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from this guy. Jenna was right. He was kind of a dick.
“You know what, Dr. McFarland?” I chirped. “You’re actually a little bit right. Here’s the thing.” I paused. He waited. I waited, too, for something good to come to me. “Bowie did eat the paper this morning. I’d been meaning to come see you anyway, and since my dog felt a little blue, I figured what the heck.” I cleared my throat. “See, the thing is, I used to work for Dr. Kumar, did you know that?” Dr. McStuck-Up shook his head, looking utterly uninterested. “I washed dogs, cleaned up, was generally helpful.”
Dr. McFarland sighed and glanced at his watch.
“Anyway, I work in advertising and public relations now … um, and I know how friendly and sweet Dr. Kumar was, and you have big shoes to fill and all that. So I was thinking maybe you needed some … I don’t know. A little help in getting the word out that you’re just as sweet as Dr. K. Because I’m guessing that even though you’re seeing a bump in the single-women-pet-owning population right now, business might die down a little.”
Ah-ha! He frowned—frowned more, that is—and I kept talking. “You might not know this, but there’s another veterinary practice in Kettering, which is only fifteen minutes away, and it’s not really much farther for the people who live east of Main Street, so you know … I wondered if you might be interested in a little PR, so I figured I’d drop in and offer my services.”
Well! That was as unexpected as pigs flying out of my butt, as my dear grandfather would say. Not bad, Michelle said. Though I don’t approve of lying, of course. “Why?” I asked. “Did you think I was checking you out?”
Dr. McFarland regarded me steadily. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not looking for an advertising agency.”
“This would be more public relations,” I said. Bowie wagged encouragingly and added a yip.
“No, thank you,” the vet said. “Now. Would you like me to examine your dog or not?”
“Sure!” I said. “Might as well, right?” He didn’t roll his eyes, but I sensed it was close. The vet knelt down next to Bowie, who immediately tried to mount him for a little dry humping.
“Off,” Dr. McFarland said. Bowie obeyed, surprisingly, and licked the vet’s face, getting a little smile as a reward. A smile. Something hot and unexpected darted in my stomach. Dr. McFarland … Ian. Nice name. Ian McFarland. Yes. I liked it. Dr. Ian took a stethoscope out of his pocket and pressed it against Bowie’s side, gently holding my dog’s head with one hand so Bowie didn’t lick him again.
“So, the women of Georgebury have been through, huh?” I said, just to show I was not one of them, the desperate hags of northeastern Vermont. “I guess you can’t blame them. Hard to meet people up here, I suppose. It’s funny, seven people with—”
“Miss Grey?” He looked up at me with those blue eyes, and suddenly I felt that liquid, flashing heat again. Those were some very pretty eyes, and he was looking so deeply at me, as if maybe … maybe he kind of felt something? Something for me?
“You can call me Callie,” I said, and my voice was a little breathy. “Short for Calliope. Homer’s muse.”
“Callie, then.”
Your name! He said your name! Betty Boop’s eyelashes fluttered. “Yes?” I sighed.
“I can’t hear your dog’s bowel sounds if you don’t stop talking.”
“Right! Bowel sounds. You keep going. Do what you need to do. You’re the doctor. Examine away. Good boy, Bowie.” I closed my eyes, closed my mouth and sat still, imagining the First Lady sighing yet again.
After a minute, Dr. McFarland said, “Everything sounds fine.” He stood up and scribbled something else on the chart. “Try not to leave newspapers where your dog can get them. Please see Carmella on your way out.”
“Right. Nice to meet you,” I said, blushing once again.
“Same here,” he lied.
I followed him out of the exam room. Bowie yipped, then lunged, causing me to crash into Dr. McFarland’s back. He turned, scowling. “Sorry,” I muttered, hauling Bowie back from the object of his interest—an unleashed and extremely beautiful Irish setter. When she saw us, she sat immediately and wagged her plumy tail.
“Wow, that is one gorgeous dog,” I said. “Is she yours?”
“Yes,” he answered. He eyed my whining dog the way a father eyes his teenage daughter’s boyfriend.
“Bowie, stop,” I ordered, tugging on the leash. My dog was getting aroused once more. “What’s her name?”
“Angie.”
“Angie,” I immediately crooned in a whispery voice. The old Rolling Stones song was a favorite of mine, “‘Aaaangie, you can’t say we never tri-ah-ah-ied.’” Bowie joined right in with a whining howl, and Angie wagged appreciatively. Her owner said nothing. “Did you name her after the song?”
“No. Her name is Four D Mayo’s Angel,” he answered in what I’m sure he thought was a patient tone. “I shortened it.”
“Oh, so she’s one of those purebred AKC dogs, is that it?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Apparently unable to stop talking, I kept going. “Bowie’s a mutt.”
“Yes. I’m aware of that.”
“Right. Because you’re the vet.” For heaven’s sake, Michelle said. Shut it, Callie.
“Angie, go lie down, girl,” the good doctor said. His dog wagged at me once more, then walked off down the hall. Bowie crooned a mournful goodbye.
“Well, see you arou—” I offered to Dr. McFarland, but he was already going into the next exam room to deal with the obese terrier and its owner.
I looked at my dog, who stared back, ready to hear whatever gem I was about to impart. “That did not go too well,” I whispered.
Up at the front desk, Carmella took pity on me. “Divorced,” she said. “Not over his wife, I think.”
“Oh,” I murmured. “Too bad.”
My trip to Humiliationville cost me $75. Michelle told me I’d learned a valuable lesson in not wasting other people’s time. Betty mourned the shoes that money could’ve bought.
In the parking lot, Ball Python Woman was sliding her pet into the passenger seat, which made me wonder what the heck the snake did while she drove around. “Well, that was a complete waste of time,” she announced as I opened the door for Bowie.
“You’re telling me,” I answered.
BACK HOME, I CROSSED New Vet off my list and checked my e-mail. Yesterday, when Annie was supposed to be getting ready for the new school year, she had instead screened several candidates, thoroughly enjoying her foray into Internet dating. This guy is gorgeous! she’d written, complete with a link to his info. Doug336. What did those numbers mean, anyway? That there were 336 Dougs in the world, all of them looking for love? That was a lot of Dougs. I sighed and turned to look at the framed photo I really should toss.
It was taken at last year’s company picnic, two months before that fateful foray to Santa Fe. Mark had organized one of those team-building exercise retreat things involving paintball and physical exertion, and though there had been grumblings about why the heck we couldn’t have gone on a booze cruise instead, I’d had a great time. Especially during the Chicken Challenge. Oh, I loved the Chicken Challenge! It was basically a game of piggyback chicken in a lake, and guess who got to partner up with the boss? Me, that’s who, and Pete had snapped a photo of the two of us, soaked and triumphant, me on Mark’s back, my arms around his lovely neck. That was a happy, happy day. I’d been so sure Mark was feeling it, too