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Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

I feed him a can of tuna, then I give him a bath in the sink. I gently rinse all the dried blood off him. He is having trouble keeping his eyes open. “I've been there, buddy. Trust me.”

I carry him to bed and rub his little body until he falls asleep.

…

“Lassie . . . Lassie!”

His eyes flutter, but he doesn't move.

It's 3:03 a.m.

I gingerly roll him over. The cut on his belly is red and swollen. I touch it with my finger and he yelps.

Shit.

“Dude? Are you okay?”

He's not.

My heart starts racing.

“I'm sorry, buddy. We'll get you fixed.”

Meow.

My eyes are filling with tears and I wipe them away. He's just a stupid cat, I tell myself. I grab my phone and am about to search for an emergency vet when I stop. I've actually seen the emergency vet before. It's adjacent to the park about a mile and a half away.

I don't have a driver's license, but I do have a little Vespa that I use every so often.

I grab Lassie and a backpack, then bolt out the front door.

It’s the first time I have left the sanctity of my apartment since the chase. I scan the street. It’s all clear.

I open the backpack and put Lassie inside.

“Ten minutes, buddy,” I tell him.

I make it in seven.

Lassie clings to my shoulder as I walk through the sliding glass doors of the Alexandria VCA Emergency Animal Hospital.

There is no one else there and after filling out some paperwork, we see the doctor.

It is 3:20.

“So, what seems to be the problem?” the vet asks in an Australian accent. He has reddish blond hair, glasses, and tells me to call him James, or as he says it, Jahms.

“He was gone for about a week, came back all beat-up last night. I think he picked a fight with a skunk and a porcupine.”

“Is that right?” He laughs. “Well, let's have a look-see, shall we?”

Lassie looks at me over his shoulder as the doctor begins his examination and I reassure him, “It's okay, buddy.”

The doctor flips him over and looks at the cut on his belly. “Somebody really got you there, didn't they?” He gazes up at me and says, “Looks like he got pretty lucky, actually. The skin on the belly is pretty soft. A little deeper and he could have done some real damage.”

He presses on Lassie's belly and I expect him to wince, but he doesn't. But when the doctor touches a little higher on his ribs, he lets out a painful wail.

My stomach tightens. I wait for the doctor to tell me that he is bleeding internally and will surely die. But, after another minute of prodding, the doctor diagnoses some bruised ribs—nothing major. He prescribes some pain meds and gives me a couple ointments to put on his cuts.