Well Read, Then Dead(68)

            “Bow, honey. I’m so sorry for what happened to Miss Delia and I apologize for being thoughtless. I expected you were with family, safe and sound. Poor kitty.”

            When she stood straight the doctor shook our hands. “I’m Cynthia Mays. Bow’s been my patient since Miss Delia rescued her. Tragedy, isn’t it?” She shook her head and then morphed back to veterinarian rather than potential friend.

            “Let’s get Bow into the examining room.”

            I handed her the carrier, and when we didn’t move, she motioned. “Come along.”

            Once inside, the doctor placed the carrier on a table, snapped on plastic gloves and opened the door slowly. She didn’t have to entice Bow, who walked right out and began sniffing the paper table covering.

            Doctor Mays said, “She’s looking for her treat. On wellness visits every patient gets a treat first thing. So when they have to come back, they remember the treat before they remember the prodding and poking.”

            Then she picked the cat up tenderly. “No treat yet, Miss Bow. Not until we’re sure it’s safe for you to eat.”

            I blushed, knowing we never thought it might not be safe when we gave Bow milk and bits of tuna back at the café. Still, she seemed none the worse for it, so we stood quietly by, amazed at how cooperative Bow was.

            We heard the doctor say, “Uh-oh.” Then she looked closer at Bow’s right flank and reached for a scissor. She snipped a chunk of hair and sealed it in a plastic baggie, writing a notation on the outside.

            Finally Doctor Mays opened a drawer, took out a cat treat and hand-fed it to Bow. I marveled. I’d be afraid she’d nip me. But then I’m not a veterinarian.

            “Bow seems okay physically. The only indication of possible trauma was some blood matted in her hair, but she has no injury so it’s not her blood. I bagged, signed and dated it for the sheriff’s office. Given what happened to Miss Delia . . .

            “Bow’s emotional well-being is another matter entirely.”

            Bridgy and I nodded mutely.

            “We’ll get her cleaned up and fed and then I’d like to keep her overnight as a precaution, and then, we’ll see. Have you given any thought as to where Bow will be living now that Miss Delia is . . . gone?”

            Bridgy and I exchanged a telling glance.

            “What?”

            I shrugged helplessly. “Miss Delia’s cousin, Miss Augusta Maddox, is allergic and can’t take Bow, but she’s looking for a friend or neighbor who can.”

            “I was wondering if either of you would be interested in giving Bow a home.”

            “We’d love to, but we live in an apartment,” I confessed mournfully.

            The doctor hit the foot pedal on the sink and put an ounce or so of water in a bowl for Bow. Then she slid the cat and the bowl in the carrier.

            “You stay right here, my sweetheart. Inga will be right in to get you cleaned and fed.”

            Doctor Mays ushered us out the door and into her office, where she explained what we already suspected. Bow was so used to the freedom of living in a house where she could come and go, wander through backyards and track fish among the mangroves, living in an apartment would be unsuitable.

            “Dangerous, even. Who knows what lengths she’d go to trying to get her freedom? We need another solution. Let me keep her a day or two while you scout out the perfect home. Otherwise, we’ll see if Animal Rescue has anyone on their list who lives in the right kind of house and is willing to love her.” The doctor emphasized the most important criteria.