All I Ever Wanted by Kristan Higgans Page B

my stomach. Dr. McFarland…Ian. Nice name. Ian McFarland. Yes. I liked it. Dr. Ian took a stethoscope out of his pocket and pressed it against Bowie’s side, gently holding my dog’s head with one hand so Bowie didn’t lick him again.
    â€œSo, the women of Georgebury have been through, huh?” I said, just to show I was not one of them, the desperate hags of northeastern Vermont. “I guess you can’t blame them. Hard to meet people up here, I suppose. It’s funny, seven people with—”
    â€œMiss Grey?” He looked up at me with those blue eyes, and suddenly I felt that liquid, flashing heat again. Those were some very pretty eyes, and he was lookingso deeply at me, as if maybe…maybe he kind of felt something? Something for me?
    â€œYou can call me Callie,” I said, and my voice was a little breathy. “Short for Calliope. Homer’s muse.”
    â€œCallie, then.”
    Your name! He said your name! Betty Boop’s eyelashes fluttered. “Yes?” I sighed.
    â€œI can’t hear your dog’s bowel sounds if you don’t stop talking.”
    â€œRight! Bowel sounds. You keep going. Do what you need to do. You’re the doctor. Examine away. Good boy, Bowie.” I closed my eyes, closed my mouth and sat still, imagining the First Lady sighing yet again.
    After a minute, Dr. McFarland said, “Everything sounds fine.” He stood up and scribbled something else on the chart. “Try not to leave newspapers where your dog can get them. Please see Carmella on your way out.”
    â€œRight. Nice to meet you,” I said, blushing once again.
    â€œSame here,” he lied.
    I followed him out of the exam room. Bowie yipped, then lunged, causing me to crash into Dr. McFarland’s back. He turned, scowling. “Sorry,” I muttered, hauling Bowie back from the object of his interest—an unleashed and extremely beautiful Irish setter. When she saw us, she sat immediately and wagged her plumy tail.
    â€œWow, that is one gorgeous dog,” I said. “Is she yours?”
    â€œYes,” he answered. He eyed my whining dog the way a father eyes his teenage daughter’s boyfriend.
    â€œBowie, stop,” I ordered, tugging on the leash. My dog was getting aroused once more. “What’s her name?”
    â€œAngie.”
    â€œAngie,” I immediately crooned in a whispery voice. The old Rolling Stones song was a favorite of mine,“‘Aaaangie, you can’t say we never tri-ah-ah-ied.’” Bowie joined right in with a whining howl, and Angie wagged appreciatively. Her owner said nothing. “Did you name her after the song?”
    â€œNo. Her name is Four D Mayo’s Angel,” he answered in what I’m sure he thought was a patient tone. “I shortened it.”
    â€œOh, so she’s one of those purebred AKC dogs, is that it?” I asked.
    â€œYes.”
    Apparently unable to stop talking, I kept going. “Bowie’s a mutt.”
    â€œYes. I’m aware of that.”
    â€œRight. Because you’re the vet.” For heaven’s sake, Michelle said. Shut it, Callie.
    â€œAngie, go lie down, girl,” the good doctor said. His dog wagged at me once more, then walked off down the hall. Bowie crooned a mournful goodbye.
    â€œWell, see you arou—” I offered to Dr. McFarland, but he was already going into the next exam room to deal with the obese terrier and its owner.
    I looked at my dog, who stared back, ready to hear whatever gem I was about to impart. “That did not go too well,” I whispered.
    Up at the front desk, Carmella took pity on me. “Divorced,” she said. “Not over his wife, I think.”
    â€œOh,” I murmured. “Too bad.”
    My trip to Humiliationville cost me $75. Michelle told me I’d learned a valuable lesson in not wasting other people’s time. Betty mourned the shoes that money