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?”