eyebrow.
Susan beamed. “Rosie too.”
Every once in a while the happy ending you thought impossible happens, and if anyone deserved one, it was Susan. I thought back to that fateful day when I had delivered the news that Rosie would need major surgery to treat her necrotic intestine. When Susan called her husband, Keith, to plead for the money to pay for her pet’s extensive care, she’d wept at his answer. Marnie and I feared he’d said no.
“If you say ‘no’ to the surgery,” we overheard Susan say as she choked on the words, “I’ll find a way to pay for it—without you.”
Marnie and I exchanged a surprised look. We hadn’t anticipated Susan’s burst of bravado. But then when Susan burst back into tears, we knew he’d called her bluff. She quietly hung up the phone and sank to the floor.
“I’m sorry, Susan,” I said as I went to put a hand on her arm to comfort her and offer her a tissue.
She lifted her gaze and peered at Marnie and me through soaked eyes. “He said yes.”
Susan never elaborated on what else Keith had said on the other end of the line, but I guessed that he had finally acknowledged that Rosie was much more to his wife than an old guinea pig and in many ways more significant in her life than he was. If he didn’t start to appreciate or in some way honor their bond, he was at risk of upsetting his marriage or even losing Susan altogether. Their heated exchange reminded me of a story I’d read online about an Australian woman who had a pet crocodile that she liked to walk on a leash. When her husband gave her an ultimatum—the croc or me—she chose the animal and reportedly said, “Husbands can look after themselves.”
I returned my attention to Susan. “You need a health certificate to travel with any pet on a plane, so I’m glad you brought Rosie in. I’ll run a couple of general blood tests, and if everything comes back normal, then I’ll issue one. Rosie looks to be in good health, so I should be able to get you what you need before your travel day. Other than the certificate, be sure also to pack food, water, and treats in her cage and cover it with a blanket to keep her warm. Guinea pigs generally travel well on planes. Although how well they do on beaches”—I winked—“I can’t say.”
Susan smiled. “Rosie will be happy enough if I put her cage in a sunny spot where she can take afternoon siestas.”
“Sounds superb.” An afternoon siesta, I thought. I did long for a few long days to relax and do nothing. Maybe I’d surprise Peter and plan a weekend getaway to one of our favorite spots—the historic town of Rhinebeck, New York, with its stunning views of the Catskill Mountains.
1:30 P.M.
I WANDERED BACK to the boarding room, thinking I might find Elliot in his favorite hideout, eating his lunch. There was no sign of him, but I hung around anyway, taking the opportunity to check in with our growing population of holiday boarders. I opened Flopsy’s cage. As big as a dog but with huge ears and long, muscular back legs, Flopsy was a Flemish giant rabbit with reddish-brown, velvety fur and big, black, doe-like eyes. At first glance, you might mistake her for a fawn. She stretched out comfortably and yawned as I ran my hands down her back. I scratched her behind her ears, and she snuggled up further into the little nest of towels she’d made for herself. Chloe, Mr. Lombardi’s mini lop-eared bunny, was in the cage next to her, also tucked into a ball of fur with her eyes closed. Chloe looked so petite compared to Flopsy. It was hard to believe that those two breeds were of the same species. Maggie’s Major Mitchell’s cockatoos were perched quietly in their cages, Sadie asleep and Lou watching the TV on mute. Sadie’s head was tucked up under her wing, and she appeared to be leaning on Lou, who was deeply engrossed in an episode of Clifford the Big Red Dog. I looked at my watch. Is it possible that I’ll actually get to eat lunch before three o’clock today? I headed out to the reception area to see who wanted to join me. I suddenly craved a savory vegetable soup. After the trauma of the past two weeks, my body could use a healthy dose of warm comfort food.
Colette looked up from the phone and raised a finger, the universal sign for “hold that thought.” She returned to her conversation. “I can fit you in Monday morni
ng at 10:30. You’ll have to bring a specimen. Yes, I know, but it’s not really an unusual request . . . No, we don’t send someone out to do that. You’ll have to do it yourself. Gloves and a ziplock bag, yes . . . That should take care of it.” Colette hung up the phone and gently rubbed her temples.
She turned to me. “You were saying?”
“How does veggie soup from The Soup Stop in Mount Kisco sound?” I said cheerily. “I’ll send Elliot out to pick it up. That is, if I can find him. Where is he? And for that matter,” I said, looking around, “where’s Marnie?”
“Said they needed to run an errand.”
I looked at her suspiciously.
She shrugged and said, “I’ll text Elliot and ask him to pick up lunch on the way back. You can’t eat now anyway. Your next patient is waiting.” She nodded toward Mrs. Irvine and her young daughter, who were watching us from their seats. I waved them back.
“Is it okay if Zadie comes with us while you examine Herman? She’s fascinated by medicine.”
“Absolutely,” I said. I enjoyed having children come in with their pets. I held the door for mother, daughter, and Herman. Zadie proudly carried Herman, an adorable, long-haired teddy bear hamster with brown fur and a white tail, in his cage.
I closed the examination door and said, “Go ahead and take Herman out of his cage.” Herman scuttled to elude Zadie’s tiny hands. He hid under the paper shavings lining the bottom of his cage and then playfully poked his nose back out at her. Clearly, they played this game of chase and capture often. Zadie reached into the cage far enough to scoop him up and held Herman closely against the front of her T-shirt. I extended my hands to receive him.
“He’s a wriggling one, isn’t he?” I said, smiling at Zadie while securing my hold on Herman’s twisting body. I flipped him over and had begun to examine his belly when Zadie whispered, “Doctor, what’s that round thing?” She was pointing between Herman’s tiny legs.
I looked at Mrs. Irvine for a prompt, but she was on her cell phone. “Well”—I hesitated for a moment—“those are his testicles.”
She tilted her head to the side as if she were considering that. “Why are there two of them?”
Again I waited for Mrs. Irvine to answer her daughter’s question, but her attention was elsewhere. I thought it was more appropriately a parent’s job to explain the intricacies of the male and female anatomy, but when Zadie didn’t get a response from her mother, I said, “Well, honey, they come as a pair.”
“Weird,” Zadie said, making a face. “I hope I don’t get testicles.”
I smiled. “You don’t need to worry about that. Only boys have them.” I remember having the testicle discussion with Brett when he was younger. He’d similarly asked me one night during bath time, “Mom, what are these?” When I’d hesitated and said, “Why don’t you ask Dad about that,” he’d replied, “Because you’re the doctor.”
“Not even one?” asked Zadie.
“Not even one.” I chuckled and placed Herman back into his travel carrier. “Any more questions?” Zadie stood up and bent down close to the carrier. She leaned in and scrutinized her hamster like an expert detective.
“What’s that other thing?” she said, pointing in front of Herman’s testicles.
“Ahhh, well . . .”
“Oh, for goodness sake, honey.” Mrs. Irvine had finally broken her attention to the phone call. “Stop asking Dr. Hess so many questions. That’s his penis. He only has one of those, which is a good thing. Just one can cause a lot of problems. Ask your father.”
I left Zadie and her mother to have a frank discussion about the differences between boys and girls and stepped out into the hall just as Marnie and Elliot were returning.
“There you both are. I was starting to wonder. Where were you?”
“Picking up a special guest for lunch.” Marnie smiled knowingly at Elliot. “Join us?”
I followed them back to the break room where the lunch table was set up to look like a summer picnic, a welcome juxtaposition to the gray skies outside. The table was decorated with a yellow tablecloth, and a birdcage covered in a matching yellow cloth sat in the middle like a centerpiece.
“What’s all this?” I asked.
“Lemon’s homecoming.” Marnie gleamed.
I looked at Elliot for clarification. “Let me introduce you,” he said, walking over to the cage, “to my new friend, Lemon.” He lifted the cloth on the birdcage like a master magician. Perched in the middle was a tiny baby cockatiel covered in albino white feathers with a furry yellow crown. She let out a nearly inaudible peep.
“Oh, she’s sweet,” I chirped myself. “And she matches the tablecloth.” I looked from Elliot to Marnie. “Very sneaky. When did this all happen?”
“Elliot told me he was hoping to adopt another cockatiel for his parents before he returned to Rhode Island,” Marnie explained, “so I started looking around and found little Lemon on Petfinder.”
I felt a twinge of regret. I should have helped Elliot; instead I just worked him like a dog. But then I quickly snapped out of my self-critical moment when little Lemon cocked her head to the side and chirped. What did it matter who helped him? The baby bird perched in front of us was adorable.
“When I saw that the breeder of this baby lived just up the road in Bedford Hills, I called on Elliot’s behalf. I told her that I worked here at the hospital, and I shared some of Elliot’s history with birds, about Trixie in particular, and also about his internship program. She was very impressed with his credentials and invited him up right away. She waived the requirement for personal and vet references, so long as I came along.”
Elliot lured Lemon out of her cage with a pine nut. She wobbled onto his outstretched finger and happily snatched the nut from his fingers.
“She had a new flock of birds that she’d raised from birth and also hand-fed. They all looked extremely healthy,” Marnie continued. “But Elliot was smitten with this one right away.”
“And who wouldn’t fall in love with this fuzzy little feather ball?” I said.
Lemon cocked her head and looked up at Elliot with wide eyes.
“Aren’t you a pretty one?” he said and made a kissing sound.
“There he goes again,” I teased, “flirting with the girls.”
4:30 P.M.
I WALKED UP to Marnie as she was doing her final check on our hospitalized patients in the treatment room. “It’s after four and it’s Saturday. Most people aren’t working at all. I think we’ve had a long enough week. What do you say we get out of here?”
She smiled wearily. “I was thinking the same thing. Want to walk out together?”
As soon as we stepped outside, we noticed the snow.
“Will you look at that?” Marnie said. “Fresh snow before Christmas.”
“Target and Stop must have known it was coming. They were as silent as snowflakes this morning.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Marnie.
“You know what it reminds me of?”
“Yes,” she looked at me affectionately. “I do.”
In a few days, it would be the anniversary of the opening of the animal hospital. What had started as a dream and a drawing I’d sketched out with my son’s crayons and construction paper had become our day-to-day reality.
“It really does seem like it was just yesterday that we cut that red ribbon,” Marnie said, taking the words out of my mouth.
“But then when you think of all the changes we’ve seen in the equipment and medicine since then, it feels like so long ago. Remember that first year it was just you and me in a sterile examination room with one pack of surgical instruments?” I said with a laugh.
“And then tiny instrument by tiny instrument we built something out of nothing,” added Marnie.
“While raising our kids at the same time too. I’m not sure how we pulled that off.”
“My oldest is taller than me now,” Marnie tittered. She reached out and took my hand.
We
walked to our cars in the dimly lit parking lot, quiet for a moment except for the accumulating snow crunching underneath our boots.
“Oh, Marnie,” I sighed and gave in to sentiment. “How am I going to run this place without you? You’re my second set of hands, my animal wrangler. Who’s going to help me run this zoo?”
Marnie squeezed my hand.
I continued. “What am I going to do the next time Jim brings in his feisty Nile monitor? Or when Gerry brings Harlow the hedgehog in with another ‘life-threatening’ condition? Who will help me then?”
“Someone with larger hands?” Marnie said, teasing.
Of course I knew I would find another technician, but no one could take Marnie’s place. We knew each other so thoroughly and profoundly that we often spoke without words. The knowing glance, the affirmative nod. The unspoken bond that exists only between the closest companions.
“Marnie,” I turned toward her, “I’m really going to miss you, but—I do think you’re doing the right thing for your sister and for your career.” I meant it. “A hospital manager position at the Los Angeles Exotics Veterinary Specialists is a very big deal. I’m really proud of you.”
“That means a lot,” she turned toward me. “I’m proud of you too. You’ve taught me so much about animal medicine and about how to be a good friend and a working mom.”
I rolled my eyes. “You may be the only person in town who thinks that.”
“Don’t you ever doubt it.” Marnie’s expression turned serious. “When that nasty neighbor of yours makes you feel like you’re anything less, I want you to shake it off, okay?” She said this with the same quick-fire intensity that Brett’s soccer coach used on the field.