Trouble is a Friend
It's the sound of something scratching at the wall that catches Meredith's attention, making her look up from the papers she's scattered over the table, an uneven assortment of schoolwork and administrative material from the clinic. She taps her pen against the table, glancing around for the source of the noise, already stopped, but it starts again as soon as she thinks whatever it is has gone.
She gets the door open by about a foot before something's trying to get inside, off-white and fluffy and wriggling, and it takes a few seconds before Meredith can push her way out instead of letting the dog in, a little thrown as he starts pawing at her. "Hey there, boy," she coos, kneeling down to pet him, turning her head away with a laugh when he starts trying to lick her face. "No, no. Who's a good boy? Look at you, you look like my dog. So sweet, aren't you? Let's see whose you are."
It takes effort to catch hold of his collar and get him to hold still long enough for her to find the license, and when she does, she stares at it, long enough and quiet enough that the dog starts butting at her hands again for attention. "Okay," she says, petting him automatically, "okay, good boy, good Doc." Turning her head, looking back to the most closed door, she calls out, "Sean?" Dealing with her dead dog alone isn't something she's prepared to do right now, though it doesn't even occur to her that they might do anything but keep him.
She gets the door open by about a foot before something's trying to get inside, off-white and fluffy and wriggling, and it takes a few seconds before Meredith can push her way out instead of letting the dog in, a little thrown as he starts pawing at her. "Hey there, boy," she coos, kneeling down to pet him, turning her head away with a laugh when he starts trying to lick her face. "No, no. Who's a good boy? Look at you, you look like my dog. So sweet, aren't you? Let's see whose you are."
It takes effort to catch hold of his collar and get him to hold still long enough for her to find the license, and when she does, she stares at it, long enough and quiet enough that the dog starts butting at her hands again for attention. "Okay," she says, petting him automatically, "okay, good boy, good Doc." Turning her head, looking back to the most closed door, she calls out, "Sean?" Dealing with her dead dog alone isn't something she's prepared to do right now, though it doesn't even occur to her that they might do anything but keep him.