On impulse, Donald jerked the car into a strip center with a twenty-four hour veterinary clinic. “Doug, play along,” Hefeweizen ordered. He grabbed the cat, climbed out of his little car, and marched into the building.
It was a dingy, dismal place. Cracking plastic chairs whose vinyl-covered stuffing was coming unstuffed. A miserable florescent light buzzed continually and flickered intermittently. The odors of dog chow and pet urine mingled to form what was probably a biohazardous gas.
Donald sat, dropped Doug/Mr. Buttons on the grimy floor. “Take a peak out the door and see if it followed us into the lot.”
“By ‘it’ I’m assuming you mean the demon?” Doug purred the question as he made a figure eight around Donald’s ankles.
“Good kitty,” he smiled down at the former-human. The not-smiling faux-cat promptly nipped the ankle closest to his very sharp teeth.
Across the waiting room, behind a sliding frosted glass window sat a pink-cheeked girl whose cornsilk hair was pulled into a ponytail falling past her shoulders. Her name tag read “McKinsey,” firmly placing her in “Generation X.” She was cute. Everything about her was cute, from her little button nose to her butter yellow nursing scrubs covered in little kittens and puppies. And she smiled. At everyone.
Including Donald. Which was surprising, since pretty much no one ever smiled at him. They glared. They grimaced. They even, occasionally, growled. But they never smiled, or grinned, or looked at him in any way that implied pleasure.
But there she was, smiling at an ugly man whose lazy eye and thin lips were screwed up in pain, making his throbbing white pimple the centerpiece of his visage.
The she laughed. No . . . she giggled, Donald observed. No woman had ever giggled at him. But this one was.
McKinsey couldn’t contain her amusement, when she politely asked the new arrival, “sir, I’ll need you to come over here for a moment.”
. . . to be continued.
(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton