Instead I type: *That's great news. Make sure to walk him in about two hours to encourage gut motility.*
His response comes almost immediately: *Will do. Thanks again for everything.*
I set my phone down and tell myself that the warm feeling in my chest is relief that my patient is doing well, not anything to do with Tucker Hayes.
My phone buzzes again.
*Emma wanted me to tell you thank you for helping Butterscotch. She drew you a picture. Can I give it to you tomorrow when you come back?*
And now the warm feeling is spreading to my face, my throat, everywhere I don't want it to spread, because apparently seven-year-old girls who draw pictures for the veterinarian who helped their favorite horse are my kryptonite.
*Of course,* I type back. *I'd love to see it.*
I set the phone down again. Firmly this time, and open my laptop to start on Butterscotch's file.
Patient name: Butterscotch. Species: Horse. Breed: Quarter Horse. Age: 15 years. Sex: Gelding.
Chief complaint: Anorexia, lethargy, suspected colic.
Diagnosis: Large colon impaction.
Treatment: Nasogastric intubation with 3L mineral oil, IV fluid therapy, banamine for pain management.
Prognosis: Good with proper monitoring and follow-up care.
I'm typing up my notes on the physical exam when my phone buzzes a third time, and I tell myself I'm not going to look at it, but I look anyway.
It's a photo.
Of Tucker Hayes sitting on an overturned bucket in Butterscotch's stall, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his hand on the horse's neck, both of them looking peaceful and calm despite everything.
The message underneath reads: *He's doing better. I think he knows Emma's worried about him.*
I shouldn't respond. I should put my phone away and finish this file and maintain my boundaries like the competent, independent veterinarian I'm supposed to be.
But I'm looking at that photo, at Tucker's gentle hand on Butterscotch's neck, at the worry lines around his eyes, at the way he's sitting there like he's prepared to stay forever if that's what it takes, and something in me cracks just a little bit more.
*Horses are perceptive animals,* I type. *They pick up on human emotions more than most people realize.*
*Emma says that all the time. Says Butterscotch always knows when she's had a bad day at school.*
*She sounds like a smart kid.*
*She is. Smarter than me, that's for sure.*
I smile at that despite myself, and then I'm typing before I can stop myself: *I doubt that.*
There's a longer pause this time, and I watch the three dots appear and disappear and appear again, and I wonder what he's writing that requires so much consideration.
Finally: *You're easy to talk to. I wasn't expecting that.*
My fingers freeze over the keyboard.
That's... not a professional observation. That's personal. That's the kind of thing someone says when they're thinking about you as more than just the veterinarian who's treating their horse.
And I should shut this down right now. I should send a brief, clinical response that reestablishes the boundaries I'm supposed to be maintaining.
Instead I write: *What were you expecting?*
