CHAPTER 4
MARY
The Tour from Hell
(Or the Time Emergency Braking Wasn’t Enough)
I start my car at seven-thirty in the morning telling myself this day can’t possibly be worse than last night’s dinner.
My first visit is to the MacDonalds’, twenty minutes outside central Glenfield, for a cow with mastitis.
The glamour of veterinary medicine at its finest.
When I arrive, Aileen MacDonald greets me with a smile that promises a long and detailed conversation about absolutely everything except the cow.
“I’m so happy to see you! It’s been forever! The first time I saw you, you practically fit in the palm of your father’s hand.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the exaggeration and offer her a polite smile instead.
“Good morning, Mrs. MacDonald. I’m happy to see you too. Where’s the patient?”
“In the barn, of course. But first, you have to tell me all about your trip through Europe! I heard you were in Paris?”
“Briefly. The cow?—”
“And Amsterdam too, wasn’t it? My cousin lives in Amsterdam. Apparently they eat pickled herring with every meal there... You might’ve met her. Her name’s Margaret.”
Amsterdam has hundreds of thousands of residents, so the odds of me randomly meeting Mrs. MacDonald’s cousin are approximately nonexistent, but I simply smile politely.
“I don’t think so. Now, if we could?—”
She grabs my arm and steers me toward the barn.
“Oh, and have you heard about the new doctor? Poor man.”
“Not really.”
She shakes her head dramatically and releases my arm as we approach the animal I’m supposed to examine. I pull my equipment from my bag, trying to focus on the task ahead instead of local gossip.
“He spilled a pint at The Grumpy Sheep yesterday!” she exclaims with obvious delight. “Duncan Fraser was there. Says this Dr. McLeod has absolutely no manners. Apparently he stood up suddenly and boom! Beer everywhere.”
“That’s unfortunate,” I comment distractedly while pulling on gloves.
Poor guy. I wonder if he has any idea what he got himself into moving here.
The cow, a beautiful Highland with impressive horns, watches me suspiciously while I examine her inflamed udder. Aileen keeps talking while I work.
“McKinnon never spilled anything. He was so composed. So calm. This new doctor seems... nervous. Tense. Not at all what we need in the Highlands, if you ask me.”
I inject antibiotics while resisting the urge to point out that McKinnon is probably sipping mojitos in the Canary Islandswhile his replacement gets publicly executed for accidentally knocking over a drink.
“She should improve within two days,” I say while packing up my supplies. “Keep using warm compresses and call me if there’s no improvement.”
“You’re an angel, Mary. A real angel. Unlike that poor Dr. McLeod who apparently can’t even hold a glass properly.”
My second visitis to the Campbells’ for a limping lamb. Denise Campbell, sixty-five years old with a tongue sharp enough to cut steel, waits for me in the sheepfold with the lamb tucked in her arms.
“Morning, Mary!”
