Chapter Text
Shane was able to push ideas of Russian hockey players out of his mind for another week. He enveloped himself into his work, as he always did, and was able to keep the image of Mr Rozanov’s thigh, or the feeling or his jumper against warm skin, out of the front and centre of his brain.
It was still lurking, like a cat ready to pounce, and he often found himself being assaulted the the image just before he went to bed or when he woke in the morning. When he was at his weakest all he could see was the thick meat of the other man’s thigh pushing down and dwarfing the blue plastic.
He left the clinic after a stressful day, more than usual. Maisie, the English sheepdog, was only four years old but kept on having seizures, sometimes multiple a day. The medications were barely helping, she was on a concoction of three. She was on phenobarbital for the clusters, potassium bromide for the long-term seizures in general and some metacam to help with any pain and reduce potential inflammation of the brain. PTS was brought up, pretty much every appointment, but the owner was adamant. The dog was costing her an arm and a leg, the owner was experiencing financial issues due to her husbands cancer but was adamant that Maisie was happy and healthy. The desperation in her eyes made Shane ill.
“I talked to your colleague last week,” the mousy haired woman began, “she was saying that a PTS might be necessary. I’m not trying to discredit her! I just want a second opinion, because just look at her…”
Maisie was walking about, dragging her short lead behind her. She was ducking around the legs of the consult table and wagging her tail offhandedly. Shane just nods with the woman even as the dog paces in circles. That’s never a good sign. She doesn’t stop to sniff or investigate anything, even when he puts a hand down to try and greet her she barely even acknowledges him, just continues laps of the room.
“Okay…” He double-checks the notes. Every appointment she’s had has been with either Rose or another vet here, and every note has the same sentiment ‘medicines changed, medicines added, PTS brought up again.’
Trying to convince Maisie’s owner that the seizures were destroying her quality of life wasn’t easy, in fact he didn’t even manage it. Like Rose and the vets before them, all he could do was make sure Maisie’s heart was still beating and her tail was still wagging. He sent her off with different dosages and one final look at the fluffy dog as she altered her path slightly to just slide through the door in front of her owner.
Now he was home, and skimming through studies about cluster seizures in the breed. The prognosis wasn’t good for Maisie, he knew this from the second he read through Rose’s notes, but he was now going to have to convince her grief riddled owner that she should kill her otherwise, to her, perfectly happy, healthy dog. It was the joke, really. Vets always wished their patients could talk, people always took it as talking to the vets, but animals communicating with their owners would be even more useful, especially in cases like this. It’s an awful thought, but he almost wished Maisie would just start sporadically vomiting or show her pain by writhing around on the floor, so the owner could truly see what was happening.
He’s chewing through his stringy kale salad and highlighting another damming sentence in the article when his phone lights up with a call.
It’s accepted in a panic, he assumes it’s an emergency at the clinic, which is partly why he stiffens in fear when instead he hears the deep Russian accent.
“Shane, Anya has eaten my stir fry!”
“Okay, okay,” Shane grabs a notepad, shoving the disgusting kale salad out of the way, “how much of it did she eat?” He glances up at the alarm on his bedside table, who eats this late?
“Little portion, a handful, but she’s not meant to eat, I’m so worried!” His accent was thicker, the worried sounded a little more like ‘vorried’ and his frenzied voice made Shane squirm, he was riddled with anxiety but hearing it so obvious in someone else’s voice made his heart stutter and nervousness flood his stomach. He wasn’t good at being comforting.
“Okay is she showing any symptoms? Any vomiting, coughing, diarrhoea?”
“No, no. She is lying on my lap now.” Sure enough Shane could hear her breath coming down the phone, “she is licking my face.”
He had to stop himself laughing at the perturbed voice, “okay, and what was in the stir fry?”
“Err, bean sprouts, kale, green beans…”
“Wait, did you make it yourself?” In Shane’s mind this had come out of a package mix. This was much better, at least the man knew what was in the food. He noted the ingredients down in the notepad, with a little tick next to each one. All safe.
“Yes,” Mr Rozanov took a rushed breath to move on quickly, “it has some carrots as well and a little bit of ginger…”
“Any onions? Or garlic? Was it especially salty?”
“No onions, or garlic. But it was salty, I added pinch of salt.” He sounded even more panicked now, Anya seemed to sense the change because Shane could hear her whining in the background and chattering anxiously.
He considered the situation for a moment.
“In my opinion,” Shane began, “she should be fine. As long as there wasn’t anything overly toxic to dogs in the food you won’t be expecting any bad side effects. Of course, if anything does change you should call Ottowa Animal Hospital, as they give the full-time emergency support in this area.”
“Yes,” Shane could hear frantic scribbling, “but she will be okay?”
He did smile now, hoping it didn’t carry into his voice when the other man was so distressed, “shes a young, healthy dog. Unless the salt intake was massive she should be fine, in terms of the gastrointestinal. If you notice anything else, tremors or excessive panting, just call the emergency vets…or me, if you want.” Wow Shane, way to capitalise off a man when he’s panicking. It wasn’t like he was enjoying this call either, his hands were so sweaty they were making the ink in his notepad bleed.
“Tremors!?” Mr Rozanov yelped down the phone, seeming to startle Anya who barked loudly. “Like seizures, shaking?!” Anya was now barking loudly which didn’t seem to be helping the man’s mood as he tried to shush her.
Shane probably shouldn’t have gone there, from the sounds of it there wasn’t nearly enough salt for tremors to be a worry but he’s a big believer in telling the clients everything. He might have to change this sentiment, he can hear Rozanov hyperventilating down the phone. It sounds like he’s choking, “it is okay, Anya, please be okay.” The dog, from the sounds of it, doesn’t need convincing.
“She will be okay,” he tried to explain in a more comforting manner, “if dogs consume excessive salt, which she hasn’t, it can in some cases dehydrate the muscles so it can be worth looking out for.”
“Dehydrate muscles?” The man’s voice was now breaking, he sounded close to tears. “I am going to call emergency vets now, I think.”
“Mr Rozanov - Ilya.” He feels like a dog doing tricks trying the techniques from the networking book his mom brought him, “I think being in an emergency vets would be a more stressful experience for Anya,” he couldn’t believe that his own stupid slip-up was going to make this man actually go for it, “if she has no symptoms then it’s better she stays at home. She will be fine, I promise.”
There’s silence of a second, only the faint noise of Anya snuffling, and then he realises with increasing anxiety that the noise isn’t just the spaniel, it’s also her owner.
“No,” he muttered, voice now sounding a little wet and strained, “I will take her in. It’s better to be stressed and alive.”
Oh my god. Ilya Rozanov is going to turn up to the animal hospital holding a perfectly fine spaniel saying that a vet called Shane Hollander told him she would be having seizures. The hospital would charge him the emergency consult fee - a hefty sum - and send him on his way with nothing changed. He can’t believe he’s going to waste the man’s time like this, from his own stupid slipup.
“No, no!” He tries to argue, “Mr Rozanov, really, she’ll be fine. And the out of hours fee’s are insane, I don’t want you paying all that for no reason.”
“I need to make sure my perfect girl is okay, da?” The man sounds even wetter than before, a little breathy and gaspy. “I do not mind about cost, she is worth everything.”
“Okay,” he stuttered, trying to wheel through the possibilities in his mind: kidnapping, murder, assault. “Tell me if I’m overstepping, but do you want me to come to yours to check on her? Or we can meet up somewhere, I’m sure there’s a few cafes open at this time or…”
There’s more silence on the line, Shane chews his pen to give his mouth something to do while he waits for a response.
“Yes,” the other man seems to exhale, “yes, please.”
🐾 🐾 🐾 🐾 🐾 🐾
There are many lists in the clinic. Stock lists, client lists, cleaning lists. There’s also a list of ‘stupid things people have done’ attached to the pin board in the prep area. It’s written in biro on the back of an old lab report. They always have to remember to take it down before management comes.
The list attacks everyone, clients, animals, vets, assistants. It’s not malicious, it’s small things like ‘opened mouth when doing a lump removal’ or ‘gave a dog with diarrhoea beef stew to ‘settle the stomach’’. Shane is rarely featured on the list, when he is it’s usually along the lines of ‘got a woman’s number without realising’ or ‘was offered sex in exchange for treatment and said yes.’
Now that he’s considering what he’s done and what he’s doing, there are things that Rose would undoubtedly be adding to the list when he’s told her about all this. A whole paragraph, probably. A small essay. Five-thousand word dissertation.
He arrives at Ilya Rozanov’s house (mansion) at around nine. He sits in his fucked up car for around two minutes, he doesn’t want to take too much time and seem lazy or inconsiderate but he doesn’t want to seem too eager. So he sits, and waits, and tries not to talk himself out of this.
The walk up the drive takes every ounce of his energy to make each step, and not just run back to the safety of his grey shitbox and drive away. Maybe the spirit of Texas has possessed him with some kind of cowboy confidence to ask for Ilya Rozanov’s address and then drive to the mans house. He felt a little insane, he couldn’t tell if he liked the feeling.
Rozanov opened the door with panic in his eyes and sweat on his brow.
“She is in living room. I locked her in so we did not have to chase her around house.”
Shane paused for a moment, unsure as to whether this was a shoes off or on kind of household, but Rozanov was in socks so he slid them off and shuffled them awkwardly beside the door.
“Needing to be caught is always a good sign,” he mentioned to fill the silence as they walked through the sparsely furnished house, “I’m really sure she’s fine, Rozanov.”
His face made a pained expression as he gingerly opened the door to what Shane assumes is the living room. He can already hear the spaniels excited scratching on the door. That reminds him, she could probably do with a nail clipping when she gets her kennel cough next week.
“Anya,” he tries to placate the dog, but his tone is so worried it just riles her up even more and she barks at the intruder, “moya malyshka, please calm down. Be a good girl.”
The spaniel was jumping up at Shane and made no attempt to listen to her owner. Shane knew why, he’d shoved a packet of treats in his trouser pocket before leaving his apartment.
“Good girl, Anya.” It was usually inadvisable to offer a dog with potential gastrointestinal distress a treat, but it was a good way to check her appetite and seeing as there was probably no gastrointestinal distress.
Shane considered that he was good to continue. “Can I get a little feel?”
Rozanov hovered anxiously as he felt all over the spaniel, her legs, her neck, and then he focused on gently palpitating her stomach. The whole time she was trying to lick his face and dive into his pocket to get more treats. Rozanov made a move to go and grab her, but Shane just laughed. “No, no it’s fine. It’s good she’s feeling this active.”
There truly wasn’t much else Shane could do. Her temperature was normal, even if she did squirm a little with the thermometer which was expected, and her gums were a good pink shade. She drunk water, but didn’t excessively gulp, and accepted more treats with ease. Rozanov still hovered anxiously, hands only stopping their anxious fidgets to pet her and wind his fingers into her soft fur. She seemed content enough to just stand and get fussed over, her white tail kept wagging and hitting Shane in the back.
“Look at you,” he cooed as he moved his stethoscope to check her heart rate, “such lovely liver spots on your little legs.”
“Liver?” Rozanov asked, after Shane slid the stethoscope back around his neck, “there’s an issue with the liver?!"
“No, no!” Oh, he’s fucked this up yet again. “No, no, that brown colour is called liver. She’s, erm, liver and white.”
“Oh.”
Anya, with her admittedly adorable liver spots then decided to leap onto Shane’s chest and sent him flailing backwards from his crouched position. He ended up on his back on Rozanov’s expensive looking black rug and felt disconcertingly like an upended tortoise.
“Oh my god!” Rozanov exclaimed, “I am so sorry, Shane. Anya, give him space!”
He found himself giggling as the spaniel licked all over his face and nuzzled her snout into the crook of his neck. His bangs were becoming slick with drool. It was disgusting, but he’d sadly gotten used to the array of fluids which came out of animals over time.
“C’mon Anya,” he said in his best authoritative voice, he points, angling his shoulders to the side. “Off. Over there.”
Anya hops off of him to stand by his side.
“How did you do that?” Rozanov questions. He scratches Anya under the chin as Shane gets to his feet after the unprofessional laughing fit.
“Huh?” He looked at the other man a bit blankly. Rozanov just stared back.
“Get her off?”
“Oh! Oh, you just kinda…” He didn’t really know how he got Anya off, but he had a general idea, “say it like she’s going to? I guess?”
“Teach me,” Rozanov said, and suddenly he was holding one of Shane’s hands and pressing something into it.