The Most Famous Illegal Goose Creek Parade (8 page)

“I do. That's why we'd buy a motor home.”

She blinked. “A what?”

“A motor home. An RV.” He poured his enthusiasm into a wide smile. “I've been looking into them, and I think we can pick up a really nice used one when we're ready to buy.”

Millie sat up straight. “I refuse to spend my retirement traipsing around the country in a trailer. I gave up camping years ago.”

“It's not like tent camping,” he explained. “It's more like—”

“I won't do it.” She folded her arms across her chest with a slap. “End of discussion.”

Al's irritation returned with a vengeance. “Oh, I forgot. You'd rather bankrupt us buying an ancient money pit and turn us into servants for pampered rich people who enjoy throwing their money away on horse races.”

“At least we'd sleep in a proper bed every night,” she snapped.

A noise penetrated the angry blood pounding in Al's ears. Voices. Someone was shouting at them. He pulled his glare away from Millie to look over his shoulder. On the shore stood Ben and his wife, along with two preteen boys. They were all waving their hands in the air, yelling his name.

“What's wrong with them?” Millie asked in a tone only slightly less aggravated.

“I don't know.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “What's the problem?”

“We forgot to tell you about the—”

His warning was drowned out by a loud noise. Al whipped around to locate the source. The canoe floated near the center of the lake, a few feet from an odd-looking pipe that protruded a foot or so from the surface.

A fountain.

Water gushed from the pipe and leaped twelve feet into the air before succumbing to gravity. The resulting shower was quite beautiful glistening in the sunlight above their heads.

It was also very cold.

Chapter Six

S
usan paused for a moment on the doorstep of the Goose Creek Animal Clinic to brush at a crease in her lab coat. What was behind this unaccustomed twinge of nerves? Her education was finished, her training thorough, and her reference materials extensive. As Daddy assured her on the phone last night, there was nothing she would encounter in any Goose Creek pet that she couldn't handle. Thus fortified, she drew in a breath and reached for the knob.

The door jerked inward. She caught a glimpse of black fur an instant before a weight slammed into her chest. Thrown backward, her foot grappled for balance but instead of the porch found only air. For a moment she was airborn and then, with a thud that knocked the breath from her lungs, she landed on her backside in the grass and lay still, gasping.

“Boomer, no! Bad dog!
Baaad
dog.”

A commanding female voice penetrated the fog in her oxygen-deprived brain. At the same moment, she realized why she couldn't breathe. There was a bear on her chest.

The creature was heaved backward and, blinking to clear her vision, she struggled to sit up. Not a bear. A dog. A
giant
dog, straining at the end of a leash, a thick string of slime dangling from one glistening jowl.

The other end of the leash was held by a woman with a stump-shaped body and a cap of steel-gray hair. She peered over the top of
the dog's head at Susan, and then turned to yell over her shoulder in a voice that rivaled a lumberjack's.

“Millie, you'd best get on out here. Boomer's done kilt the new doc.”

Another woman bustled through the doorway, caught sight of Susan, and rushed forward. “Oh my goodness. Are you hurt? Should we call 911?”

Susan lay there a moment, assessing her injuries. Arms and legs all worked. Her backside had taken the brunt of her weight and she'd probably have a bruise, but nothing felt broken. Cautiously, she struggled to sit up. Thank goodness she'd landed on grass instead of the sidewalk.

“Maybe you should stay there for a minute,” the newcomer advised, her concerned gaze sweeping over Susan. “I'll go get Doc.”

“No, I'm fine. I was just…surprised.”

How embarrassing. She hadn't even stepped foot through the door of her new clinic and already she'd caused a scene. Moving slowly, she stood and cast a cautious eye toward her attacker, who had stopped straining at the leash and now sat calmly watching her.

“It's a Newfoundland.” She'd never seen one in person but knew about the big dogs, of course. Prone to medial carthal pocket syndrome due to the shape of the gigantic head, though this one showed no sign of the eye condition. Also prone to hip dysplasia, like all large breeds. Judging by this creature's agility, that wasn't a problem either.

“Yep,” the owner replied in her gravelly voice. “Always wanted a Newfie. No sissy-pants froufrou pup for me. Gimme a real dog.” The woman cocked her head sideways and looked Susan up and down. “So you're the new doc. Not too sturdy on your feet, are you?”

Susan resisted the urge to bristle, and instead pasted on a professionally pleasant expression. “Yes, I'm Dr. Jeffries.” She tentatively extended her fingers for the dog to sniff. “And I've already met Boomer. We're going to get along fine, aren't we, boy?”

Boomer's owner twisted her thin lips. “We'll think on it.” She looped the leash once more around her hand before heading down the sidewalk. “C'mon, Boomer.”

The pair marched toward the parking lot while the other lady stepped to her side.

“Don't worry about Edith. She'll come around.” She gave a pleasant smile. “I'm Millie Richardson, your morning receptionist. Come on inside and I'll get the lint roller.”

Susan glanced down to find her white lab coat covered in black hair and fell into step behind the receptionist. Inside, Millie circled around the desk and rummaged in a drawer. She peeled off the outer paper of a lint roller to reveal a clean sticky layer and handed it to Susan, who began the cleanup process.

She glanced around while she rolled. The waiting rooms were empty. Not a good sign.

“Is it a slow morning?” she asked.

“Not really. Doc's in exam room one checking on a kitty with a vomiting problem, and Larry Greely's waiting in room two with Bella.”

Susan rolled the last piece of hair and returned the roller to Millie. “Bella?”

“His bird dog. Her first litter's due in a few weeks, and he's an anxious grandpa.” The woman's grin was infectious, and Susan found herself smiling back.

“Maybe I should go introduce myself.”

She started toward the back, but Millie stepped in front of her on the pretext of swiping the roller at her left sleeve.

“It might be a good idea to let Doc introduce you.” She stepped back to examine her work, and then gave an apologetic shrug. “Doc and Larry are old friends.”

Susan saw the logic in that and nodded. She was about to head for exam room one to be introduced to the owner of the feline with the intestinal problem when the door leading to the back opened. An elderly woman carrying a white longhaired cat emerged, followed by Dr. Forsythe.

“You try that trick with the can in his bowl. That'll force him to eat slower.”

“I will, Doc. Thank you.” She caught sight of Susan and interest flooded her features. “Is this the new veterinarian?”

“Indeed it is.” Dr. Forsythe came forward with a welcoming smile to shake her hand. “Delores Barnes, allow me to introduce Dr. Susan Jeffries.” He stroked the back of the cat. “And this fine fellow is Arnold.”

“He's named after my late husband, who detested cats.” Mrs. Barnes' eyes twinkled. “I wasn't allowed to have one until he passed. Now I have four.”

Susan couldn't come up with a safe answer, so instead she busied herself in stroking the cat's soft fur. “He's a beautiful feline.”

“Here.” The elderly lady thrust the animal into Susan's arms. “You can hold him while I write the check.”

Though the fluffy double coat of fur made the cat look huge, Arnold felt light in Susan's arms. He seemed completely unconcerned at being held by a stranger. She ran her fingers down his spine, noting the position of the vertebrae. Nothing out of place. He remained limp as she probed the hip joint and traced the bones in his leg down to his rear paw. Then she repeated the examination on his front leg, splaying his toes.

“Oh! Goodness.” She raised her gaze to Dr. Forsythe, who was grinning. “I've never seen one.”

Mrs. Barnes tore a check from her checkbook and handed it across the reception counter to Millie before turning an inquisitive gaze her way. “You've never seen a cat, dear?”

Susan chuckled. “No, ma'am, I mean I've never seen a polydactyl cat.”

The elderly woman looked blank.

“She means a cat with six toes,” Dr. Forsythe explained.

Mrs. Barnes' expression cleared. “Ah.”

“I've studied the condition, of course.” Susan splayed Arnold's toes, noting the position of the sixth digit. “It's a congenital physical anomaly.”

“A what?”

“A mutation,” Susan explained, warming to the subject. “As such, some well-regarded sources strongly discourage breeding so as not to pass on the deformity. Sterilization is encouraged.”

She started to spread Arnold's rear legs to see if the procedure had been performed, but the cat was jerked roughly from her arms. Surprised, she looked up into Mrs. Barnes' fiery gaze.

“Arnold is
not
a mutant!” With an indignant huff, the woman whirled and stalked toward the door.

“I didn't mean to imply he was a mutant.” Susan hurried after her. “Mrs. Barnes, all I meant was—”

Her explanation went unheard. The door slammed in her face.

She turned to find Millie giving her a pitying look.

Dr. Forsythe shook his head slowly. “We're kind of fond of our six-toed friends around here. You might want to keep that in mind.”

Stunned, Susan could only nod.

By mid-morning Susan was almost ready to concede defeat to the extreme obduracy of Goose Creek pet owners. Larry Greely not only refused to let her touch his precious birddog, he banished her from the room when Dr. Forsythe began his examination, claiming, “Bella, she don't cotton to strangers.” From the deeply mistrustful way the man watched her, it appeared Bella wasn't the only one.

Mr. Greely's reservations about newcomers were repeated time and again. Apparently the pet-owning residents of Goose Creek maintained an active communication line, and it must have been buzzing all morning. Just after noon Susan emerged from the back to the reception area in time to hear one lady inform Millie in an outraged tone, “…called Arnold a deformed mutant and wanted to cut his toe off!”

Millie corrected the misinformation, but the lady insisted that only Dr. Forsythe be allowed to trim her dachshund's toenails.

After the third pet owner informed Susan, “Trigger doesn't like to
be touched by people he doesn't know,” she resigned herself to watching from a corner while Doc, as everyone called him, conducted the examinations. The people clearly admired and trusted him.

He certainly did know his patients. As his fingers glided over their furry little bodies he kept up a running monologue, informing Susan of the details surrounding each animal's history from birth all the way to last week. Not once did she see him refer to a chart. She scribbled furiously in her notepad as he spoke. By the time she went to bed tonight she vowed to commit every detail to memory. The next time these animals visited the clinic, she would
not
be a stranger.