“Hey, Teagan, do you mind meeting with the family in examination room two? A kid just brought in her pet turtle and an overweight cat. They should be the last ones before we close for lunch,” Louis asks me as he heads towards the back to finish inventory for the morning.
It still blows my mind that Louis’s clinic shuts down every day from 12 to 1 p.m., and somehow, the entire city respects it. Back in Houston, lunch breaks were a luxury—either spent scarfing down a sandwich during a fifteen-minute break or skipped entirely to squeeze in another appointment. The slower pace here is refreshing, and I make a mental note to stick to this schedule if Louis agrees to sell me his practice. Why work harder when you can work smarter?
“Sure, of course,” I respond to him happily as I wash my hands behind the front desk. Things have been going well with us and the synergy in the office has flown effortlessly. I’m feeling optimistic about his perception of me, and I’ve been enjoying everything that I’ve been learning.
Drying them quickly, I adjust my jeans and head to the exam room where my next patient is waiting.
When I step inside, I’m greeted by the sight of a little girl standing alone in the middle of the room. She can’t be more than seven or eight, with thick brown hair that curls at the ends and wide, curious green eyes. Her attention is completely locked on a turtle in a small plastic container with air holes punched in the lid. Meanwhile, in her arms, she’s cradling an enormous gray cat that looks entirely too big in proportion to the little girl.
“Good morning,” I say, grabbing the chart that’s already been filled out off the examination table, “I’m Dr. Keating, one of the veterinarians at the clinic. And this is… Queen?” I ask, pointing to the turtle still in its carrier.
The little girl nods nervously as she continues to pet the loudly purring cat that's cradled in her arms. My eyes scan the chart for more details regarding the reason behind her visit, but it's sparsely filled out and the handwriting doesn’t look like hers.
“Okay, so Queen is experiencing increased levels of aggression and restlessness along with irritability? Have there been any recent changes to her environment or diet that I should know about?” I ask.
The little girl continues to stare at me curiously but shakes her head no as she pets the cat while it lets out a soft meow. I place the chart back on the table, realizing I’m not going to get much out of her and might as well start the examination.
“Alright, I’m going to take Queen out of her carrier and do a quick examination to see if we can figure out what’s going on. Is that okay with you?”
She nods again as I gently lift Queen from the container, turning her over to inspect her shell and underside. It doesn’t take long to see that everything checks out. Her shell is smooth and strong, her coloring vibrant, and her breathing steady—exactly what I’d expect from a healthy turtle. After years of working with animals, you develop a knack for knowing when something’s actually wrong versus just a natural occurrence as part of their biology. And let’s just say, I’ve seen my fair share of turtles back in Houston. Queen is no different. She’s in great shape and looks healthy save one small yet major detail.
Satisfied with my assessment, I place her back in the carrier and crouch down to meet the girl’s wide, curious eyes. Offering her a reassuring smile, I say, “Queen’s doing just fine. How old are you?”
“Seven years old. Almost eight.”
“Is there an adult with you that I could speak to? Give an update on Queen and what I think is going on?”
She smiles for the first time since I walked in. “Yes, my dad just stepped out to take a phone call, but he should be right back.”
“Okay, let’s wait for him to return before I let you know what I think is going on with Queen. Is that alright?”No need to explain the birds and the bees without a guardian present.
She nods and smiles again.
“You want to check out some of the cool instruments I use on animals?”
“Ooh, yes!” she grins and nods as I move Queen in her carrier to the side of the counter to make space for her. She then hops up on the examination table where I hand her a stethoscope.
“Okay, you want to listen to Queen’s hearts and lungs?”
She nods her head eagerly, so I show her how to gently press it to the turtle’s body who is resting safely in her box. Her eyes light up as she listens eagerly.
After a few seconds she asks, “May I try it on Teagan?”
My brows raise in confusion. I don’t remember telling her my first name, but the way she speaks and the way her hand moves over the cat’s fur suddenly clicks.
Her cat’s name is Teagan?
Odd. But then again, people name their pets all sorts of things. I once named my childhood horse a painfully human name that had meaning to me, so who am I to judge?
“That’s my cat’s name,” she announces, confirming my suspicion.
"Well," I say, glancing at the fat, gray cat practically melting under her touch, "that’s... quite the name." I watch as she presses the stethoscope to the cat’s round belly, earning another meow of pure bliss. Its eyes roll back like it’s just been handed a ticket to paradise, and the little girl giggles. Her laughter fills the room, so bright and carefree that for a split second, I’m transported back five years ago to a small girl I’d met in passing who lovedPaw Patroland laughed the same exact way.
Alarm bells ring faintly in the back of my mind, and my throat tightens as the realization of who she is creeps up on me like a shadow.
“I remember you,” she declares matter-of-factly, her tone as confident as if she were stating the color of the sky.
I clear my throat, hoping to cover the sudden wave of unease that’s washed over me. “I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m new in town.”
