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“She’s been restless too. And she won’t eat.”
“Oh.That’snotgood.We’lllookinonherlater.Ibet I can persuade her to eat my special steak tartar.”
“Van, try to pay attention to what I’m saying. You won’t forgive me if this hits you unexpectedly.”
“I’m listening. I always listen to you.”
He didn’t sound as though he was listening. He sounded as though he was getting serious about making love.
“Guinevere is producing milk.”
“That’s nice. Do me a favor. Snuggle that perfect, round portion of your thigh … Oh, yeah. Like that. Just like that.”
Mary’s heating blood threatened to pound every rational thought out of her brain, but she resisted. “Van, I think Guinevere will have her pups any hour now.”
“No, she won’t,” he said soothingly. “She can’t. I haven’t lined her whelping box with old towels and diapers yet. I just stacked them up, ready to go. And I haven’t turned on the floor-heating I installed in her box.”
“Van, I don’t think she knows she’s supposed to wait.”
“Oh. Yeah?” He stopped stroking her thigh. He stopped talking. He stopped doing anything. When he spoke again, it was like a man in shock. “Wait a minute. What did you say?”
Mary drew back to check on him. The planes of his face had hardened. His eyes were as open as eyes could be, and his pupils were dilated. His breathing and the pulse in his throat picked up speed.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe she’s going to deliver.” His voice grew louder. “Could you be right? Of course you could be right. Temperature. You said you took her temperature? Babies. Guinevere. Puppies. Diapers. Vet, we need a vet!”
“Van, it’s okay. Everything will be okay.” Mary injected as much calming into her voice as she could muster. After all, she had to persuade herself, too, that everything would be okay. But she was sure — almost — she was telling the truth. “The vet said most dogs whelp with no problem at all. And in Guinevere’s case, considering the relatively miniature size of the fellow who helped her make these puppies, she’s even less likely to have any trouble.”
The panic on Van’s face said he couldn’t hear anything like a voice of reason. Short, sweet, wordless sounds might get through to him. “There, there,” Mary murmured.
But she also bit her lip. She had a truth trembling on her tongue. She had to tell him. She hoped he wouldn’t go right off the rails. “Guinevere isn’t doing this when she was supposed to be doing this. My vet is on vacation.”
Vansurgedtohisfeet.Marytumbledbackontothe sofa.
“No vet! We can’t contact her vet? You gotta be kidding. Tell me you’re kidding. What if she — She might — We can’t let this — ”
“It’ll be okay. Dogs have been doing this for countless centuries. You don’t usually call a vet at all unless there’s a problem — ”
“A problem? There’s going to be a problem. I knew it. She’ll die, and it will break Lancelot’s heart, and — ”
“Van, the vet did leave a phone number for his assistant in case of an emergency.”
Van looked around wildly. “What do you know about this assistant?”
“Uh, nothing, except my vet would hire a good one.”
“Lancelot. Where’s Lancelot?”
“Last I saw, curled patiently next to Guinevere’s box.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s beside himself.”
“Well,” said Mary, “his eyes were following her from one side of the garage to another. It was kind of cute. I think he was mostly just waiting for her to stop pacing.”
“Pacing.” Van beat his clenched fist against his thigh in time with his own pacing. “Why is she pacing? I thought it was the guys who were supposed to pace.”
“Uh, Van, dogs aren’t exactly the same as humans.”
“Well, they’re close enough.”
