I followed her to the exam room. She handed me Pampi’s anti-inflammatory refill.
I cleared my throat. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have you had any other cases? Dogs coming in sick?”
“Not recently,” she said automatically. Then she paused. “Well… not at this event.”
I waited for her to elaborate.
“At the show before this one,” she continued, thinking aloud, “there were a few mild gastrointestinal cases. Nothing serious. A handful of dogs with vomiting, loose stools. We assumed dietary indiscretion. Show environments are chaotic.”
Another show. That must have been the one Peter had attended before coming to Cooper for help.
“Same symptoms?” I asked.
“More or less. Short-lived. Resolved within a day or two.”
I thought of Harold and Daisy’s sluggish walk. I should have asked him more. What she had eaten. Whether she had been near anyone specific. Whether he had spoken to Marion recently.
“Is there a common supplier for food vendors at these events?” I asked.
Dr. Mitchell gave me a curious look. “Sometimes. Why?”
“Just wondering if it could have been a bad batch of treats.”
“Possible,” she conceded. “Though most serious handlers bring their own.”
I nodded slowly.
“Pampi’s fine,” she repeated gently, misreading my concern. “I promise.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I paid at the front desk, clipped Pampi’s leash back on, and stepped into the hallway. I nearly ran straight into Marion, his Doberman sitting neatly at his side.
“Peter,” he greeted. My wolf stirred, alert. “Are you here for Pampi’s leg?”
I went still for half a second. “How’d you know?” I asked lightly.
He shrugged. “I watched your run yesterday.”
Something in my chest tightened. Watching was normal. Handlers observed each other all the time. Chris and I did the same. Still, there was something about the way he said it.
“She’s fine, just needs a little rest.”
“Good.” His gaze lingered a fraction too long on me before dropping to Pampi. “Would be a shame if you had to withdraw.”
“And you?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.
“Atlas isn’t feeling great. He’s a little sluggish this morning.” He scratched behind the Doberman’s ears.
That was odd. Both Harold and Marion were humans. I’d been so focused on the shifter angle that I might have overlooked something obvious.
“Mind if I sit in?” I asked. “Curious if it’s contagious. Wouldn’t want Pampi picking it up.”
“Of course,” he said, smiling.
We walked back inside. Dr. Mitchell guided Atlas onto the exam table.
“He skipped breakfast, and his stool was loose,” Marion explained to the vet.
