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Etta
‘Rainbow’ - Kacey Musgraves
“So, what brings SpongeBob to the clinic today?” I ask, eyeing SpongeBob, the nasty Pomeranian, with a lethal focus. He’s been known to bite. I’ve always been quick to avoid it. Today will not be a day that he succeeds in jumping me.
Betty, his owner, a woman in her late sixties with wispy white hair and purple framed glasses, places her hand on her chest and sighs. “He’s not eating. He’s just been sleeping all hours of the day. Even Patrick can’t entice him to play.” Patrick, the young Cavoodle, barks when he hears his name. I pat him on the head and remove the stethoscope from around my neck. Betty keeps speaking as I tentatively hold SpongeBob and place the rounded metal piece against his tiny lungs. “He doesn’t want any of my leftover bacon after breakfast. He practically gags when I place any food in front of him. And he wet the bed twice last night.”
SpongeBob’s beady black eyes widen as I lean in close. His lips curl slightly as I remove the stethoscope and begin to gently feel around his stomach for any abnormalities. He growls when I near his back legs.
“See! He would have at least barked and tried to bite by now. He’s… he’s…” Shoulders slumped, Betty begins to cry. He’s nineteen years old, I want to say. It’s an absolute miracle he’s still standing. His eyes are crusty and practically blind, his back legs are locked from arthritis, and he’s showing signs of kidney failure.
“Betty, I can do some tests, give him some pain medication, but if I’m honest, I think it might be time to—”
“No! I can’t!” Betty’s chest heaves with sobs.
I hate this part of my job. It sucks so badly. I’d rather punch myself in the face every morning than have to dish out this kind of news. Unfortunately, it’s part and parcel of being a veterinarian.
I have two options now as Betty whimpers and SpongeBob stares me down as if he’d drag me with him to hell if he’s forced to go early. One; administer more medication, let Betty take her beloved pet home, despite the surety that he won’t last a couple more days. Or two; push for him to be euthanized here in the clinic with lots of support from myself and my staff.
I open my mouth with the intention of going ahead with option two—no matter how hard it will be for Betty—when I hear the bell on the front desk start ringing.
Shit.
He’s early.
Thankfully, most of my staff aren’t here. I don’t have to be nearly as discreet as I normally do. The other vet employed is on a well-deserved holiday with his wife and kids in Bali, and the receptionist called in sick today with the flu. There’s one vet nurse checking on all the animalsrecovering out the back, but I sent her on her break before this appointment. She won’t be returning for an hour or so.
I was able to keep the appointments today to a minimum, and no emergencies decided to throw my schedule out of whack. The only important appointment is the one I have booked after Betty.
I give SpongeBob a loving pat, and for the first time ever, he seems to accept it without bristling. Like he knows he might only get a few more. My heart fractures as I pick him up and place him in Betty’s arms. While she clings to him, I kneel down and pat Patrick, too, who’s been such a worried boy this entire time.
“I know this is not what you want to hear,” I say softly, “but I think SpongeBob is ready to go. His body can’t support him anymore, and it would be best if he went peacefully rather than in pain.”
Betty’s chin wobbles, her eyes fill with fresh tears. “I don’t know if I can do it,” she whispers.
“Ultimately, the decision is yours.” I smile gently, keeping my expression as compassionate as I can. “Why don’t you give it some time to think over? Go home, talk to your family, and call me in the morning.”
She sniffs. “That sounds like a good idea.”
I feed a handful of treats to Patrick while Betty gets her things in order. She clips the boys into their joint harness and exits the consultation room, her gait slow and dejected. The aggressive urge to shove my face full of the mint chocolate waiting in the break room only intensifies.
As I follow Betty down the pale green hallway, the reception bell rings again. Strange. He’s only supposed to ring it once and wait.
My shoes squeak as I walk, only adding to the nerves stirring low in my belly. I bought them last week, and the newness of them contrasts with my faded blue scrubs stained dark under the armpits from so many hours working without having a second to put on some extradeodorant. My hands busy themselves by fixing the stray pieces of hair that have come out of the clips, tugging my teeny tiny ponytail tighter. Cutting my hair in the shower on a desperate whim two nights ago will forever haunt me. I don’t know how I ever thought making it so short would help stabilize my current unstable life. In the moment, it had felt therapeutic, and for the few hours afterward, when my hair felt fresh and soft and buoyant, I imagined myself happy and content. Peaceful, even.
Now, not so much.
I’m always on edge on the second Monday of the month. I’ve only done a handful of deliveries thus far, but each one is just as stressful as the last. They told me it would get easier. They said I would forget about getting caught because it was almost impossibletoget caught—Not if I was careful and did as they said.
Either way, they were lying. Trying to keep a failing vet practice afloat has ruined my cortisol levels. Trying to fix the mess illegally is sending them through the fucking roof.
I round the final corner and slow my steps when I see a man standing in front of the glass doors, the rain steadily beating against the pavement and casting the space in a gray, dreary tone.
A gorgeous golden retriever sits at his side, tail wagging, the rest of her body still. She seems well trained, not moving despite seeing two strangers. Her big black eyes shift around and her tongue hangs out of her mouth, indicating she feels safe.
I’m momentarily struck by the intensity of her owner. Maybe it’s his size—he has to be somewhere around six-foot-three—or that he’s wearing a long coat, black as coal, seeming like he stepped out of a Matrix movie. Or maybe it’s because I’m staring at his shoulders, his gaze hidden from me. I’m intrigued, almost immediately. It’s both dizzying and worrying.
