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The exam room carried the sterile, chemical scent of antiseptic—a smell that always seemed to cling to places —and beneath it, a faint trace of wet fur. It was sharp, unmistakable, and unsettling, a lingering reminder of everything that had just happened.
Jenny was on the floor, kneeling beside the wolf-dog like she'd always belonged there. Her hand moved gently along the curve of his neck, fingers threading through his thick fur in a rhythm meant to soothe. She whispered to him softly, words of comfort and praise tumbling endlessly from her lips. Her voice, barely audible, was more for him than for anyone else—a quiet balm for a frightened creature who didn't yet understand he was safe.
Deaton approached silently, then leaned down and placed a small brown paper bag in Jenny's hands. It crinkled softly, the sound oddly intimate in the quiet room.
"Keep him calm," he said, his voice low and even. There was a kind of practiced calm to him, the kind you only developed after years of tending both animals and people. "Let him know he did well."
Jenny nodded earnestly. Her eyes shimmered, not quite with tears, but with something tender and deep. She crouched a little lower and pulled out one of the treats. The wolf-dog lifted his head with caution, sniffing the air before leaning forward and taking it from her hand with a careful, almost delicate movement. It was a small thing, but the way Jenny's face lit up—you'd think she'd just received the greatest gift in the world.
Deaton caught my eye, then gestured with a tilt of his head toward the hallway. I followed him, stepping out into the corridor as the exam room door clicked quietly shut behind us.
"Ordinarily," he began, folding his arms over his chest, "after a procedure , we'd want to keep him under observation for at least forty-eight hours. Monitor for infection, stress reactions… the usual post-op protocol." His voice was all professionalism, clipped and clinical, though not without compassion. But then he let out a breath and softened just slightly. "But something tells me that's not going to work with this one."
I nodded. "He'd tear it apart—or himself apart—before he settled down."
Deaton studied me a moment before continuing. "I'll write out a week's dosage of antibiotics. You won't have trouble getting him to take them?"
"The wound will heal," he said. "He's young, still growing. As long as he gets proper food and nutrition, he should make a full recovery."
That was all I needed to hear. I dipped my head in a quiet nod. "Good."
When we stepped back into the room, Jenny was crouched on the floor, still trying to bribe him with treats and—apparently—names.
"What about… Peanut?" she asked brightly. Updates are released by novèlfire.net
The wolf-dog blinked once, unimpressed.
She didn't miss a beat. "Okay, okay. Not a Peanut. What about Snugglezilla?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
Jenny shot me a look but kept going. "Cuddles?"
The wolf-dog let out what sounded suspiciously like a long-suffering sigh. Or maybe that was just me projecting. Either way, he clearly wasn't buying what she was selling.
I took a step closer, letting my presence settle over him like a shadow. His eyes tracked me, those vivid blue irises alert, but no longer fearful. Just watchful. Waiting.
"Those names don't suit him," I said. "He's not… soft." I paused, studying him. "How about Milo?" The name came from nowhere, but it felt right the second I said it. "Feels like a Milo."
His ears twitched, then perked up. He tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity—no, recognition—in his gaze. Something subtle but undeniable shifted in him.
Jenny gasped. "He likes it." Then her face fell into a pout. "But I wanted to name him."
Before she could sulk further, I crouched and rested my hand on his head. "Milo," I said again, firm but warm.
He answered with a sharp, happy bark that made both Jenny and me smile despite ourselves.
Jenny's pout melted into laughter. "Okay, fine. Milo it is."
"Treatment's done," I told her, straightening. "Time to take him home."
While Jenny stayed behind, still fussing over Milo like he was a newborn, I made my way to the front desk. Deaton's assistant handed over a small bag—medications, pet food, written instructions. Everything we'd need for the next few days. I thanked her, handed over my card, and signed the receipt without really looking. I was already thinking about the logistics of keeping Milo safe at the estate.
When I returned to the waiting room, Jenny was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Milo's head in her lap. She looked up at me, eyes sparkling with relief.
She nodded slowly, then stood, reluctant to break the contact. I lifted Milo again, careful with his bandaged leg. He was lighter than he should have been, bones sharp beneath the thick fur.
Jenny followed close behind as I carried him out to the car. I opened the backseat door and laid him down as gently as I could, making sure his injured leg was cradled and unstrained. Jenny climbed in right after, settling beside him, her hand already smoothing down his coat.
I slid into the driver's seat, turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life. As I adjusted the mirror, I caught a glimpse of them in the reflection—Jenny smiling softly, Milo's head nestled comfortably in her lap, his eyes slowly closing in contentment.
For the first time since we found him, Milo looked truly comfortable—at ease.