Code name omega, p.2
Code Name: Omega, page 2
“Bubba,” I call out and give a shrill whistle.
Relief rushes through me when I hear the scrabble of his nails on the wood floor, and he comes around the corner from the living room. Tail is wagging—obviously delighted I’m home—but he’s moving weird. Head slunk low, and he looks uncomfortable.
Letting the duffel slide to the floor, I squat with arms outstretched so he comes into me. “What’s wrong with you?” I ask gently, accepting licks on my face as his tail continues to wag. But I can tell he’s not feeling well.
I run my hands along his ribs, over his haunches, and through his thick brown and black fur, under to his belly where I press in to see if that causes him any pain, but it doesn’t.
Taking his face in my hands, my eyes lock with his soulful brown ones. “I wish you could talk, buddy. I can tell something is off, but I’m not sure what.”
That earns me a lick from chin to nose, and I laugh, followed by a long rub on the side of his neck. I press my forehead to his and stand up. “How about some dinner?” I ask.
Normally, that word sends him into fits of rapture, accompanied by excited barks, but now he just stares up at me with mild interest. I frown, because my dog is food motivated, and he’s clearly feeling ambivalent. Still, his tail is wagging, a sign of contentment—probably because I’m home—so I put my fears aside.
I tell Bubba all about my adventures in Mexico as he sits and watches me prepare his meal. Only the best for my boy, which includes high-end kibble that I mix with a dehydrated brand for flavor. I add fresh green beans for his constitution and set the bowl on the floor.
Bubba doesn’t move, but that’s his training. He’s not allowed to eat until I give him his release command.
“At ease,” I say, motioning toward the bowl. Any other day, he’d make a diving launch for the food, but now he just saunters over and sniffs. His eyes lift to mine. “Go ahead… eat, buddy.”
He samples some of the food but then turns away from the bowl.
What in the fuck is going on?
I follow Bubba back into the living room. He doesn’t lie on his bed, though, instead pacing around while intermittently panting. I whip out my phone and call Julie.
The adult daughter of my neighbors across the street, she’s been Bubba’s dog sitter since I moved here. She lives with her parents due to a recent divorce and works as a dental hygienist. She’s a dog lover and has taken over the role of his caretaker when I’m on missions, so I don’t have to board him. During the day while she’s at work, one of her parents comes over to let Bubba out and check on him, and then Julie stays with him at night.
I know she’s at work and have no clue if she’ll answer. I’m relieved when she does on the third ring.
“Hey, Julie,” I say as soon as we’re connected. “I’m home, and Bubba’s acting a little weird. Wouldn’t eat dinner.”
“That is weird,” she says, knowing my dog’s love of food very well. “He was fine this morning. Ate his regular breakfast, did fine on our walk. Want me to call my parents to see what they say? I know they were just there at lunchtime.”
“No, I can do that.” I thank Julie again, and as soon as I disconnect, I e-transfer her money owed for her services as I’d forgotten to pay her.
I consider calling Julie’s parents, Rae and Dwight, but my gut tells me no matter what they say, I’m not going to be able to sit back and wonder if this is serious or not.
“Let’s go for a ride,” I say to my dog, and his ears perk up. The word ride is usually right there with the word dinner on the excitement scale. Bubba’s tail wags harder, and he runs to the kitchen door where his leash hangs.
It makes me pause because, at this moment, he seems fine.
But he wasn’t fine when I got here and when he wouldn’t eat.
So hard to know what to do when your dog can’t speak your language. There’s really no debate needed, though, because I’ll always err on the side of caution. A trip to the vet is money well spent if it helps him and gives me peace of mind.
♦
When I moved to Pittsburgh, one of the first things I did was find a good veterinarian. I thoroughly checked out Cove Lake Veterinary Practice and was pleased to learn that the vet had been there for almost thirty years. I met with her—Dr. LeAnne Schoen—and liked her a lot. She gave Bubba a good exam, but it was essentially a meet and greet, as he wasn’t due for any vaccinations.
That’s where I head now, grateful her clinic is only about a mile and a half from my house.
Situated on twenty-seven acres, the clinic sits beside Dr. Schoen’s large, white farmhouse she’s restored over the years. She told me it was built in the late 1800s, and she’s done an amazing job on it, at least from what I can see on the exterior.
Her vet practice is in a stand-alone building set about a hundred yards off to the left of the house and has its own access from the road. I pull in, and there’s only one car parked in front.
When I let Bubba out of my SUV and clip his leash, I give him a few minutes to do his business if he needs to. He sniffs around the lush summer grass and starts pulling up chunks to eat.
That definitely indicates an upset stomach.
“Come on.” I give him a gentle tug, and he follows me into the white one-story building. A young girl sits behind an L-shaped reception counter, but she’s not the same one who greeted me on my first visit. She smiles cheerily, glances at Bubba, then back to me. “Hi. Can I help you?”
“I don’t have an appointment, but Bubba is a patient of Dr. Schoen’s. I just got back from an extended trip, and he’s not feeling well.”
Concern etches her face as she leans up to look over her desk at him. “Poor baby boy,” she coos before settling back down. “And what seems to be the problem?”
“He was happy to see me, but not overly exuberant like he normally is. He wouldn’t eat his dinner, and he’s been pacing like he’s uncomfortable. His dog sitter said he was normal this morning and ate all his breakfast.”
The receptionist nods with an understanding smile. “Dr. Schoen’s not here, but Dr. Blackburn is. Would you like to see her?”
“Yeah, that would be great.”
The receptionist swivels to a computer and asks for my name.
“Kellen McCord.”
She taps a few keys, takes a moment to study the screen, and smiles. “There you are. And this is Omega?”
“Yeah, but he answers to Bubba.”
“He looks more like an Omega. Bubba should be for hounds or something.”
I laugh with a nod. “You’re not the first person to say that.”
She smiles and reaches for the phone, presses a button, and says, “Dr. Blackburn… got a patient up here for you.”
I blink in surprise at how casually this is all being done. At the vet clinic in San Diego, we’d get checked in, then wait, then a vet tech would lead us into a room to do preliminaries, and then we’d wait patiently for the doctor to come in.
But a swinging door pushes open, and a young woman walks through. I have no clue if she’s the vet because she’s dressed in jeans, Converse tennis shoes, and a Rolling Stones graphic T-shirt.
And well… she’s gorgeous in a very unconventional way. Her midnight-black hair is cut very short, right to the nape of her neck. The top is a little longer and swept to the side to hang over her forehead. She has an eyebrow piercing, which only makes me focus in on her seafoam-green eyes, so bright they look like jewels.
She’s not wearing makeup other than some mascara, and her skin is a flawless ivory with naturally rosy cheeks. Hard also to miss those full lips that are devoid of any artificial coloring but have a slight shine to indicate maybe some gloss.
The woman doesn’t spare me a glance, her attention immediately on Bubba. She moves to him, no hesitation, and squats. “And who do we have here?”
“Bubba,” I say, but the receptionist talks over me.
“He’s an eight-year-old Belgian Malinois. Established with Dr. Schoen two months ago. Retired MWD, early onset arthritis. Prescribed Rimadyl to take as needed. Otherwise, no health complaints and current on all vaccinations.”
Well, damn. She apparently gleaned more from his computer file than I gave her credit for.
The woman—who I have to assume is the vet—rubs behind Bubba’s ears to make him comfortable. “And what’s wrong with you, fur ball? Your eyes are bright, but that doesn’t always tell the story for noble creatures like you.”
Bubba grins a doggy smile and licks her face. I’m surprised because I’m the only one he usually shows affection to. While he is by no means vicious, nor has he been trained to be that way, he is a well-disciplined dog that holds himself in reserve.
She laughs in delight, gives Bubba a pat on the side of his neck, and rises. Holding out a hand, she says, “I’m Abby Blackburn.”
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Blackburn.” Although she’s petite and fine-boned, her shake is strong and confident. “Kellen McCord.”
She grimaces. “Just call me Abby. I’ve never been one to insist on conventional titles.”
I laugh but feel the need to clarify. “But you are, in fact, a veterinarian?”
Abby laughs, soft and tinkling. “Yes, I am a veterinarian. Just not… conventional.”
“As long as you help Bubba, that’s all I care about.”
“A former military working dog,” she says with a tip of her head at the receptionist. “Were you his handler?”
“Yeah, we were together five years. My enlistment ended right around the time he was being retired, so I was able to adopt him.”
“Awesome,” she says with an open smile before her expression turns serious. “So, what seems to be the problem?”
I recount everything I’d already told the receptionist, adding, “I know that doesn’t sound like a lot, but—”
“If you think he’s off, then I take your word for it. It could be a simple upset tummy. Could be a blockage. Better safe than sorry.”
Reaching out, she takes the leash from me. “If you want to have a seat, I’ll examine him in the back. But X-rays are really the best way to go if we suspect a blockage. I’ll have to give him a mild sedative, though, so he doesn’t move.”
“Yeah, that’s fine… run whatever tests you need,” I say without hesitation, bending over and wrapping my arms around Bubba. I press my face into his fur and whisper words of encouragement. My stomach twists, knowing that it could be serious, but I push the fear back. No sense getting worked up about something that could be an upset stomach.
Abby disappears through the swinging door and Christy follows her, leaving me with only my thoughts.
When Bubba and I were in the Marine Corps, his life was in serious danger many a day. But I was able to compartmentalize that. I couldn’t afford to have my concern affect my attention and focus. He couldn’t afford that either.
In civilian life, though, it’s not so easy to push away the worries. He’s my pet now, not my partner, and that means I can’t help but feel nervous about the possibilities. I can’t go into cool Marine mode where danger is part of the job. We’re civilians now, and I don’t want anything to happen to my dog.
I ignore the seating bolted into the wall and pace the lobby. Back and forth past displays of specialty pet foods, toys, and treats. I check my watch a dozen times. I pull out my phone once, thinking I could surf Instagram for a bit but close it right back down when I see Adriana sent another message with a more insistent request for me to call her so we can talk about “things.”
Everyone says I need to block her, and I absolutely would, except for one very complicated reason—we have a tangled financial tie that hasn’t been sorted out yet. About a year ago, I helped Adriana open a vegan health-food store and fronted her the start-up costs. As such, I have a fifty percent ownership of the business. It does well, so we decided to keep it when it looked like we were moving to Pittsburgh. Adriana would train a good manager, and we considered opening another location when we settled here.
That’s obviously not going to happen. Adriana continues to run the store, but the profit margin right now is slim. I want out of the entire thing, but Adriana doesn’t have the funds to buy me out just yet. So I’m stuck until she can get financing to buy my half of the business. Right now, we’ve agreed to a low monthly payment that she can afford, but I’d prefer she take out a loan to let me out altogether. Part of me thinks she’s dragging her feet as a means to keep me involved because she holds out hope I’ll take her back.
Which will never happen. I don’t feel anything for her other than a faint distaste, like she was a bitter drink that I can’t quite wash out of my mouth.
I return to pacing.
It seems like hours, but when I look at my watch as Abby walks through the swinging door, it’s only been about forty-five minutes.
“Is he okay?” I blurt out, amazed at how panicky I sound. I’m normally cool as a cucumber under horrible stress. I mean, for fuck’s sake… I did bomb detection work, and I just spent eight days protecting civilians traveling through a dangerous country.
Abby smiles reassuringly. “He’s fine. A little sleepy, but it does look he ingested something.”
“Like what?” I ask dumbly. Bubba’s a well-trained dog. He’s not even a chewer, much less an indiscriminate snacker.
Abby’s eyes twinkle. “Sadly, our technology isn’t that advanced yet, but it does appear to be some sort of soft material. Maybe a sock, a stuffed toy.”
“Stuffed toy?”
She nods.
“He sleeps with one. I mean… he has several, but all he does is hold them in his mouth when he sleeps. He started doing that after he retired. I thought that was him starting to show his fun-loving doggy side after spending years doing serious work.”
“But he’s never ingested them before?” she asks.
“No. Never.”
“Have there been any stressors on him?” she inquires.
I frown, wondering if there’s something I missed. I’m usually so in tune with him. “I don’t think so.”
“You said you just came back from a trip,” she prods.
“For eight days to Mexico. It’s the—” And then it hits me like a ton of bricks. “It’s the longest I’ve ever been away from him. Most trips I’ve taken since we moved to Pittsburgh have only been for a few days… three at most.”
“That could be it,” she surmises. “But let’s talk about what this means.”
I listen attentively as she explains the foreign material is in his colon, which means it’s passed almost all the way through his digestive system. “It appears to be moving okay and not creating any blockages, but that doesn’t mean it won’t.”
“Do you have to operate?”
“No,” she replies quickly, her voice calm, which calms me. “Only if it doesn’t move on its own. What we’d normally do in this situation is put him on IV fluids to sort of help lubricate things and monitor him. I’d like to keep him overnight, and hopefully by tomorrow, he’ll pass whatever it is he ate.”
“But what if he’s in distress during the night? It’s why I don’t ever board him but rather have a sitter stay at the house. I don’t like the idea of him being alone in case something happens. We’ve been through way too much together, and I can’t put him in any type of situation—”
Abby rests a hand on my forearm. It’s light, without much weight, but it immediately settles me.
“I sound like a fucking fool, don’t I?” I grumble with a sheepish grin.
She squeezes and shakes her head before her hand falls away. “Not at all. You sound like a good dog dad to me. But you don’t need to worry. I live here… an apartment above the garage of Dr. Schoen’s house, so I’ll come check on Bubba. I don’t anticipate any problems, but if there are, I’ll call you.”
The huge gust of breath—pure relief—loosens the tightness in my chest. Jesus… when did I become such a pansy where my dog was concerned? Especially since he’s done stuff that has put his life in jeopardy more times than I can count and I never felt panicked like this.
“Want to see him?” she asks.
My eyebrows jet upward. “Can I?”
“Sure,” she replies. “We don’t have any other people in, and we’re getting ready to close up for the day. Christy’s settling Bubba into one of our super large kennels, so he’ll be very comfortable.”
I follow Abby through the swinging door to find myself in a large, open space with three examining tables in the center, glass cabinets filled with supplies, and stainless-steel countertops running underneath laden with laptops, microscopes, and other medical machines that do God knows what. Through a set of double swinging doors with glass panels, I see what looks like an operating room. It’s clean and bright and looks far more sophisticated than what I would’ve anticipated for a small country vet.
My eyes fall on a massive corner cage—four Bubbas could fit inside. He’s lying on a soft bed of towels with an IV taped to his shaved right front leg. Christy kneels next to him, murmuring soft words as she hangs the bag of saline solution.
Bubba sees me and raises his head, his tail thumping weakly. His eyes are glassy, and he looks stoned.
Exiting the cage, Christy motions. “Want to sit with him for a bit?”
I look back to Abby, but she’s at one of the counters typing on a laptop, perhaps updating Bubba’s chart.
The cage is large enough for me to crawl in and sit comfortably at his side. Bubba settles his head on my lap, thumps his tail twice, and closes his eyes with a deep sigh. Within seconds, he’s snoring.
“Will he sleep all night?” I ask no one in particular, but it’s Abby who answers.
She swivels on her stool. “Yeah, but I’ll come and walk him at least twice. He’ll need to pee with all that saline running through him. Hopefully, we’ll get a big poop out, too, with what I’m guessing is a stuffed animal.”
