I have always found hospital waiting rooms, even those of the veterinary variety, fascinating places to people watch. While I ate, a married couple brought in an Australian shepherd with a cone around her neck and a shaved patch on her haunch from recent surgery (a dogfight?). The animal ignored the wife but kept up a whimpering communication with the husband. The couple argued under their breaths the whole time—he wanted to remove the cone, she insisted they wait for the vet.

“Do we have to fight like this?” hissed the woman. “It’s Christmas.”

“What does Christmas have to do with it?”

It was obvious to me that the dog was playing them off each other and that their relationship was on shaky ground.

The shepherd smelled my Italian sandwich and batted her eyes at me, but I was wise to her con.

My mind was on Dani’s mom. Nicole Tate was a gossip and a mischief-maker. She’d known I was headed to Pennacook for Shadow’s appointment. Had she spoken to Lizzie hoping that her words would get back to me? To what end?

I considered calling Dani to ask what her mother was scheming, until I remembered about her interview in Portland. Instead, I sent a message to call me when she had a minute.

Eventually, the unhappy couple with the manipulative shepherd was called into an examination room.

I could empathize with their plight. With Shadow, there were days I knew he was manipulating me. He’d ignore the bucket of pig’s ears I brought him until I returned with a venison haunch I was saving for myself. Then he’d make eye contact while he gobbled up the ears he’d recently disdained. He seemed to delight in taunting me.

Other days, though, I would catch sight of the wolf through the window, when he couldn’t see me, and I would watch him doing something like following an eagle soaring overhead, and his mind would seem unknowable to me. In those moments I missed having a standard-issue dog who would follow me from room to room and lick the crumbs from my floors.

Maybe I just missed having a family.

Eventually, Lizzie Holman emerged through the inner door, smiling but still looking sheepish.

She said she’d given Shadow a large bolus of fluids subcutaneously to keep him hydrated on the drive. After she’d brought him safely out of the anesthesia, she’d also administered a mild sedative—I didn’t catch the name—to keep him “mellow” for a few hours. She said not to worry about feeding him until we were home. She told me she’d call with his results, but based on his complete blood count, stool and urine tests, she didn’t anticipate issues.