man and his reproductive organs. Not me, though.
The patio we’re brunching on is nice, and we were lucky enough to get a shaded table under a huge tree, but all I can think about is the dog going under the knife while we act like this is any other Saturday. Brooklyn tries to distract me with chatter and YouTube videos, but how can I possibly be carefree at a time like this?
My wife finishes her blueberry pancakes, eats half of my steak, and then orders an affogato. Normally, I’d share the espresso and gelato with her, but I don’t have much of an appetite right now. She seems to have stolen it from me. I’ve never seen her eat this much in one sitting. Perhaps stress has the opposite effect on her as it has on me.
Finally, as we’re waiting for the check, my cell rings. Mr. Kibbles is ball-free and out of recovery.
Throwing a wad of cash on the table, I pull Brooklyn out of her seat and practically drag her back to the vet’s office. When they carry the dog out to us in the waiting room, plastic cone of shame wrapped around his head, I jump up from my chair. I’ve never been so happy to see that damn furball in my life. He’s wrapped in the blanket Brooklyn brought with us when we signed in earlier, and he looks groggy from the anesthesia.
“Kibs!”
“The e-collar needs to stay on for the next ten to fourteen days,” the tech instructs, “and they’ll give you his pain meds when you pay at the counter.”
The dog looks up at me, eyes glassy, tail barely wagging. The technician assures us it’s normal, but I’m not buying it.
I sit in the back seat next to his carrier on the way home, and then take him out and hold him in my arms as we ride the elevator up to the penthouse floor.
“Pull his bed over to the couch,” I tell Brooklyn once we’re through the door, “and get him a couple warm towels from the dryer. Hurry.”
“Sure thing, Florence Nightingale,” she mocks, heading for the laundry room.
After she returns, and I’ve got Mr. Kibbles wrapped up in a nest of softness, I can’t help adding, “Maybe get a bowl of ice chips, too. And what about his pain pills? Did we forget his pain pills? Brook, where are the pills?” To the dog, I whisper, “You’re gonna be okay, bud.”
“Luka, the meds they gave him for the surgery haven’t even worn off yet. We’re not supposed to give him any more drugs until tomorrow. Okay? Try to relax.”
“Are you sure he needs to wear that cone? It looks uncomfortable.”
Mr. Kibbles gives me a lethargic blink and then lets his eyelids fall, clearly still out of it.
“He’s so zonked out he doesn’t even know he’s wearing it,” she points out. “The cone stays on.”
I shoot another concerned look in his direction, and Brooklyn puts her arm around me.
“This is actually kind of adorable,” she says sweetly. “You’re going to make a great dad someday.”
“Pfft, am not!” I scoff. “I am not parent material. I just care ‘cause it’s his balls! I have sympathy for the little guy.” But inside, I feel all kinds of warm from the comment.
It makes me wonder: Do I really not want kids, or did I always think that was the case just because my own father shouldn’t have had any? With someone like Brooklyn, would things be different? Or would my cursed genetics kick in? Stefan must have had these same thoughts, yet now Tori is pregnant…although my brother and I don’t have any precedent for discussing this kind of thing, so I’m not exactly going to call him up right now and ask him about it.
Brooklyn’s planning to spend a few hours volunteering at the Heart and Home shelter, leaving me to keep watch over Mr. Kibbles. While she’s getting ready, I get the dog up gently and take him outside to do his business. He’s cautious about it. I cringe just watching him.
“You know, you’re turning into a helicopter parent,” Brooklyn teases me when we come back in and she sees me covering Mr. Kibbles with his blankie. I make sure the back corners aren’t tucked too tightly around his backside.
“What’s a helicopter parent?”
“It means you’re hovering. Like, really hovering.”
I just shrug and feed the dog an ice chip. I wouldn’t know. No one ever hovered over me. No one really gave two shits about my