Dr. Lola had given Rose a pale-green smock to wear over her clothes. Rose had spent the morning cleaning out litter pans and refilling bowls with dry food and water. The whole place had a dark, musty scent.
Dr. Lola picked up a black-and-white cat. “This guy is the Great Catsby. Hello, Catsby,” she said firmly, pulling the skin on the back of his neck so tight his eyes became slits. “Don’t look so alarmed, Rose. When they’re kittens, their mothers carry them around like this.” Dr. Lola gave Rose’s hair a careful look. “That your natural color?”
“I wish!”
“Well, at least you chose a reasonable shade. When I was your age, I dyed mine rainbow stripes. Can you imagine? My parents tried to get mad at me, but they couldn’t stop laughing!”
It sounded like Dr. Lola’s childhood had been a happy one.
That was when Rose felt it—a trickle of anger that traced a searing path along the inside of her chest.
Then Rose remembered the lady she’d talked to who knew things about her that she was only now discovering for herself, and heard the lady saying in that flat, generic voice, as if joining in the conversation, There’s no anger. It’s gone—like a banished king, never to return. Once again, she was exactly right—why be angry about the fact that Dr. Lola might’ve had a happy childhood? Rose took a long, deep, calming breath that filled her lungs.
“I bet you looked pretty,” Rose said lightly.
“Sweet of you to say. So, you’ve got him by the neck.” Dr. Lola tightened her grip. “You can’t lose confidence. Don’t go near his mouth or he’ll bite you. Wrap your other arm around his legs, like this, so he can’t scratch you.”
Rose laughed nervously.
“You should be glad we only do cats and dogs here, no exotics—parrots, snakes, ferrets. Now, Catsby needs a shot. He’s got kidney problems. Don’t worry about the needle.” The needle looked about a foot long. “He won’t feel it; cats have thick skins.” Quickly Dr. Lola let go of his legs, pinched some skin on his back, and stuck the needle right in. After a moment the cat let out a low growl.
“I thought he couldn’t feel it.”
“It’s the medicine; it burns a little.” Dr. Lola took the needle out. “Now he needs a pill. Here’s how you pill a cat.” She popped open the cat’s mouth by pinching the corners of his jaw and tossed in a pill overhand, like a pitcher. “See how I’m stroking his throat? He can’t help but swallow; it’s a reflex. Otherwise he’d spit it right out. Ever try to shove a soggy pill down a cat’s throat? Not fun.” Then she placed him in a cage.
Dr. Lola asked Rose to take Rouge out for a walk. Unlike Cocoa and Fudge, Rouge walked like a dream. She kept pace with Rose’s every step, never budged from her side, and sat obediently at red lights.
It began to snow lightly, an early first snow of the year, little bits of fluff falling to earth and melting without a trace, like they’d never been there at all. Rose wandered through the kids’ playground at Belle Heights Park and stood next to the motion-sensor fountain, where large concrete turtles sprayed water in the summer. “My dad used to bring me here,” she told Rouge. “He held me up even though that meant his clothes got all wet. Once he ruined a really nice suit. My stepmother wasn’t thrilled, but he said it was only a suit and I was having so much fun.”
This was one reason people liked dogs, Rose realized. They were such good listeners. Trustworthy, too. She knew Rouge wouldn’t tell a soul.
That afternoon a woman named Ms. Brackman stopped in with her cocker spaniel, Candy. Stacey, the receptionist, told Ms. Brackman to please take a seat.
“Candy hates to wait,” Ms. Brackman said, not sitting.
“It’ll be just a minute,” Stacey said.
“Candy doesn’t know that. For all Candy knows, it’s forever. She’s eleven, you know. That’s seventy-seven human years. Older than me, and I’m no spring chicken.”
“Would you like to wait outside?” Stacey asked her.
“It’s snowing!” Ms. Brackman said, though it had already stopped and hadn’t stuck. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to get Candy here in the first place?” After waiting for an answer that didn’t come, she sat with a thud. “I’m staying put. Candy’ll do anything for chicken, broiled, no skin. I always have some in my purse.” Candy ate it eagerly and noisily. She had mournful eyes. Maybe that defined the breed, Rose thought, mourning dogs.
“I heard the most fascinating story,” Ms. Brackman said, turning her attention to Rose. “There were these two dogs that were always fighting. One day, one of the dogs died. You’d think the other dog would be happy—but no. He went to the site where the dog was buried and dug him up.”
“That’s awful,” Rose said.
“I’m getting to the good part! It turned out the other dog was still alive! He was in a coma, or had fainted. Now you’d think the dogs would become best friends after this, right? Because one dog had saved the other’s life? Well, guess again. They went right back to hating each other.”