Raw chicken is bad, right?
I’m pretty sure it’s bad.
I mean, he’s a cat, but?—
Charles walks a few feet and throws up a third time.
It’s already making him sick!
Panic swallows me.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I chant. “I got you. It’s okay.”
It’s so not okay. I have no idea what to do.
I grab my phone off the table.
It’s four p.m.
And that’s what, two in California?
I don’t know when Nathan’s speech is.
I can’t call him during that. What if his phone vibrating in his pocket distracts him?
My heart is galloping, and I try to focus.
Think!
I need help.
Need to get help.
I look at my phone.
I need togo tosomeone who can help.
I open the map app on my phone and search for emergency vets near me.
There’s one four minutes away.
I hit start on the directions, then shove my phone into my pocket.
“Come here, Charles.” I take a step toward him, putting my full weight on my sprained ankle without thinking.
It twinges.
It’s sore.
But it’s not horrible.
I take another step.
I can’t carry Charles and use crutches.
And I’d choose Charles every day.
I take another step around the little pile of vomit, then I bend and scoop him up off the ground.
