Page 38 of Spiced!

“Frozen mice every ten days. I always feed her the same brand.” He watched me work. “You know, she’s really more of an independent thinker—”

“She’s in excellent health,” I said, and handed him his discharge summary before the ball python could acquire a party affiliation.

Diane appeared the moment the door closed. “Room two is a chinchilla. His name is either Fluffington the Third or Fluffington the Turd, depending on which family member you ask. There are four of them, family members, not chinchillas. I’ve already had to mediate once, and I want that noted. I may apply for battle pay or grief counseling later.”

“Noted,” I said, careful not to roll my eyes or snicker. Give that woman an inch—

“I suggested they focus on the animal’s health rather than his name.”

“Good call.”

“They did not agree.” She handed me the chart. “Also, he’s been eating his bedding.”

Fluffington—I was careful to take no position on the suffix—was a healthy three-year-old chinchilla with a mild blockage from stress-eating his bedding. His family watched me deliver this news with the concern of people who loved their animal more than they disagreed about his name, which was the thing that truly mattered.

“More hay?” asked the youngest, who was eight.

“Different hay,” I said. “But good instinct.”

She looked at her parents with the pride of a child who was right about something in front of adults. I recognized that look. My brother had been making it at me since he was her age and had never fully stopped.

The afternoon moved through its usual configurations: two dog wellness checks, a cat whose owner was convinced her feline’s skin condition was emotional in origin, and one bird whose owner had not mentioned his pet was a bird until I opened the exam room door and found a large cockatoo standing on the exam table like he owned it.

His name was Malcolm. The bird, not the owner.

Malcolm stomped on the exam table, expressing his displeasure at the shiny metal, while I documented everything in the most professionally neutral language available to me.

I had returned to the tranquility of my office and was finishing Malcolm’s chart when Marcus appeared in my doorway with a piece of paper and the expression he wore when delivering news he considered important.

“Message came in while you were with Malcolm,” he said. “The Lowry Park Zoo called, a Dr. Reyes. She said it wasn’t urgent, but she’d appreciate a call back when you have time. She had that tone of a vet who didn’t want to alarm anyone but really needed help.” He set the paper on my desk at the correct angle. “They’re affiliated with USF’s wildlife program. I assume that’s how they found you.”

“I know who they are, Marcus. Every vet in a hundred miles does,” I said. “Did she say what animal or give any indication what might be going on?”

“She was vague. She said she’d explain when you called.” He paused, his eyes going a bit distant before refocusing. “She sounded like someone who’s been sitting with something for a while and is finally ready to talk about it.”

Zoo consults weren’t unusual. I’d done a few over the years, mostly exotics that needed a primary care perspective rather than a specialist, but Lowry Park had their own veterinary staff. They had a med bay that rivaled most pet hospitals, complete with imaging equipment and very skilled vets. If they were reaching out, it meant the situation was specific enough to want a different set of eyes.

“She said it wasn’t urgent, right?”

Marcus nodded. “That’s what she said.”

“Fine,” I said, moving the paper with her number to the side. “I’ll call her in the morning. Thanks, Marcus.”

Thursday’s call with Dr. Reyes took twenty minutes. She was precise and prepared, the kind of colleague who had done her homework before picking up the phone. She laid out the case without editorializing:

The patient was a Malayan tapir, eleven years old, female, named Marisol. There was an unusual presentation of intermittent symptoms, with nothing resolving the way it should. Their team had ruled out the obvious.

Dr. Reyes wanted a fresh perspective before committing to a diagnostic direction.

“Who referred you?” I asked.

“Dr. Peter Loupier,” she said. “He said you were good with complicated cases. He also said you’d want the full imaging before you’d agree to anything. I’ll send it over today.”

“I’m usually called in for marsupials or anything in the rodent family. Tapirs are—”

“More closely related to rhinos, I know, but Dr. Loupier was confident you’d be well paired with this situation. There isn’t a vet in a five-state radius with direct tapir experience.”

I stared at the wall of my office and thought about Peter telling a zoo veterinarian I was good with complicated cases, which was the kind of thing Peter would never say directly to me and had apparently said without hesitation to someone else, which was entirely consistent with how Peter operated. A part of me smiled at the unspoken compliment.