Page 40 of Cava with My Colleague

Next to me, Carlos’s leg bounces with nerves. It doesn’t bother me necessarily, but it does tell me how on edge he is.

Before I can even debate with myself, I reach over and pick up the hand that’s on Carlos’s thigh. I thread the fingers of one hand with his, and pull it into my lap, patting the top of his hand with the other.

Our gazes meet, holding for a few moments. I wonder if I went too far—of all the people in my life, Carlos is the least touchy-feely person I know—but before I can drop his hand like a hot potato or say something, the back door swings open and a tall man in scrubs walks in, speaking in rapid Spanish.

Carlos is the one to withdraw his hand as he stands, responding to a question. They both crouch down by Izan, who has done his best to stick his nose in the vet’s crotch, and I do my best to follow the conversation. Some words I don’t know but I can guess—like hernia, said with a silent h—and some I have no idea about.

The vet’s hands move over Izan’s belly, pressing gently. When he finds the lump, Izan whimpers and tries to twist away. Carlos murmurs something soothing in Spanish, one hand on Izan’s head.

I catch “tumor” and my stomach drops. The vet is explaining something, his tone serious. I will myself not to think about being a young girl listening to adults use big words that I didn’t understand.

“¿Es grave?” Carlos asks, and I don’t need a translation for that. Is it serious?

The vet responds, and I catch enough to understand he’s saying something about tissue and intestine and surgery, and Carlos’s hand tightens on Izan’s head.

But then the vet’s tone changes, becoming more reassuring. He’s still talking quickly, but his hands are doing something now, manipulating the lump while Izan whines. Carlos asks another question, his voice tight.

The vet sits back on his heels and smiles. He says something that includes “no es urgente” and “es común en perros mayores.”

Carlos exhales, the sound shaky.

“What?” I ask. “What’s happening?”

Carlos turns to me, and I can see the relief starting to smooth the tension from his face. “It’s a hernia. The tissue was . . . stuck? But not dangerous. He—” Carlos gestures to the vet, who nods encouragingly. “He pushed it back. It’s reducible, he said.”

“So Izan’s okay?”

“Yes.” Carlos’s voice cracks slightly. “He’s okay.”

The vet continues explaining, and I piece together that this is something that can happen in older dogs, that they’ll need to monitor it, that surgery is an option but not urgent. He’s writing something down—instructions, I assume—and telling Carlos about warning signs to watch for.

Apparently it’s a good thing that Izan is so gassy.

I stay quiet, watching Carlos absorb all of this. His hand hasn’t left Izan’s head, still stroking the dog’s ears even as the vet finishes up and stands.

They shake hands, exchange a few more words, and then the vet is gone and it’s just the three of us.

Carlos sits down hard on the small bench along the wall. Izan, oblivious to the drama, wags his tail and tries to lick Carlos’s face.

“Hey,” I say softly, sitting next to him. “He’s going to be fine.”

Carlos nods, but doesn’t speak. His jaw is tight, like he’s holding something back.

I rest my hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension there. “Carlos.”

He takes a breath, then another. “I thought—” He stops, shakes his head.

I squeeze his shoulder. “I know.”

We sit there for a minute, Izan wedging himself between Carlos’s knees, panting happily. Finally, Carlos reaches into his pocket for his wallet to pay.

Outside, the afternoon is warm. Izan immediately finds a patch of grass to pee on, and we stand there watching him.

“Thank you,” Carlos says suddenly.

I turn to him. “For what? I just sat there.”

“For coming. For being here.” He’s looking at me now, really looking at me, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite name. “I didn’t realize how much I needed someone here until you were.”