She shrugs, the disappointment on her face nothing more than a flicker. A minute later, the front door clicks shut behind her.
I grab my jeep keys and head out the front door. The crisp November air is heavy with the promise of rain.
A faint whimper, almost a squeak, draws my attention to a bush on my property. I walk over to the sound and crouch next to the bush, where a small tangle of reddish-brown fur with large floppy ears lies.
“Hey, little guy, what are you doing here?”
The puppy lifts its head slightly and gives another whimper. It doesn’t have a collar, doesn’t look familiar.
I hold my hand out to him, letting him sniff it, and stroke his soft head. “Are you injured?” I don’t know a whole lot about dogs. My only real experience with them comes from my colleague’s dog, Mojo. Jayden’s dog is a Bernese mountain goofball who likes to hang out at the office and soak in as much attention as possible.
I scan the sidewalk, searching for the puppy’s owner. With the exception of several cars driving past, there’s no other sign of life.
I gently scoop him up and cradle him against my chest. He releases a soft, pained sound at the movement, but then he snuggles closer to me.
“There’s a twenty-four-hour vet clinic on the way to my office. I’ll drop you off there on my way to my meeting.”
I carry him inside the house, locate a box big enough to hold him, and cushion it with a towel. The puppy whimpers and licks my hand when I lower him into the box.
The clinic isn’t busy when I arrive—other than a talking parrot that keeps saying, “Spank me naughty boy,” two cats eyeing him with distrust, and a snoozing golden retriever.
The parrot’s owner is a woman in her midtwenties. Her blush deepens every time he speaks. “Would you quit saying that?” she mutters to the bird, sounding more than ready to stuff a cracker down his beak to shut him up.
While I wait for the puppy’s turn, I fire off a text to Liam, letting him know something came up, but I’ll be there as soon as possible.
Five minutes later, the puppy and I are in the exam room, and the vet is checking him over.
“He’s a little malnourished, and his front leg is sprained,” the man explains. “But he should fully recover in no time. I’d like to keep him for twenty-four hours to monitor his condition; then you can take him home.”
“He’s not my dog,” I remind him.
“He didn’t have a tattoo. Let me see if he has a microchip.”
The vet checks the puppy’s neck with a handheld device and shakes his head. “Either the owner didn’t get around to having the microchip inserted, or it’s not functioning.”
“What do I do now?”
“I can look if there’s space available in a foster home. Otherwise, you can drop him off with the SCPA and hope someone claims him or adopts him soon.”
“What would you do?”
He chuckles. “Keep him. But unfortunately, my house is already full of pets, so that counts me out. I don’t suppose you know anyone who would love to give him a home in the meantime, and potentially permanently.”
“Not really. I can ask my colleagues if they’re interested, though.”
“Let me know. And if not, I’ll look into the foster care situation, and I’ll let you know what I find out when you pick him up tomorrow.”
“I hadn’t planned on coming back for him. I was just going to pay his bill and was hoping you could find him a new owner.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have room for him once he’s no longer a patient.”
The furball flashes me his puppy eyes, gives a little whimper, and licks my hand.
“He definitely likes you,” the vet says.
Likes me or not, I’m not looking at adopting a dog.
But despite that, I can’t help but stroke the soft fur on his head. “What kind of dog is he anyway?”
