Chapter Text
His ginger ale left by the side of the monitor was flat and lifeless. Like the dog that was lying on the table.
It was a small cross-breed. White, probably a bit of bichon frise in it although it was never confirmed. The old woman, Francis, had spent almost an hour just cradling it’s dead body after the injection was done. She’d asked him to remove it from her arms so she could leave, her fingers had latched onto the dogs limbs with deafening love.
Shane had left the room, he’d seen the dog so much over the years to help with its seizures that hearing its final snuffle felt oddly personal. It had stared at him from Francis’s arms with so much trust as he’d slowly pushed down on the syringe to stop its tiny heart.
He was just logging out of this computer now and collecting his stethoscope to move into the other consult room. The small furry mass was still silent. Obviously.
There was something weird about dead dogs, their body carried some kind of energy, some restlessness. Like if you blinked twice it would bound up excitedly and Francis could have her little Sookie back.
One of the nurses would be down to bag it up to send it for cremation soon, once the lump removal upstairs was complete. Right now, he could hear the noise of an aggressive dachshund in the waiting room and the pug with back issues was back again. He could hear its struggled snorting even with the door closed. He had more things to do, better things to do, than stare at Sookie like it’d make a difference.
He made his way quickly through reception, hands fumbling on the door handles, ducking his head so the regulars didn’t have to see red rimmed eyes. The small electric candle was still flickering on the desk.
The other consult room was smaller, this one did have a window which bathed him in sunlight he hadn’t seen in a few hours. The window was ajar, making the blinds curl in the breeze and cooling his sweating forehead. Doing a PTS always brought him up in cold sweats, after his first he’d had to go to the cattery and strip half naked until the unsettled feeling had gone from his skin. He was able to manage it now by doing a few laps of the room.
Computers were rarely his friend, but the ones in Beechwood Vet Centre were barely running, they were limping along. Sometimes when they got too overwhelmed they just turned off RoboVet and left Shane utterly stranded. The operating system had been begging for an update with constant notifications for months. Nobody was giving in, they were under siege.
Today’s diary was fairly quiet for the remainder of his shift. He had consults up until six, then he would double-check that the nurses had managed to get all the cleaning done and give them a hand before he’d go home, hopefully before eight.
He wasn’t too late for the next appointment, the PTS had been during the lunch break to give the owner some privacy.
A quick glance towards the waiting room showed a handful of regulars staring back at him with anxious smiles. No new patients. That at least gave him time to see what he was up against.
The notes gave him no answers. The sweat prickled over his forehead once again, he fought the urge to do a few more laps of the room to clear the feelings.
The dog, Anya, had seemingly switched owners and vet practices. For whatever reason the old notes hadn’t been put on the system yet, so all he had was the receptionist's notes from the call yesterday. He read it over and over again to prepare himself.
Spaniel, one year 2 months, vaccine booster, itchy ears, owned by a Mr Rozanov….
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The spaniel Anya had ended up being five minutes late to her appointment, just below the cutoff time. While waiting, Shane had managed to contact the rescue centre she was from to confirm that she’d been having regular vaccines, flea treatments and a wormer. Then he’d sat back to mechanically scroll through his upcoming consults and wonder why the name Rozanov was familiar.
‘Mr Rozanov (Anya)’, appeared in the ‘waiting’ tab on the side of his screen. Shane practically owed his career to this feature. He didn’t have to face any clients without a purpose, no wandering around the waiting room to see if someone had arrived. It was beautiful, purposeful. The best feature in RoboVet.
Mr Rozanov was still oddly familiar. He didn’t look Canadian, there was something about the sharpness of his jaw and the piercing eyes too accusatory. His lips didn’t look suited to apologies, they were curved with something sharper, like a medieval bow. Shane got his answer when he asked, hesitantly, “Anya?”
“Da,” Mr Rozanov replied, “this is Anya.”
The lilt to the voice, Eastern European, was also familiar. Even the golden curls that tilted around the man’s face were giving him odd flashbacks he couldn’t quite place. Perhaps he had a past life living in Moscow or something, or Shane Hollander in an alternate reality had grown up somewhere in Poland.
Any feelings Shane didn’t like, the uneasy feeling of not knowing how long it was socially acceptable to stare at someone's face, were instantly calmed by Anya leaping around in front of him. He latched his gaze easily onto her.
“Yes, hello, hello,” he cooed, “come with me, Anya.”
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He was still intermittently staring at Mr Rozanov’s face. Whenever he turned around to discuss something with him those eyes stole his attention and made his brain go all foggy, basically to mush. Four years of vet school stolen from his mind by a vaguely attractive European. He’d seen plenty of European men before, plenty of blonde European men.
The current blonde European man was oblivious to his inner ramblings. He was focused entirely on Anya, petting her large silky ears, scratching her under the chin, hugging her as she stood on the examination table to press kisses into her head. Seeing bigger, burly jock types dote on their pets was something Shane always found adorable and fascinating. Something about the sterile consult room turned these men who you’d assume to be completely uninterested in the animals into doting mother hens.
“She’s been scratching for a few days then?”
“Da,” Rozanov replied, “since Monday. I thought she would be happier by now.”
Shane hummed. “We don’t have that many records on her, do you have any idea if she’s been spayed?”
“Spayed?” Rozanov tilted an eyebrow up in confusion, Anya seemed to copy him with her head cocked on one side, “like with water?”
“No, sorry,” Shane laughed awkwardly, before realising that this could easily be interpreted as him laughing at a client because of a language barrier. Four black pupils stared back at him.
“Has she had her uterus removed?” He tried again. To be fair, many native English speakers didn’t know what the word meant, so the moment of confusion was definitely his fault.
“Oh, no.”
“Well, we might want to consider that,” Shane allowed his body to transform into its information state, “it’s a common procedure that would prevent any unwanted pregnancies. We advise most dogs get it done just for peace of mind in the long run, it also stops their heats and slightly subdues their hormones.”
“Little Anya’s do not sound bad, though,” Rozanov argued, “she would have beautiful babies.”
“Of course, it is your decision. But, as a veterinarian I do have to advise you that we don’t know about Anya’s family history, so if you do breed you may have a nasty surprise.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“The expensive, ill kind.”
“Ah. It is fine, I can handle expensive.” He seemed to consider the words, “not ill. No little Anya’s yet.”
“Of course, just ensure no other dogs mount her. Some doggy daycares also require all female dogs to be spayed, so make sure you double-check. It’s also generally much easier to manage bitches when they don’t have heats, so keeping non-breeding female dogs entire is rare.”
The man looked at him, a little blank, “oke.”
Shane really did have to get better at talking to clients. Language-barrier or not, nobody was really interested in his garbled speeches. Especially ‘bitches’, which he tries to clearly to make sound like a medical term but instead always ends up acidic and tart on client’s ears.
“I will get her spayed then, I do not want hormones to make her all strange.” Shane has to blink at the finality the man, Mr Rozanov, says this. “Can you book her in for an appointment now?”
“Yeah,” Shane answers, a bit put out. There was always deliberation, a discussion to be had with someone at home. Rarely, basically never, did someone make decisions as quickly as this. “Just check with reception on your way out, they’re better with the diary than I am.”
Mr Rozanov nodded.
“Right,” Shane announced with as much authority as he could muster, “if you could just place her on the table please…”
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He’s climbing the stairs to the prep area when Rose ambushes him with a frenzied expression. There's a lint roller held against her shoulder, her braid is sticking to it.
“What’s wrong? An issue with the lump removal?” He grabs the stethoscope around his neck on instinct.
“No, no, Shane.” She’s laughing, lightly pressing one on of his arms, “no, Richard was fine, post-op checks are all good. I’m thinking more about you meeting Ilya Rozanov.”
Oh. Shit. So that’s what he knew him from.
Shane wasn’t really much of a hockey fan. His family, well, they were a little bit obsessed. His dad had played for McGill, his mom had been enamoured with the sport and they’d both been expecting little Shane to take to the ice like a fish to water. It wasn’t that he was bad at hockey, he just never had the drive. It seemed so pointless, even more so when he realised all the different short and long term injuries possible. Meeting too many student human doctors in college and realising the animal equivalent of the damage made it hard for him to appreciate the sport now.
Despite his relative lack of interest, he’d still be put up in front of the games whenever he was with his parents, particularly when Ottawa was playing.
The team which Ilya Rozanov, alleged hockey god, ab owner extraordinaire, had recently moved to.
“Oh.” The awkward moments in the consult rushed over him like iced water. “Fuck.”
“Oh fuck indeed, what was he like? Was he nice? Was his spaniel polite? Are all his teeth real?”
“He was…nice. Booked Anya in for a bitch spay when I recommended it.” The other vet gestures at him, “She’s in full working order, no past medical issues and he regularly cleans her ears to prevent infection because the rescue she’s from said they were always a little gunky. She has minor pollen allergies, so she’ll be getting cytopoint when it gets a little worse just to help. She’s in weight range, and not currently on any medication. She’s friendly with strangers, overly so, and is more of a grazer in terms of eating. She drinks a lot, but not enough to be a worry in regards to diabetes or her kidneys. She’s coming in for kennel cough next month, as she might be having to go into kennels when Mr Rozanov is off, well, playing hockey games I guess.”
Rose Landry, or Dr Landry thanks to the PhD she completed last year, was one of the few people in Shane’s life who could interpret the diagnostics into something that sounded almost romantically human.
“So what you’re saying is that he loves her.”
“Yes.”
“And,” Rose picks a few stray hairs off his navy scrub top with the roller, “you liked him.”
He shakes his head vigorously.
“Hmmm.”
“Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean that I’m interested in every hunk that comes in here.”
“Even the ones who kiss their dogs heads whenever they whine? The professional hockey players?”
“He was late, anyway.”
“Rose!” One of the nurses, Kiara, makes her way down the stairs. Every step comes with the slapping noise of a recently disinfected croc. “Could we have some help with the cat bloods?”
“Oh, I knew he’d be trouble with that skinny little neck.”