The Blessings of the Animals: A Novel - By Katrina Kittle Page 0,3
livestock agent for the Humane Society. “It’s Stan Metz,” I said, my voice part-warning, part-apology.
Bobby groaned and flung his arm over his eyes. I thought about ignoring the call. I didn’t want to leave my warm bed, the anticipated waffles, my potentially laughing naked husband. But Bobby said, “Of course it’s Stan Metz,” with such petulant venom that I answered the phone.
“I know it’s early, Dr. Anderson,” the sheriff said, “but we need you. Immediate removal. We’ve got dead horses, dying horses, and an owner threatening to shoot us.”
Dying horses? Not if I could help it. I swung my legs out of bed, pulse kicking up a notch. I tried not to look at Bobby as I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt while the sheriff gave me directions. “Helen’s already here,” he said of my best friend and fellow Humane volunteer. “She’s calling potential foster homes. Bring your trailer. And a camera.”
Bobby sat up. “You’re going?” he asked. It sounded like an accusation.
“This sounds bad. But, I’ll hurry. We’ll have breakfast when I’m back, okay? I’m sorry.” I leaned over to kiss him, but he pulled away. “Hey, this is my job,” I said. Why was I apologizing? He certainly never apologized when he went to the restaurant at odd hours.
I ran my fingers through his thick black hair. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He didn’t say, “It’s okay,” or, “I understand.” He didn’t even tease me not to bring home another animal. I stood at the edge of the bed.
Although I’d never, ever say this aloud to him, he’d become worse than Gabriella ever was in her middle-school years. With Gabby it’d been easier. I’d simply leave the room when she used to say her seething, hateful words—a bit of healthy separation—because I knew it honestly had nothing to do with me. Bobby’s sorrow, though, his moodiness, felt personal.
I stood there and wanted to ask him, “Are we okay?” but I’d asked him that yesterday, finally, after having carried the question like something burning in my chest for weeks. He’d assured me, “You’re the one good thing I can count on in my life, Cam. You and Gabby.” He’d held my face in his hands and said that his gloom, his drinking too much, his temper, had nothing to do with me but everything to do with his unhappiness with the restaurant (a thriving restaurant, mind you). Asking the question again didn’t fit us. If he said we were okay, then I believed him.
I made myself kiss the top of his head, then went downstairs. I’d already told him he should sell the restaurant if he was that miserable. I assured him we would manage, I could work more weekends again. His happiness would be well worth it. I wanted the man I’d married back.
I stuffed several baby carrots into my back pockets, grabbed a video camera from my office, shoved my feet into green-and-pink striped Wellingtons (a birthday gift from Gabby, on an eternal quest, I believe, to make her mother more hip), and went outside.
The sky seemed a dark wool blanket slung just above the tree line. Of course my trailer wasn’t hitched, and Bobby was already pissed and sulky so I couldn’t ask him to help me. I looked up at our bedroom window. With a second person down here to guide me, this task would take three minutes, tops. Alone, it ended up taking nearly fifteen—backing and pulling forward repeatedly (under the watchful eye of my stone statue of St. Francis) until I got the trailer and truck lined up just right to lock and pin everything into place.
As I hit the road on the way to the emergency rescue, I vowed that I would not bring home another animal. That would be my sacrifice, my peace offering to Bobby, who’d recently dubbed our farm and its motley crew the “Island of Misfit Toys.” Even though it irked me that a man who hated the holidays would use a Christmas special reference against me (that version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was Gabby’s childhood favorite), I had to admit he had a point.
We had Max, a mutt with a permanent limp—Max had been hit by a car as a puppy after having been abandoned in the country.
We had Gingersnap, a cat with no ears. They’d been snipped off by two sadistic twelve-year-old boys who would no doubt grow up to be serial killers.
“Christ, Cam,” Bobby said when I brought Gingersnap home.