I don’t want to touch it.
I really, really don’t.
He’s egotistical, crass, and my patient’s owner—which makes him totally off limits.
Yep, that’s right. He owns the wiener I’m currently working on.
A wiener dog—get your dirty mind out of the gutter.
I’ve also worked on his Spoodle, his Cocker-shitzu, and a Cheagle—don’t ask. (And no, it’s not a sexual position).
It doesn’t help that he also represents most of my joint-owned veterinary practice’s small clientele. We’d only just opened the doors a few months ago, and in he strode with a yelping Taco Terrier. One haughty look at our sparkling new facilities, he’d demanded royal treatment, even though I was currently finger deep up a squalling tom cat.
Ever since then, he expects me to serve him.
Any time. All the time.
Him and his revolving zoo of dogs.
One of these days, I’m going to swat him for being such a pompous ass but I can’t deny the way he handles his charges makes me want to see past the ‘do as I say and don’t ask questions’ barking exterior.
But then last week…he caught me staring at his um, cough, package.
His bossy commands switched to a cocky smirk.
He gave me permission to do something I promised myself I would never ever do.
I can touch it.
If I want…