“I think he went to the laundry room,” Clark said. “That’s where his bed is. I’ve been trying to research what to do online, since I couldn’t get his vet on the phone—”
“What happened?” I asked, and Clark pointed to a box on the counter—the box of chocolates he’d offered to me only a few hours ago, when I’d picked the hazelnut and seriously regretted it. It had been full then—I was pretty sure there was even a second layer underneath the first one. The box wasn’t full any longer. It was ripped apart, chewed along one edge, and all that seemed to be left in the box were scraps of the black paper wrappings the chocolate had been in.
“I thought I had it back far enough on the counter,” Clark said. “But I got home from the, uh . . .” He looked up at me for a second, then at the kitchen counter. “From dropping you off,” he said after a tiny pause, “and it was like this.”
“He ate them all?” I asked, feeling my stomach sink. I was in no way a dog expert, but I’d watched enough Psychic Vet Tech to know that chocolate was terrible for dogs. As in, it sometimes killed them.
“Well, he’s thrown up a lot of them by now.”
I realized that probably explained the puddles—not to mention the smell. “This isn’t good,” I said. I was feeling totally out of my depth here, and like there should be someone else—Maya, a vet, an adult—telling us what we should be doing. “Are . . . ? Should we call your parents?”
“We can,” Clark said. “But they live in Colorado. And they’re really more cat people.”
Just like that, I remembered what he’d said to me in the foyer—Bertie wasn’t his dog, and this wasn’t really his house. I’d been so fixated on keeping the dinner conversation going, I hadn’t followed up on any of it.
“It’s my publisher’s house,” he explained, gesturing around him. “She and her husband are getting divorced, and it was going to be sitting empty for the summer, so she offered it to me. Also, I think she wanted someone to watch the dog. Though if she’d known this was going to happen . . .” Clark’s mouth twisted in a grimace, and he looked down at the ground.
“Right,” I said, trying to get my bearings. This did explain why Clark hadn’t seemed to know how to walk a dog when we’d met. “Um . . .” I heard a faint whimpering sound, and Clark started moving toward it. I followed him to a room off the kitchen I’d never noticed before. It was small and carpeted, with one wall of cabinets—presumably, the washer and dryer were behind them. A huge round dog bed, with a paw-print design and BERTIE monogrammed on it, was in the center of the room, and there were toys scattered all around. But my eye immediately went to the corner, where Bertie was curled in a tight ball, whimpering.
“Oh my god,” I said as I crossed over to him. Somehow, the fact that he had taken himself to the corner, that he wasn’t on his soft bed, made this that much more worrisome. “Hey, buddy, it’s okay,” I murmured, running my hand over his white fur, which felt damp, the fluff turned into curls. He was shaking under my touch, violently, almost more like spasms. “You’re okay.” Bertie stopped shaking for a moment and looked up at me with his dark eyes. His white eyelashes were stuck together in triangles, and the look he gave me was so trusting—so helpless—that I felt something inside me quake. This dog was in serious pain and needed actual help. And what he had was me and Clark.
“He was running around when I got back,” Clark said, and I looked over to see him crouched down next to me, tentatively patting Bertie’s leg. “I thought he was just happy to see me—he sometimes does that if you leave the room and come back into it. But then it didn’t stop. And that’s when I saw the chocolate box.”
“And you called his vet?” I asked, feeling like we’d very quickly reached the end of what I knew to do with sick dogs.
Clark nodded and handed me his phone—on it, I could see an instruction list, with a vet’s name and number. “I called,” he said. “But the office is closed, and there wasn’t an answering service. I was about to look up emergency vets when you got here.”
“And you called Maya?”
Bertie closed his eyes tightly as another spasm shook him. He was making a soft whimpering sound that was breaking my heart.
Clark nodded. “I left a message for Dave, too,” he said, spreading his hands helplessly. “But . . .”
“Okay,” I said, nodding like I knew what to do. “Okay.” I looked down at the dog, wishing I knew more about this. If this were a person, I would have known how to take their vitals and would have felt like I had some idea of how to proceed. But I had no idea how to begin to help a dog. I put both hands on Bertie, smoothing his ears down, wondering if they were always so hot, or if this had to do with the chocolate. “Okay,” I said again, aware that just saying the word did not actually accomplish anything, but not sure that I was going to be able to stop doing it.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Bri, since she was the only one I knew with a pet. “Andie?” she said, sounding confused. “You okay?”
“What’s your vet’s name?” I practically yelled at her. “I mean, sorry,” I said after a second. “Just have an emergency here. Where does Miss Cupcakes go?”
“Um . . . I think it’s called the Animal Barn,” she said. “Or something like that? Want me to call my mom?”
“It’s okay.” I noticed Clark was already typing on his phone. “Gotta go. Call you later.” I hung up, knowing I could explain when we were out of the woods. “Call them,” I said to Clark, pulling up the search engine on my own phone, “and if they don’t have an emergency vet on call, we’ll look one up.”
Clark nodded as he held his phone to his ear. I looked around the room, then pulled open the nearest cabinet to me. This seemed to have mostly dog stuff in it, bigger stuff than what was in his cabinet in the kitchen, like blankets and towels. I pulled out a monogrammed blanket and wrapped it around the dog, who was still shivering and shaking. I had no idea if this was going to help or not, but it’s what I would have done for a human who was shaking, so I figured it couldn’t hurt. “You’re going to be okay,” I murmured, though even as I spoke, I wasn’t sure if I was talking to the dog or to myself.
“Okay, it’s ringing,” Clark said as he put the phone on speaker and placed it on the carpet between us.
“Animal Barn Emergency,” a man said in a clipped, no-nonsense tone.
“Hi,” Clark and I both said at the same time. We looked up at each other over the phone and he gestured to me. “Hi,” I said again. “So we have an emergency with a dog. He’s a . . .” I paused, looking at the dog, realizing I wasn’t entirely sure what kind of dog Bertie was.
“Great Pyrenees,” Clark chimed in, leaning closer to the phone.
“Right,” I said, “and he ate some chocolate, and now he’s shaking all over. He doesn’t seem like he’s doing too well.”
“I’m going to transfer you to poison control,” the voice said. “They can get more information from you and find out if you need to bring the dog in.”
“Thanks—” I started, but the call had already been transferred, and a moment later, Muzak started playing. I looked up, then drew back slightly. We’d both been leaning over the phone, and I hadn’t realized quite how close together our heads were.
“They have poison control for animals?” Clark asked as he gently patted Bertie’s leg again.
“I guess so,” I said, not wanting Clark to know how far out of my depth I was here. I looked over at Bertie as an instrumental version of the Piña Colada song began to play. His eyes were still tightly closed, but he seemed to be shaking less, which I assumed was a good sign. Unless it was a bad one. I ran my hand over the dog’s head. But it wasn’t like we could even ask Bertie where he was hurting, what he was feeling. How did vets do this?
“Hello?” A gentler-sounding woman came on the line, and Clark and I both leaned forward at the same time, coming within a centimeter of bumping our heads together.
“Hi,” I said, then took a breath and started to run through what had h
appened so far. The woman at the poison control center—Ashley—walked us through a series of questions. She seemed to be trying to figure out exactly how much chocolate Bertie had eaten and what kind. Clark ran to the kitchen to get what was left of the box as I tried to describe the chocolate to her.
“It was dark chocolate,” I said, but even as I said this, I wondered if it was right. Had it been milk chocolate? I had been so focused on not tasting the hazelnut, I wasn’t entirely sure. “I think.”
“Milk or white would have been better,” she said. “But you’d have real trouble if it were baking chocolate. That’s the most dangerous. Dogs can’t process caffeine or theobromine like we can. I get this call a few times a week. Their systems just overload.”
“Okay,” Clark said, running back into the room, holding the pieces of the box in his hands. “It was . . . ten ounces. Dark chocolate.”
“And he ate all of it?” Ashley asked, her voice getting sharper.
“All but a few pieces,” Clark said, meeting my eye. “What does that mean?”
There was a tiny pause, and Ashley said, “I think you’ll be okay. But you’re going to need to get this out of his system. You’re going to need to get him to throw up—”
“Oh, he’s been doing quite a lot of that,” Clark said.
“That’s a good thing,” Ashley said. “He’s basically been poisoned, and he needs to clear it out.”
“So we don’t need to take him to a vet?” I asked, surprised. I’d assumed that the professionals were going to take over at some point. I hadn’t thought this was going to be left to us.
“You’re going to need to monitor him for the rest of the night,” she said. “If he starts seizing, you’ll have to bring him to a vet immediately. But otherwise, based on his weight, I don’t think he ate enough for this to be truly life-threatening.”
“Oh, thank god,” Clark murmured, sitting back and running a hand over his face.
“But you need to to get him to drink fluids so he doesn’t become dehydrated,” she said. “And keep watch on him tonight. If the shaking gets worse, bring him in.”
“Got it,” I said, looking over at Bertie. “Thank you.”
“Thanks a lot,” Clark said, leaning forward slightly to reach the phone. Ashley said good-bye, and a moment later, hung up. And then it was just me and Clark and the sudden silence that filled the room now that Ashley was no longer telling us what to do. “So,” Clark said, looking at the dog, then back at me. “Now what?”
• • •
Since it seemed like Bertie wanted to be in the laundry room, we got settled in there. Clark went to clean up the kitchen, and though I offered to help, I was secretly glad when he insisted on doing it himself. Not only was I not thrilled with the idea of cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, but after talking to Ashley, I really didn’t want to leave Bertie alone. While on one hand I was relieved that he didn’t seem to be in any serious, immediate danger, the fact that he had come so close to it was terrifying. As was the fact that Clark and I were the ones responsible for making sure he stayed out of it.
Bertie tried to kick the blanket off, and I took it off of him, running my hand over his back. I set it down just to the side of him, in case we needed to have it on hand. I was about to call to Clark, to see if he could bring out Bertie’s water dish, when my phone rang.
The caller ID read MAYA, and I picked up immediately. “Hi,” I said, beyond relieved to hear from her. Maybe she and Dave were on their way over, and they could take over the dog night watch. I knew neither of them were vets, but they had way more experience with dogs than Clark and I had combined.
“Hi!” Maya said, and I could hear she sounded like she did when she was trying to wrangle her pack of dogs away from an aggressive barker—stressed, but trying to hide it with cheerfulness. “I’m so glad you picked up. I just heard from Clark. It sounds like he’s having a problem with Bertie—”
“Yeah,” I said, cutting her off before she could tell me what I already knew. “He called me. I’m over there now.”
“Thank goodness.”
“Told you,” I heard another voice say—after a moment I realized it was Dave. I’d only met him once, when I had gone to their tiny office to drop off my tax and payroll forms. I’d expected the male version of Maya—tattoos, cheerfulness, dyed hair—and had met someone who looked like he could have been an investment banker, except for the spare leashes clipped to his belt with a carabiner. “I knew Andie would have this under control. Hi, Andie.”
“Hi, Dave,” I said, realizing that I must be on speaker in a car—I could hear both of them clearly, as well as the occasional car horn passing by.
“What’s the situation?” Maya asked.
I took a breath and filled them in, ending with what Ashley had told us—that someone needed to sit up with Bertie all night. “So . . . ,” I said when I’d finished, waiting for either one of them to jump in and tell me they were on their way, that I could go home.
“Here’s the thing,” Maya said. “We’re up in New Hampshire, visiting Dave’s mother, who hates me—”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Dave interrupted, and I could hear a sigh somewhere in his voice, like they’d had this discussion a few times before. “She just doesn’t understand the tattoos. I did suggest that maybe you could have worn a cardigan.”
“Anyway,” Maya went on, more loudly than before, “we weren’t planning to leave until tomorrow. And even if we left now—”
“Which would really not go over well,” Dave muttered.
“We couldn’t get there for four hours. So . . .” Now it was Maya’s turn to trail off, and I had a feeling I knew exactly what she was asking.
“I can stay,” I said, after only the slightest hesitation. I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave Clark alone with Bertie without worrying the whole time that something had happened to him. And if Maya and Dave weren’t going to be here, I seemed to be the only option.
“Oh, thank you,” Maya said, relieved. “Andie, you’re the best. I’ll make sure you get overtime for this.”
“It’s okay,” I said, glancing over at the dog and rubbing his ears. I could sit here tonight with Bertie. It wouldn’t be that bad.
“And you and Clark get along, right?” Maya said, not really asking it like a question. “So you guys will be okay.”
“Well . . . ,” I started, then realized that Maya and Dave (and whoever else might be in the car with them) didn’t really need to know that we’d just had a disastrous date. “Sure,” I finally said. “It’s fine.”
“And I’ll keep my cell on all night,” she said. “So call anytime. Even if it’s four a.m.”
“Wait, what?” I heard Dave ask sharply.
“Are you walking anyone tomorrow?” Maya continued over him.
“Just one walk. Clyde, Sheriff, and Coco.”
“I’ll get it covered for you so you can sleep,” Maya said. “And thank you again. Call if there’s a problem!”
“I will,” I said, as Dave and Maya both shouted good-byes over increasing static. “Bye,” I replied, but I wasn’t sure they could still hear me, and a moment later I heard the dial tone in my ear.
“Hey.” I looked up to see Clark standing in the doorway, wearing khaki shorts and a dark-red T-shirt. His hair looked wet and I could see comb tracks through it. “Sorry that took so long,” he said, as he crossed the room toward us. “I was pretty disgusting after cleaning up, so I took a quick shower.”
I nodded, trying not to get distracted by the way he smelled—like some combination of Ivory soap, fresh towels, and mint gum. Clark, in his more casual clothes, was making me all that much more aware that I was still in the dress, now ridiculously creased, that I’d worn for our date. “So Dave and Maya called,” I said, making myself look away from him. I tried to focus on the dog—his eyes were still closed, and he was breathing heavily. “They’re in New Hampshire, but they said to call if we need help.”
“Oh,” Clar
k said, his face falling. He adjusted his glasses. “So . . . okay.” He looked down at Bertie and twisted his hands together, and I could see how scared he was at the thought of staying here alone with him.
“But I can stay,” I said, making my voice light and easy, like this was no big deal. “You know, so we can take shifts.”
Relief passed over Clark’s face immediately, before it was replaced by something closer to worry. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I hate to ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t,” I said. “I offered.” A moment later, though, I suddenly worried that he didn’t want me there. It would make sense—who wants to keep hanging out with someone they had a bad date with, especially when there’s no possibility of kissing at the end of it? “But if you don’t want me to,” I started haltingly, “I mean—”
“No, no,” Clark said, so quickly that I knew he wanted me to stay. Probably his panic at being left alone with Bertie was overriding any awkwardness about spending more time with me. “It would be great if you could stay. I mean, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Even as I said it, I was wondering what I was doing. I pushed myself to standing carefully, pulling my dress down. “I’m just going to get his water dish.”
“Great,” Clark said, nodding, then looking at the dog. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
I headed toward the kitchen, unlocking my phone as I walked. I started to compose a text to my dad, letting him know what was happening—I had a work emergency. Sick dog needs to be watched over tonight. Will be home in a.m.—when my phone beeped with an incoming text.
BRI
Andie, you okay? Why did you need a vet? What’s happening? We’re about to take off here—should we wait?
PALMER
Where even are you? We thought you’d be back by now.
ME
Dog sickness emergency.
So I’m at Clark’s—definitely not coming back tonight
TOBY
PALMER
I’m sorry, Toby—what was that?