The Turning Season Read Online Free PDF Page A

switch to one of the vets in town, “So much closer to you in case there’s an emergency.” But there are always people who are too stubborn to make a change—or who develop unreasonable animosities toward certain medical professionals—or who come to the unshakable conclusion that you
need
their attention, their money, their business, that you are living out here all by yourself and you must surely be lonely, broke, and desperate. Those are the clients who still come to me, and they’ve long ago learned to adjust to my erratic schedule, though they don’t have a clue why I am sometimes available and sometimes not.
    â€œHi, yes, this is Celeste Saint-Simon, I’m calling on behalf of Dr. Baylor, you left a message? She’s not available right now, but her calendar will open up by next Wednesday if you’d like to make an appointment.”
    So many lies in those simple sentences. First of all, I’m not
Dr.
Baylor. My wildly unpredictable shape-changing patterns made it impossible for me to attend school beyond eighth grade, so I studied with my father and on my own, and I got my GED before I was seventeen. I’ve taken a few online university courses, but naturally I wasn’t able to attend college or vet school; everything I know about animal medicine I learned from Janet before she retired.
    Well, before she died—though I allow people to think she’s still alive. Over the years, I’ve paid the fees to renew both Janet’s vet license and the clinic’s facility license so I can continue to buy medical supplies and write prescriptions in her name. I’ve even attended the North American Veterinary Conference as Janet Kassebaum so I could rack up continuing education credits. My clients don’t know this, of course; I let them believe I’ve acquired my degree and passed my boards. It’s just been easier to let them think I’m qualified for the position I’ve gradually assumed.
    And, really, I think I know as much about animals as any vet in Quinville. Hell, I’ve
been
half of those animals at one time or another, which I think gives me peculiar insights into what might be wrong and how it feels. I can’t always fix the animals, but I’ve never failed to make a diagnosis. That’s the
real
reason some of my customers won’t go anywhere else.
    The other lie in Celeste’s statement isn’t so much a falsehood as a guess. She
thinks
I’ll be back to human state by Monday or Tuesday, but she doesn’t know for sure. And lately I wouldn’t want to be placing any bets on what my body will do next. But I appreciate Celeste’s efforts all the same.
    By sundown, she and Alonzo both look tired but a little pleased with themselves, having accomplished everything they set out to do for the day. He flips through her DVD selections, now and then grunting in satisfaction, while she heats up the take-out barbecue, tosses a salad, and opens three bags of chips.
    â€œI know you don’t want to eat the salad, but that’s the price you pay for all the rest of this great stuff, so no complaining,” she tells him when he eyes his plate with disfavor. I think it is a measure of how far Alonzo’s come that he would, even with just an expression, indicate he might not be happy about a food option.
    â€œIf I eat the salad, how many donuts can I have?”
    â€œThree.”
    â€œAll right.”
    She hasn’t forgotten me, either; I have my own plate of barbecue, potato salad, and chipotle cheese dip. They make several trips between the kitchen and the living room, where tray tables are set up in front of the overstuffed sofa and the DVD player has already been cued up, and finally all of our food has been transferred to the viewing area.
    â€œThis is the life,” Celeste says, sinking back against the cushion with a tortilla chip in one hand and a margarita in the other. “Hit play.”