For many years I managed the front office of our veterinary hospital, Animal Eye Specialists. We had the good fortune of meeting and treating many amazing pets and pet owners. This is a selection from my collection of short stories entitled “Front Desk.” All the stories have their roots in fact, with a liberal dose of imagination.
They always scheduled appointments in the late afternoon, slogging through traffic from the North Bay to our hospital in the East Bay, never complaining about the thousands of commuters getting in the way of bringing their adored miniature poodle, Priscilla, for her eye examinations. In the world of veterinary medicine, they were the kind of clients doctors dream of. If Doc said increase drops to three times a day to treat Priscilla’s dry-eye condition, they did. If he recommended an additional ointment they took it in stride.
“Not a problem,” Betty would say, her pixie features smiling back at me. “Whatever it takes.”
They were pleasant and compliant to a tee. Unlike some of our clients, who readily spoke of their personal lives, the Kellers stuck mostly to talking about Priscilla.
“My little baby Priscilla,” Betty would coo. The ever-silent Priscilla lifted her eyes to meet Betty’s while David, red-faced, stared ahead as though the chaotic mix of pet photos on our bulletin board were the most riveting he had ever seen. Was that a whiff of Jack Daniels? I often wondered if he fortified himself with something 90 proof for these trips into the outside world with his wife and canine daughter.
One February afternoon, when the rain blurred the sign on the law offices across the street, the family of three poured into our reception area, Priscilla stowed away inside Betty’s trench coat. As water dripped onto the floor from sopping wet umbrellas, Priscilla emerged from her warm, dry spot, her curly coat limp against her body. She was not a dog that sparkled with energy the way some poodles do. She was slow and, frankly, seemed a little dull, but today, a glint of something caught my eye.
“What’s that—around Priscilla’s neck?” I asked.
David’s already pink face deepened to purple-red. He ran a finger around the inside of his starched collar and quickly looked away. Betty smiled sweetly, sat taller, glowing with pride as she lifted Priscilla’s face to kiss her between the eyes.
“My little precious Priscilla, tell Jenny what you are wearing.”
I wondered what Priscilla would say. She never yipped, yapped, barked or groaned.
In the voice of a pink-cheeked, three-year-old girly-girl, Betty replied, “Why Jenny, it’s my—very—own—diamond!”
I walked from behind the reception desk to take a look. Sure enough, dangling from a gold chain was a beautifully cut, round brilliant solitaire.
“That’s at least a carat-and-a-half!” I blurted out.
Betty gave her Priscilla another kiss between the eyes.
I held the pendant in my fingertips, admiring the stone. It was unlikely that Priscilla ever set her feet on the ground for long, but her diamond was mounted in a six-prong setting, attached to a perfectly sized gold chain to prevent her from losing it. I can only imagine what the conversation had been like at the jewelry store.
Why of course, Betty, anything you want. No self-respecting poodle can possibly be seen in anything less than a carat.
A slow smile deepened the creases in the corners of Betty’s eyes. “Tell Jenny all about your jewelry, Priscilla.”
I listened dumbfounded as Betty, speaking for Priscilla in that same little-girl voice, described a jewelry collection worthy of a safety deposit box in a Wells Fargo Bank.
“I have my own jewelry case lined in pink velvet that my mommy gave me when I turned three. She said when I turned 21 (in dog years) I could pick out my own jewelry when I wake up from my nap in my baby crib in my—very—own—room. I have a strand of pearls and an emerald on a rolled chain that fits perfectly around my neck. Jenny, you should see my ruby—it’s to die for.”
“Tell me, Priscilla,” I said, after my heart started beating again. “What else do you have in your room?”
Betty’s skinny fingers held Priscilla upright on her lap. “I have white carpet and a mahogany baby crib and the prettiest lacy curtains you ever laid your eyes on. I have my own tiled bathroom with pink poodle wallpaper. Best of all, I do my business on disposable papers so I don’t even have to go outside.”
“You bring new meaning to the phrase ‘It’s a dog’s life,’ Betty. Do you suppose if I dedicate myself to finding whatever spiritual plane is necessary to be reincarnated as a miniature grey poodle, that you would adopt me in my next life? Now don’t misunderstand, I’d be perfectly content with that hand-me-down carat-and-a-half dangling from Priscilla’s neck. But for casual wear I’m thinking a collar of Sri Lankan star sapphires might be especially flattering. Look good with grey, don’t ya think?”
One afternoon, David arrived alone, carrying Priscilla. As I escorted him into the exam room, he explained that Betty was not feeling well. Kristin, our veterinary technician, put Priscilla on the exam table to measure her tear production. Doc was pleased. The months of tweaking the treatment had finally worked. Priscilla was stable; making tears the way she ought to.
“By the way,” I heard Doc say as he opened the exam room door, “Betty has such a good eye; that emerald Priscilla is wearing is downright gorgeous.”
David flipped his darling on her back, cradling Priscilla upside down in his arms, lips inches from her nose. The emerald glowed spring green in the overhead light.
“Did you hear that, girl? They don’t know your mommy can’t tell the difference between an emerald and green bottle glass.” David held the stone in one hand, smiling at his dog-child. “Who got you that emerald, frozen in green Columbian time, that blood-red ruby? Next visit, you’re wearing your hand-matched Tahitian pearl dog collar.
Doc and I looked at each other. Disbelief hung in the air. Taking public advantage of the awkward moment, I piped up, “Well, if David can spring for a strand of Tahitian pearls for his Priscilla, maybe you, Doc, could spring for a strand of Golden South Sea pearls for me.”
Doc opened his mouth but nothing came out. He looked like a freshwater trout in the bottom of a beat-up rowboat, begging for air.
Looking from my neck to Priscilla’s, Doc sighed, “David, you’re a lucky man. Your girl has a tiny neck. My girl, well, she’s making my credit cards sweat!”
Priscilla turned towards Doc’s voice, looked at her dad’s face, yawned—showing her teeth all the way back to her throat—closed one eye, then the other, and fell asleep.
