Moonburn - By Alisa Sheckley Page 0,1

But I try not to think about that part of my life during my working day. Compartmentalize, that’s the trick.

“Well? Aren’t you going to check her?” Her voice sounded like it had been fed a steady diet of cigarettes and broken glass.

“Of course.” Crouching back down, I looked at Queenie, who instantly licked me on the lips. Maneuvering my face so it was out of tongue range, I put my hand on the dog’s abdomen and palpated. Her mammary glands were swollen. “Were you trying to breed her?”

“Not to a damn coyote.”

“You think she was bred by a coyote?”

“I could hear them howling, and when I went out to bring Queenie in, I found her rope had been bitten clear through.” Marlene went on to explain how she had just shelled out good money to fix Queenie up with a pure-blood rotty male, and the stud fee wasn’t refundable just because Queenie had hooked up with a no-good-thieving lowlife who wasn’t even from the same subspecies. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, because I wasn’t sure whether Marlene was talking to me or her dog, or both.

And then it wasn’t amusing anymore, because Queenie started to whimper. She gave Marlene a particularly pathetic look, equal parts hurt and confusion. It probably affected me more than it should have, because I’d worn that look myself for the better part of a year, while my ex-husband criticized and cheated and infected me with a little something he’d picked up in the Carpathian mountains.

I suppose I hadn’t been much savvier than Queenie, who didn’t understand what she’d done wrong by following her instincts, and certainly couldn’t make the connection between that long-forgotten afternoon with Mr. Wile E. Coyote and her owner’s current cold disapproval. I ran my hand over the short, filthy black fur on Queenie’s thick neck. It struck me that a woman who had time to apply little flower decals to the back of each nail ought to be able to hose off her dog before bringing her into the vet. I wondered if Marlene had been neglecting her dog in other ways as well.

I was still crouched down next to Queenie, but I’d stopped petting her for a moment. She nudged me with her tan and black muzzle, then pressed her full weight against my shoulder and arm, knocking me back on my heels. Like a lot of big dogs, rottweilers have an inbred desire to lean on the unwary. “You’re a good girl,” I told her.

Then, before Marlene could disagree with this diagnosis, I added my medical opinion: “She feels like she’s about two months along.”

“Damn. I’d meant to come by a few weeks ago, but I just couldn’t find the time. Well, nothing else for it. How long will it take for you to clean her out?”

I straightened up so that I could look Marlene in the eye, trying to decide how to respond. I had terminated animal pregnancies before, usually with a morning-after pill or hormone injection. Sometimes the mother is too small or too young to whelp a litter successfully. At other times, I had performed the procedure because there were too many unwanted puppies and kittens in the world, and the world isn’t kind to the unwanted. Nobody picketed the clinic or called me a killer: When it comes to veterinary medicine, the controversial is commonplace.

But like most vets, I have my own moral code. I don’t believe in performing euthanasia on animals that aren’t incurable and in pain. I’m sorry you’re moving and can’t find a good home for Captain, but that’s not really sufficient cause to kill a perfectly good young dog whose only crime is being too big for your new apartment.

I don’t dock the ears or tails of puppies, because I consider it mutilation, pure and simple. I don’t declaw cats until I explain that I’m basically amputating finger bones. And I do not abort puppies that are already viable outside the womb.

“The problem here,” I said, “is that a dog’s gestational period is usually around sixty-three days …” I trailed off, managing not to add as you should know, since you were planning on breeding Queenie.

“Yeah? So?”

“Well, it’s just a bit late to do it now. Queenie’s due in about a week.”

Marlene gave an exasperated huff. “Damn it.”

“I’m sorry, but if you need help with the whelping or placing the puppies in good homes …”

“That won’t be necessary.” Marlene snapped a leash onto