Make Me Listen by Cherie M Hudson

Author:Cherie M Hudson [Hudson, Cherie M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Book Boutiques
Published: 2018-02-18T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

“The average dog is a nicer person than the average person.”

~ Andy Rooney

CADEN

Walking into the hospital as Chase drove away was an exercise in mental torture. It took all my willpower not to look back to see if she’d stopped. To see if she’d changed her mind. By the time I got into the reception area I felt like I was about to splinter into a million pieces. So much for not being ruffled. What I needed right there and then was some good news about Doofus. And maybe an excuse to make a joke about something.

The temp—whose real name was Timpani but who I could only think of as Little Miss Regrowth—smiled at me when I entered.

“Is your girlfriend okay?” she asked.

Girlfriend. Huh. It would take forever to explain the complexities of our relationship, so instead I nodded. “She’s tough.”

An unconvinced frown pulled at her forehead. “I guess she has to be, being disabled and all.”

Thankfully an elderly woman with pale pink hair and a pinker Shih Tzu under her arm hurried into the hospital and approached the counter, saving me from responding. It’s probably not a good move to call someone an insensitive, ignorant twat when you’re a visitor in their country, right?

“Caden?” Dr. Adams poked his head through the door behind the counter as Timpani turned to the stressed pet owner. “Come through.”

“Thanks, Dr. Adams,” I said.

He waved a hand at me with a smile. “Dean will do.”

I followed him to the recovery room where Doofus had been the day before. When I saw the dog, my heart dropped.

It’s an odd term of phrase heart dropped, but it’s so accurate. Physically, my heart didn’t shift its position in my chest cavity at all, but at the sight of Doofus, the place in my chest where my heart sat suddenly felt empty, a pounding weight taking up residence in my gut in its place.

Doofus, for his part, wagged his tail weakly at my presence.

“Chase tells me he’s got a post-op infection,” I said, concern eating at me.

“He’s a fighter,” Dean said at my side, “but for some reason he’s not responding to the antibiotics.”

I crossed to Doofus’s cage, opened it, and placed my hand on his side. My throat wasn’t letting me breathe. I ran an inspection over the dog, trying to engage my vet’s eyes and brain.

“And you don’t know why?” I asked. Dean had done an amazing job on the dog’s dislocated back knee, and the sutures on his wounds were impressive.

“Not at this stage. Randolf—the vet on duty last night—suspects complication from his perforated bowel,” Dean answered. “It was a mess in there when you brought him in. Randolf put him onto antibiotics straight away, but they should be having an effect by now. I’m going to run some blood tests and do a CT scan, see if there’s something we’ve missed. Would you like to watch?”

I nodded.

He clamped a firm hand on my shoulder. “This is not how you saw your third day in California going, is it?”

A dry laugh scratched at my tight throat.

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