The Veterinarian
"Emergency visit. Sick cat. She heals more than the pet."
My cat was dying.
Or so I thought at 2 AM, when Chester started vomiting and wouldn't stop. The emergency vet clinic was twenty minutes away, and I drove there in my pajamas, carrier on the passenger seat, praying I wouldn't be too late.
"Help—" I burst through the door. "My cat—he's been sick for hours—"
"Okay, let's take a look." A calm voice, a calmer presence. The woman who took the carrier from my shaking hands was not what I expected from an emergency vet.
Dr. Ruth Chen was sixty-one years old and easily two-fifty. She wore scrubs that strained over a body built for comfort rather than speed, her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Her face was kind, her hands surprisingly gentle as she extracted Chester from his carrier.
"What's his name?"
"Chester. He's—please, he's all I have."
She looked at me then—really looked, past the panic and the pajamas.
"We're going to help him. Come on, Chester. Let's see what's going on."
It was hairballs.
Dramatic, theatrical hairballs, exacerbated by anxiety and a diet that needed adjustment. Chester would be fine. I, on the other hand, was a wreck.
"He's going to be okay?" I asked for the third time.
"He's going to be fine." Dr. Chen handed me a paper towel for my face—I'd been crying, apparently. "You can take him home tonight with some medication. I'll give you dietary recommendations."
"I thought—I thought I was going to lose him."
"That fear is natural. Pets become family." She sat down across from me in the waiting area, her bulk settling into the chair. "You said he's all you have. What did you mean?"
I didn't know why I told her. Maybe the late hour. Maybe the adrenaline crash. Maybe something about her presence—solid, calm, impossible to rattle.
"I moved here six months ago. New city, new job. I don't know anyone. Chester—" My voice cracked. "Chester is the only one who's happy to see me come home."
"That sounds lonely."
"It is." I laughed—wet, hollow. "I'm sorry. You don't need my life story at 3 AM."
"I'm an emergency vet. I'm here all night anyway." She smiled. "Sometimes the humans need treatment as much as the animals."
I became a regular.
Not for emergencies—Chester stayed healthy after the diet change—but for checkups, follow-ups, any excuse to visit the clinic during Dr. Chen's shifts.
"You again," she said one evening, not unkindly.
"Chester needed his shots."
"Chester's shots aren't due for three months." She raised an eyebrow. "What's really going on?"
I should have lied. Should have invented something. Instead:
"I wanted to see you."
Silence.
"Tyler—"
"I know. I know it's weird. You're my cat's vet, and I'm using Chester as an excuse to visit." I rubbed my face. "I'm sorry. I'll stop."
"Don't stop." She said it quietly. "Don't stop coming."
"What?"
"I've been looking forward to your visits too." She set down her clipboard. "Which is extremely unprofessional, but—" She sighed. "But I'm sixty-one years old and I've spent the last decade alone. You're the first person who's looked at me like I'm worth seeing."
"You are worth seeing."
"I'm a fat old woman who works overnight at an animal hospital."
"You're a brilliant doctor who saved my best friend. And you're—" I struggled for words. "You're beautiful. In ways I didn't know I was looking for until I found you."
She kissed me in the exam room.
It happened fast—one moment we were talking, the next her hands were on my face and her lips were on mine. She tasted like the coffee she'd been drinking, bitter and warm.
"This is insane," she gasped.
"Probably."
"I could lose my practice—"
"Chester's not going to tell anyone."
She laughed—surprised, genuine. "You're ridiculous."
"I know." I pulled her closer. "Can I keep being ridiculous somewhere more private?"
She looked at me for a long moment. Then: "My apartment's above the clinic."
Her apartment was small, cluttered with books and plants and three cats who eyed Chester's carrier with suspicion.
"Leave him," Dr. Chen said. "They'll sort themselves out."
"And us?"
"We'll sort ourselves out too."
She took my hand, led me to her bedroom. It was comfortable, lived-in, exactly what I'd expected from someone who'd spent a life caring for others.
"I haven't done this in years," she admitted.
"Neither have I." I touched her face. "We can go slow."
"I don't want slow." Her voice was rough. "I want to feel wanted. Really wanted. Just once."
"Just once?"
"That's all I'm allowing myself to hope for."
"Then let me exceed your expectations."
I undressed her with care.
Her scrubs came off to reveal a body that had probably never graced a magazine cover—heavy breasts, soft belly, thick thighs. She was shaking.
"Don't look—"
"I'm going to look." I kissed her shoulder. "I'm going to look at every inch."
I laid her back on her bed, worshipped her body with my mouth. Her belly—soft, warm, beautiful. Her breasts—heavy in my hands, nipples hardening. Her thighs—parting for me, revealing her need.
"Tyler—"
"Tell me what you want."
"Your mouth—please—"
I gave her my mouth.
She came with a sound like relief—like something long denied finally granted. I drank her through it, then climbed up to cover her body with mine.
"I want—" she started.
"Anything."
"I want to feel you inside me. I want to feel full."
I pushed inside.
She was tight—tighter than I expected—and hot, and her moan when I filled her was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. I moved slowly, watching her face, watching years of loneliness dissolve into pleasure.
"Faster—" she urged.
I went faster. She wrapped her legs around me as much as she could, pulled me deeper, and we found a rhythm that felt like coming home.
"I'm going to—" she warned.
"Let go. I've got you."
She let go.
"Chester seems happy," she said afterward.
I looked over at the carrier. Chester and her cats had apparently reached a détente, all four of them curled up together on the floor.
"Cats are better at this than people."
"At what?"
"At accepting things as they are. Not judging." I pulled her closer. "We could learn from them."
"We?"
"You and me." I kissed her forehead. "If you want a we."
"You want to be with me? An old fat vet who works nights?"
"I want to be with you. Full stop." I met her eyes. "Stay with me."
"You're in my apartment."
"Then let me stay with you. Tonight. Tomorrow. As long as you'll have me."
She was quiet. Then her hand found mine, squeezed.
"Chester's going to need regular checkups."
"He's very high-maintenance."
"And you? Are you high-maintenance?"
"Extremely." I smiled. "But I'm worth it."
She laughed, pulled me into another kiss.
"I'll be the judge of that."
She judged me worth keeping.
The clinic became a second home—I visited between her appointments, brought dinner on slow nights, became known as "Ruth's boyfriend" to the overnight staff. Chester thrived under the regular care. So did I.
"You've changed," my mother said when she visited.
"New city. New life."
"New love?"
I smiled. "Something like that."
What I didn't tell her—what I couldn't explain—was that love had found me in an exam room at 3 AM, wearing scrubs and smelling of cat food, with hands gentle enough to save lives and a heart big enough to save mine.
Patient: stabilized.
Prognosis: excellent.
Treatment: ongoing.