All I Ever Wanted by Kristan Higgans

been waiting for you. He runs to you and licks your face and wags and wags his tail and you pet him and kiss him and hug him. You’re so, so happy to see your old friend…and then, finally, you and your beloved pet cross the Rainbow Bridge together into heaven proper to live for all eternity.
    I seemed to be sobbing. “I love you, Bowie,” I squeaked, leaning down to pet my pup. Bowie was only three, so hopefully he and I would have a long, long time before I had to think about any rainbow bridges. Bowie licked my cheeks happily and sang me a little song— Rurrrooorah. “I love you, good doggy,” I repeated wetly.
    The door opened and I quickly blew some dog fur off my lips. “Hello,” I said, wiping my eyes hastily as I looked up.
    Oh, shit. Shit on a shingle. Shit on rye.
    It was the guy from the DMV. The Jesus, lady, get a grip guy.
    He was studying Bowie’s chart and didn’t see me at first. Then he said, “Hi, I’m Ian McFarland,” and looked at me. His expression froze. “Oh.”
    â€œHi,” I muttered, feeling my face ignite.
    â€œAre you all right?” he asked, frowning.
    â€œYes,” I said. “I’m fine. Well…I was crying a little. You know that poem about the Rainbow Bridge? I was just thinking about it…well. Got a little weepy! You know how it is.” I wiped my eyes again, then fumbled in my purse for a tissue. Crap. Didn’t seem to have one.
    â€œHere.” His expression stony, Ian McFarland once again handed me a handkerchief.
    â€œThanks,” I said, standing up. He took a quick step backward, as if my emotional diarrhea might be catching.
    He wasn’t particularly good-looking…well, maybe he had a rough appeal. Sort of a Russian gangster look with sharp cheekbones, short blond hair and Siberian blue eyes. The overall effect was…let’s see. Disapproval. Great. This guy did not look like a tenderhearted vet who’d cry over the Rainbow Bridge or ask me to dinner. He looked more like the type who’d know how to kill me using only his little finger.
    â€œHi,” I said again, remembering that I should probably speak. “I’m Callie. Callie Grey.”
    At the sound of my name, Bowie whined and thumped his tail as if telling me I was doing great. Dr. McFarland glanced at the chart. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked. Bowie, sensing a belly rub somewhere in the very near future, rolled over and offered himself. And oh, how adorable. My dog was…you know. Excited. Interested. Aroused.
    Tearing my eyes off the display of canine amour, I swallowed. “Um…well, Bowie ate something this morning. Which is not uncommon. Bowie, get up.” He was neutered, of course, but just because he couldn’t father any cute little puppies didn’t mean he didn’t have urges, and apparently Dr. McFarland was his type. My dog didn’t move, just lay there, exposing himself.
    â€œWhat did he eat?” the vet asked.
    â€œUh, the newspaper? But he does that a lot. He’s probably fine.”
    â€œYou should be more careful about where you leave the paper.” He made a note on the chart— Bad pet owner, I imagined—then looked up at me. Yep. Disapproval. “How’s he acting?”
    Horny? “Um…he felt, well, he seemed to be a little, ah…blue? Not himself? So…” I smiled weakly. Roooraahroh! Bowie sang, wagging his tail.
    The vet glanced at Bowie, then shot me a look that bespoke gobs of cynicism.
    I swallowed. “I just figured it’s never the wrong thing to do, you know, double-check on your dog, see if everything’s okay. He seemed a little…down.”
    Bowie took this as a cue to flip to his feet in that agile and speedy way huskies have. He stared at me with his wide, different-colored eyes, tilting his head and giving a single yip, as if saying, And then? And then? What happened next,