Page 11 of Spiced!

All of it was well documented.

“Is he in the room?” I asked.

Diane’s expression shifted slightly.

“Define in,” she said.

I opened the door to room four.

Présidenté had conducted a thorough investigation of the room and was now wedged behind the exam table that had been moved approximately eight inches. Mrs. Okafor stood near the wall in a linen blazer with her hands folded.

“He explores when he’s anxious,” she said.

“How long has he been out of his carrier?” I asked.

“Since we put them in the waiting room,” Diane said, from behind me.

My brain finally kicked in. “He got out in the waiting room?”

“Briefly.” Diane pulled the door mostly closed. “Marcus handled it.”

“Marcus is a front desk coordinator, not a rodent wrangler.”

“Marcus was very brave.” She grinned. “Besides, you know we all do everything around here.”

I turned back to Présidenté. He looked back at me with small, beady eyes. When I crouched down, he came out from behind the table. I examined him on the floor, which was not standard protocol, but he was Présidenté and the world bent to his will. Diane documented this without comment beyond the amused smirk she wore whenever cataloguing material to tease me with later.

“Mild vitamin D deficiency. Needs more sun,” I muttered, knowing Diane would nail the notes.

“He has a solarium,” Mrs. Okafor said.

“Then he needs a larger one with better lighting,” I said.

“Thank you, Doctor.” She produced a business card from her blazer. “My vet in Caracas will send his notes.”

Getting Présidenté back into his carrier involved Diane, me, and another piece of cucumber. At some point, Marcus appeared in the doorway with his hands clasped and a smart-ass smirk to match Diane’s.

“Can I assist?” Marcus asked, knowing full well we needed his help.

“We’re fine,” Diane said from behind Présidenté.

“It appears—”

“Marcus,” she said.

He retreated but maintained his position inside the now-closed door.

Présidenté made a sound at me when he was settled. I chose to interpret it positively. Mrs. Okafor told him to say, “Thank you,” and he made the sound again, which she explained was his confirmation.

Next up was a parrot named Cracker who had once, ironically, belonged to a sailor and retained the man’s vocabulary to prove it.

Following Cracker was a dachshund with a back issue and an owner who also walked with a slight lean.

Owners and pets mirroring each other never failed to amuse me.

Then there was a goldfish in a travel container whose owner, a woman named Sandra, wanted a second opinion on a diagnosis she’d received from a vet in Clearwater. She had printed out fourteen pages of research to support her position.

On a goldfish.