Saturday
morning, no electricity meant no clean clothes and an hour wait at the coffee
shop with the rest of my power-deprived neighbors. Then Mom called. Her hairdresser’s
niece needed a date for a wedding. Could I go? No. Then Uncle Bob called asking
for money again. No. I needed a break.
I put on my least dirty clothes, turned off my
phone, and headed for the park. Fido, wearing his favorite matching red leash
and collar, panted with golden retriever happiness as I lengthened my stride.
The
sun-speckled trail paralleling a stream revived me. I blew out a long breath. A
squirrel scampered across the path. Fido barked. The startled squirrel reversed
direction twice and then leaped over the stream. Fido lunged, yanking me off
balance.
Crack, pain seized my ankle.
Rip, the back pocket of my jeans
snagged on a broken branch.
Splat,
I landed on the muddy stream bank.
My
ankle throbbed, my pants were ripped, and my phone, which landed in the muck,
was dead. Fido came to my side and lay down in the stream. His tongue hung out
the side of his mouth.
I
scowled at him. Fido means I am faithful. Good dog name on a bad dog.
I was pretty sure I needed to go to the
hospital, and I was wearing my I-have-to-do-laundry-today underwear, the Tweety
Bird boxers my mother gave me as a joke. I hung my head and laughed. What else
could I do?
“God, I could use some help here.”
Hope
soared at the sound of an approaching biker. Fido stood and bounded across the
path.
“Watch
out!” The beautiful brunette biker skidded to a stop.
I
snorted. I needed a paramedic, and God sent me a runway model. Maybe I could
use her phone.
Fido
shook himself, showering her with swampy water. I winced, anticipating shrill
shrieking. But she laughed. Fido took that as an invitation to jump up, plant
his muddy paws against her chest, and lick her face.
“What
a beautiful boy! Did you go for a swim?”
“No,
I was dragged through the mud by a bad dog!”
She
raised an eloquent eyebrow, then nodded to Fido. “Don’t listen to him. You’re a
good dog. All dogs are good. It’s just the owners who are bad.” She speared
me with a piercing glare and then wiped at the mud splatters and dog drool on her
face with her sleeve. “Are you injured?”
“My
ankle. But I’m sure it’s okay.” The pain was searing. I forced a smile. “I’ll
just sit here until it stops throbbing.”
She
raised her eyebrow again, clearly unimpressed with my courageous stoicism.
“Let me look at it.”
“No.”
She
stooped down and gently prodded my ankle, disregarding my protests. She
grimaced. “That looks painful. You should get it x-rayed. Are you hurt anywhere
else?”
Yes,
my pride, my pants, and my butt.
“I
don’t’ think so.”
“Can
you stand?”
I
thought of my ripped pants and loony toons underwear.
“No.”
She
disarmingly rolled her eyes, stood, and held out her hand. “That was a
rhetorical question. With no other injuries, you can stand on your other leg.
I’ll help you. We’ll use my bike as a rolling crutch. My truck is a hundred
yards that way.” She pointed. ‘I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
I folded my arms. “No. Let me use your phone. I’ll
call someone to come get me.”
Her
expression was one of forbearing amusement, like I was a recalcitrant toddler
refusing to eat okra. Fido wagged his tail and licked my face. ‘Come on, Daddy,
stand for the pretty lady!’
My
face heated. I chuckled as I admitted, “I’ve ripped my pants.”
The
corners of her mouth twitched upwards. Then, with stunning aplomb, she resumed
a neutral expression. “I’m a doctor, and I won’t look.”
“My
dog—”
“We’ll
drop him off at a reputable kennel I’m very familiar with.”
I
wasn’t intentionally being difficult, but she fascinated and terrified me. I
was a helplessly mesmerized moth, and she was a bonfire.
She tapped her phone. “Hey, I can’t come. A
guy with a dog got injured. I’m taking him to the hospital.”
Her
phone’s volume was up. I could hear the other person scoff. “A guy with a
dog? So, your romantic catnip. Is he cute?”
She
smiled at Fido. “Yes.”
There
was feminine laughter. “You go, girl! I want details later. Bye,”
“By
the way. I’m Jason.” I offered my hand.
At
her touch, heat traveled up my arm and flowed into my chest. “Amanda.” She tugged.
I relented and stood. She wrapped her arm around my waist, and I briefly lost
the ability to breathe. My heart did somersaults. She helped me to her bicycle.
She
turned, took several steps, and made another call. “I’m bringing in a
short-stay client for the kennel. Pro bono. His owner needs to go to the
hospital…. A Golden. Looks to be 35 kilos.”
I
pondered how odd that conversation sounded when she snorted behind me. “Tweety Bird?”
“You promised no looking!”
“Couldn’t
help it,” she snickered. “The colors are so bright.”
“What
kind of doctor are you, anyway?”
Conspicuously
not answering my question, she steadied the bike as I hobbled, leaving a slime
trail behind me. “Come, Fido, let’s take care of your Daddy.”
Amanda’s
hair glistened in a sunbeam, and I understood why I’d never fallen in love. I’d
never seen a mud-splattered woman smile before.
The
dark pickup truck’s sign read Louden Veterinary Hospital and Kennels. It had a
bumper sticker. I read, “Mirrors prove God has a sense of humor?”
“Being humble and laughing at yourself can be
an act of worship.”
Considering
my current condition, I chuckled. “How appropriate.”
Amanda’s
cheeks pinked. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I admire people who
can laugh at themselves.”
Her
smile shot through me, dulling my pain like morphine. “Good, because right now,
I think I’m hilarious.”
