The Price of a Follow-Up Appointment
“It’s okay, Pita. You’re okay, Pita, tita, bobita.”
The German shepherd looked back at Wade with begging eyes.
There were two other people in the lobby, with two other dogs. His anxiety wouldn’t let him be embarrassed. Still, he moved his head close to the dog’s and whispered.
“Daddy loves you. I talked to the ones in the sky.”
The dog looked away from him and around the room. She was nervous. This was the place where strangers stabbed you.
Wade was nervous too.
His eye glimpsed a van pulling up. A woman got out with a bundle wrapped in her arms.
“Here comes a kitty so pretty,” Wade said absently, seeing the little, striped head bobbing outside the bundle.
The woman carrying the kitten came inside and went up to the counter. Wade didn’t notice she was crying until she spoke.
“I ran over him.”
Moans filled the room. Wade hadn’t known its condition; he had attributed its loosely bobbing head to the antics of a playful kitten.
“Dr. Lane!” the receptionist shouted as she made her way to the back. Dr. Lane came to the front, a practiced expression on her face.
“I think he’s dead,” the woman said. Dr. Lane led her into an examination room.
Wade looked around, exchanging sympathetic gazes with other pet owners, then he looked back at Pita, who pushed herself into him and whined.
Wade waited, making small talk with a lady wearing a Bon Jovi T-shirt and holding a poodle, trying to forget the poor kitten, trying to forget why he was here.
Dr. Lane soon came out, leading the woman, who was now carrying a closed bundle. She walked her all the way to the van. They exchanged a few words there before the doctor came in. For the first time, she seemed to notice Wade.
“Why are you here?”
It took Wade a few seconds to answer. “Your assistant called last night. She said the results were positive.”
She seemed confused. “I don’t think so.” She moved behind the reception counter, pulled up something on the computer, studied it for a few seconds, then shook her head.
“Pita’s fine. There’s been some kind of miscommunication.”
He lit up inside, but tried to hide it, given the scene they’d all just witnessed. There were a few guesses as to how the mishap occurred. The vet took full responsibility and apologized. Wade accepted graciously and left.
He was in his car, Pita in the backseat, no doubt thrilled she’d escaped the evil place without a single stabbing, when he remembered the conversation with his wife last year.
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“What, was there some kind of mix-up?”
“Someone else’s test results were in my chart. My results were negative. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
Wade drove off the lot with a healthy dog, wondering about the price.
