Dr. Noah and the Sugar Plum Fairy by Carla Rossi

 
     
     
    ‘Twas the first night of Christmas break
    At Jane Trumbull’s house,
    Monsieur Snowball wasn’t stirring
    To even paw a catnip mouse.
    His breathing was shallow
    His tail didn’t flick,
    Jane knew in an instant
    Monsieur Snowball was sick.
    So she donned her holiday ‘kerchief
    And grabbed her beloved pet,
    She raced into the darkness
    Toward the emergency vet...
     
    Jane Trumbull hit the northbound frontage road just outside of Austin, Texas and prayed she’d spot a neon sign for the after-hours animal emergency clinic. Strip malls and office buildings had sprung up everywhere in the bustling suburb while she’d been away at college. She no longer knew exactly where everything was.
    “Hang in there, Monsieur Snowball. Do not, I repeat, do not go toward the light.”
    She rolled through a stop sign. The sickly feline let out a deep but weak mewl as if to disapprove.
    She reached out to steady his carrier. “Sh... Don’t worry about it. It’s two AM and there’s no one around.” She poked her finger through a square in the metal cage door. The cat’s pink nose and breath were hot against her skin. “You’re burning up. We’re almost there.”
    Her gaze darted from road to cat to signage until the beacon of hope that flashed “animal” and “emergency” came into view. She sped across the nearly vacant parking lot towards the only lit business in the cluster of shops and offices.
    She burst through the glass double doors and headed for the receptionist.
    “Jane? Is that you?”
    “Mrs. Salmons?” Jane placed the carrier on the counter and slung her silver metallic hobo bag beside it. “Oh, Mrs. Salmons, is Dr. Salmons here too? Because that would be a blessing straight from Heaven if Monsieur Snowball could see his own doctor.”
    “Oh no, honey, he’s not here. I’m just helping out the new guy. His tech had a family emergency.”
    Jane’s heart fluttered and sank.
    “Don’t worry. Dr. Barron is very good.”
    “OK, well, Snowball has been kinda listless today and wouldn’t eat much. His face is a little swollen, and I think he has a fever. I couldn’t get any water in him and that worried me.”
    Mrs. Salmons pushed a clipboard toward Jane and plucked the carrier off the counter. “Sign this consent form and have a seat. I’ll pull up Snowball’s records, and Dr. Barron will take a look.”
    Jane could barely focus on the page as she checked the box for do whatever necessary and scribbled her signature. “Wait. Can’t I come with him?”
    The middle-aged woman nodded toward the coffee pot. “Grab a cup and give us a minute. We’ll come and get you in a bit.” She pulled the carrier to her nose and dissolved into cooing baby-slash-animal talk. “Isn’t that right, Monsieur Snowball? We’re gonna have a little triage time together.” Her voice trailed off as she disappeared through the private clinic door.
    Jane ignored the coffee pot and dropped into a plastic seat in the corner. The place was empty except for her. She shed her wool, US Navy pea coat and killed about twenty minutes arranging and rearranging her red Christmas scarf in her mass of long, pale blonde hair.
    Nearing an hour, no amount of mind-numbing magazine rifling could take her thoughts far from her cat. She stared a while at the blank space where a television used to be, then resorted to stacking the scattered brochures strewn about the two scratched up tables on either end of a row of connected chairs. There were seven copies of Does Your Cat Have Allergies ? and only two of Does Your Dog Have Worms ? Somehow, she felt that didn’t bode well for the dogs of Austin. There was a reason people took those brochures.
    She checked her phone repeatedly, but didn’t really expect to hear from anyone in the middle of the night. Finally, she pulled her New Testament from the pocket in her bag and started thumbing through Galatians and other books written by Paul. Something about that brave apostle and his