a sweet, delicate man I can’t help but adore during our first meeting. His son, Travis, will be taking over the clinic when he retires. Though Travis wasn’t able to make it in today to meet me, I figure I am in good hands here at the clinic. I think I spend most of my day smiling as we go through the procedures. That smile only grows when they finally allow me near the animals.
This has always been my favorite part about working with animals. Healing them. Without realizing it, they heal me, too. The ability to relieve the suffering of a living, breathing creature that has experienced traumatic injuries or chronic illness is nothing short of incredible. Caring for animals always seems to take my mind off whatever troubles I’ve been having beforehand. Because the way animals express their gratitude is far greater than the way humans do. It’s easily the most rewarding job I’ve ever had.
I can’t pinpoint exactly when I decided I wanted to care for animals. I wasn’t even animal obsessed when I was younger; there was just a part of me that wanted to heal anything or anyone. Sometimes, humans could be real assholes, so I decided healing animals was as good of a consolation prize as any.
After soothing a cat with worms and hooking up a dog to anesthesia, after he got stuck with pine needles, I realize it’s time to go. I clean up my station and move the animals from my care over to Lucy, one of the other assistants, before I leave. The entire ride home is a breath of fresh air. The best thing about working here? It has to be the drive.
Before, when I lived in Long Beach, I had to drive almost two hours each day to get to work, but here? It’s only a twenty-minute drive with traffic.
My cheerful mood dims when I pull into my driveway and notice the neighbor’s garage is open. The light is on inside, illuminating the space, giving me a clear view of the red and black muscle car inside. He left his bike sitting out in his driveway. The car he’s working on inside looks old, probably one of those Chevelles or Mustangs. I’m not a car person, so obviously, I can’t be too sure what it is.
Much like it was last time, the hood is popped, and my neighbor is ducked under, working on something beneath it. I don’t know what because I force myself to glance away.
“Ignore him. He’s an asshole who isn’t worth your time,” I chant to myself, as I grab my house keys and lift my purse from the passenger seat. It’s a wonder I can keep my gaze straight ahead the entire time I walk from the car to the house. When I’m inside, the door safely locked, I rest my back against the wood and blow out a sigh. The only bad thing about the move? So far, it’s my neighbor.
Figuring it’s safe to do so now, I sneak a glance over at his house, but I can’t see inside his garage from here, which is probably a good thing. The last thing I need is another reason to keep making myself look stupid in front of my neighbor.
The next few days at work are a breeze. Each day, I find myself coming home with a wide grin on my face. I’ve even made friends with the other assistants who work at the clinic. What’s even better is I’ve finally found my routine of ignoring my neighbor. I hardly ever see him now, but I do hear his dog, Max, barking up a storm every now and then. The animal lover in me wants to go next door and get playful with him, but I stop short, remembering what a dickhead his owner is and just how cold the animal was toward me that first time.
That’ll need to be rectified.
I get back to the task at hand, taping the plastic over the floors. I honestly don’t understand why I even bother. The floors are about as ugly as they’re going to get, but in all the videos on painting I’ve watched on YouTube, I figure it’s best to follow a professional’s instructions. I may not be Chip or Joanna Gaines, but I sure as hell plan on painting and decorating my house to at least a fraction of their standards.
Yesterday, after work, I stopped at the hardware store and picked up some primer for