Sorta Like a Rock Star(49)
I hear Donna ask Chad and Jared how it went, and they say “Pretty good” just before I hear them exit through the front door.
CHAPTER 49
AIR GOES IN AND OUT,
OF MY NOSE, THROAT, LUNGS, BLOOD, HEART,
BRAIN—AND SO I AM
CHAPTER 50
“Do you notice anything different?” Donna asks me. She’s sitting down on the side of my bed, rubbing my back lightly with her hands. She’s been doing this lately. She also has been combing my hair at night. I don’t say anything to her about this—because I secretly like it when she rubs my back and combs my hair, as if I were a little girl again and she were my mom.
Donna’s not my mom—my mom is dead—but it still feels good.
I don’t say anything to Donna, because I’m still being a cat.
“When was the last time you saw Bobby Big Boy?” Donna asks me after rubbing my back for—like—fifteen minutes or so.
I think about it, and suddenly, my heart starts beating really fast.
It’s been days—maybe weeks.
No, it can’t be.
When was the last time I saw BBB?
I haven’t thought about BBB even once for so long.
I am a terrible pet owner.
I sit up.
“Bobby Big Boy?” I yell.
“Shhh,” Donna says, “he’s sleeping downstairs.”
“Is something wrong with him?”
“Well. He’s been acting a little funny,” Donna says. “So—I’m just going to say this, Amber—I called a veterinarian today.”
“Why?”
“Bobby Big Boy has had a lot of diarrhea lately. He hasn’t been eating regularly. He’s been lethargic—looking sort of unthrifty. And today when I took him for a walk he—well—he collapsed.”
“What?”
“He recovered. He’s okay now. But I’m taking him to the vet in a few minutes, and I wanted to know if you wanted to go with me.”
I run downstairs and find BBB in his room, lying on his bed.
His eyes are glassy.
He doesn’t even pick up his head when I walk into the room.
I pick him up in my arms and kiss him.
“I’m sorry, B3. I’m so so sorry I’ve neglected you. I’m here now. I’m here.”
His eyes look so sad—defeated.
I hate myself for neglecting him, for not noticing that he was suffering—I’m such a cat, such a bad pet owner.
I finally leave the house.
CHAPTER 51
Donna drives B Thrice and me to the veterinarian. Ricky stays home and does math problems.
“Do you think Bobby Big Boy might die?” I ask Donna in her Mercedes, with BBB curled up in my lap.
“Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” she says.
“So you think this could be serious?”
“He’s a relatively young dog, and pet medicine is good these days. We’re taking him to the best veterinarian in the tri-state area. Dr. Weissmuller at Weissmuller Pets of Childress.”
“We’re taking you to the best, Bobby Big Boy. You hear that? The best.”
When we get to Weissmuller Pets of Childress, I carry BBB into the waiting room and a woman wearing black scrubs asks us if we have been there before, and when we say we haven’t, she asks for BBB’s medical records or anything that would prove he’s had all of his shots.
“Where did you take him before you started living with us?” Donna asks me.
“Nowhere. He was never sick before,” I say.
“So you’ve never taken your pet to the vet before?” the lady asks me—sending me tons of attitude, cocking her head to one side and resting the end of her pen on her puffy apple-red kiss-shaped lips.
“Listen, I found him in a Nike box when I was living on a frickin’ school bus. We were so poor we couldn’t even afford to eat—like ever. My mom was killed a few months back by a psychopath, so I don’t need any extra crap from you, okay?”
“Oh, oh, my God. You’re Amber Appleton, aren’t you?” the woman says, so nicely now. “I’m so sorry. The name on the file says Roberts. I didn’t know. Let me get the doctor right away. Just give me ten seconds.”
She disappears into another room.
I can see that all of the other pet owners waiting to see the doctor are staring at me now. Regular, work-weary people. A collie is barking at B3, a poodle is hiding under a chair, and this little kid with a runny nose is holding an evil-looking ferret with pink eyes.
“Ms. Appleton?”
When I turn around, a man in peach-colored scrubs is smiling at me.
“Right this way,” he says.
In a room with photos of dogs taped up all over the walls, I put BBB down on a silver examination table. He lies on his side and breathes slowly.
“What is wrong with you, my friend?” Dr. Weissmuller says to BBB, shaking his paw like formal men in suits do whenever they meet.
“Bobby Big Boy has been tired lately,” Donna says, “he’s not eating much, he threw up yesterday, he’s had diarrhea—and today he collapsed while we were taking a walk.”