The horse took one sniff and bolted to the end of its lead rope, eyes bulging in terror. I tried speaking softly, moving slowly, and not making eye contact—the tricks every vet uses to soothe a nervous animal. Nothing worked.
With a toss of her curly head, Darlene strode up and grabbed the lead rope from Tammy. Over the years, I’d come to admire Darlene’s no-nonsense demeanor, which seemed to calm most animals. A few quiet words and the horse stopped snorting and lowered its head. The moment I moved to hand Darlene the kit, the head shot up. With a sinking heart, I backed away again.
I left them to it and went back into the clinic. I passed straight down the hall to the door leading to the outdoor kennels. Keen saw me coming and bounced over, but about five feet from me, she slid to a stop and sniffed the air, her hackles rising.
My heart froze. “Keen, come on, not you too.”
At the sound of my voice, she cocked her head. When I crouched and extended a hand, she stretched out her neck and sniffed for what seemed like ages. My legs began to cramp, but I kept talking to her until, finally, her tail wagged, and she licked my fingers. A wave of relief left me trembling.
When Darlene found me thirty minutes later, her brows were drawn into a frown. “What the hell is up? Mandy says the animals are nuts around you.”
“She’s right. Every single patient hated me today. Even Keen acted like she didn’t know me.”
Darlene’s eyes slid to my furry friend and returned to me. “New cologne? Laundry detergent?”
“No.” I frowned. “I have no idea what’s going on.” I rose, shut Keen back in the kennel, and followed my partner’s sturdy form back into the clinic and down the hall.
When we reached the front counter, Darlene fixed me with a hard stare. “Well, you’d better figure it out. You may look good in coveralls, but if the animals take one glance and bolt—”
“I know.” I shook my head.
“Try taking a shower,” she suggested, not unkindly.
“Believe it or not, I shower daily.”
We were interrupted when the clinic door opened. Our sometime client Frank Bordechuk came in with his huge dog on a leash.
“Hello, Butch,” called Ardyth from behind the counter, smiling at the dog. I swear Ardyth could smile in the face of the reaper. It made her a top-notch receptionist.
“Get out the Kevlar,” muttered Darlene under her breath.
We might call Walter’s donkey Fang, but Frank’s canine, Butch, deserved a few nicknames better left unsaid, at least in the owner’s presence. The animal was at best, vicious and at worst, lethal. Butch was a cross between a bullmastiff and an Akita—and, I was certain, a tiger. He was custom designed for a macho owner, which unfortunately, Frank was not. Butch weighed in at close to two hundred pounds and only stepped into the clinic because he bloody well felt like it.
The man in question held the end of the leash with a tentative hand. Butch fixed me with a beady eye and took a wet sniff in my direction. His bear-like head elevated, and he froze. The short hairs along his back bristled erect and his loose lips twitched into a snarl.
The world around me fogged gray as I stared at the dog. I sensed a subtle shift within me that manifested as a straightening of my stance and narrowing of my focus. I locked stares with the gigantic canine before me.
And he crumbled.
The massive head dropped, ears flattening as he adopted a crouched position, and his stump of a tail wagged his entire hind end in a frantic gesture of submission. Frank looked at his beast with an amazed expression.
Beside me, Darlene’s brows lowered as she glanced back and forth between me and Butch. Her mouth opened and closed again without uttering a single word.
Turning away from the dog, I waggled my eyebrows at her, enjoying her moment of speechlessness. I walked past an equally silent Ardyth and Mandy and continued down the hall. Butch trailed obediently after me, bringing Frank along with him.
4
When I returned to Keen at the end of the day, she sniffed me thoroughly before wagging her tail. Grateful for small mercies, we pointed the SUV for home. After I changed for my run, I headed to the back deck to see Peter. During mild evenings, I usually found him ensconced in his lawn chair, staring out into the forest. Colder weather saw us indoors at his ancient table. Even when Manitoba threw us minus-thirties, Peter’s yellow kitchen offered a warm and friendly place to chat. Because I had no family of my own, over the years of our acquaintance, the older man had become the sounding board most often provided by a parent.
I’d missed him over the last few days. I had no idea how long his niece and her—whatever Dillon was—were staying and worried that their arrival would alter what Peter and I shared. So I crossed the deck with trepidation, and instead of sticking my head in and hollering, I tapped on the door. It seemed that Keen echoed my worry as she stuck close to my leg.
I’d noticed the old car absent in the drive, and I hoped his guests had temporarily stepped off campus. So it surprised me when Chloe opened the door.
“Uh, hi,” I said, and then winced. I sounded like an awkward seventeen-year-old schoolboy.
“Hi, Liam.” Chloe crouched to reintroduce herself to a suspicious Keen. My furry friend sniffed her proffered hand and wagged her tail once in cautious acceptance. Peter emerged from the depths of the house, and Keen slithered over to him, wiggling her entire back end.
“How’re you feeling?” Peter asked. “Want some tea?”
“I’m fine,” I answered as Peter took a chair, and I took another. Keen lay under the table, her chin on my foot. We watched as Chloe pulled
