Yellow and Orange Blues

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On Wednesday Howard Winston brought a cardboard box to my veterinary clinic. I saw him sitting in the waiting room with the box in his lap, studying an open book propped across the box. An extension cord protruded from the box and coiled under Howard’s chair to a wall plug; undoubtedly it was connected to a heating pad. Perhaps, I thought wistfully, Howard had an orphan puppy or kitten in the box. It would be nice to see a normal sort of animal for a change. But it was probably a reptile. I sighed and called in the next patient.

After I had seen a poodle with a cyst (the owner had thought it was a tick, and had valiantly tried to pull it off), a parakeet for a wing-and-beak trim, and an iguana with metabolic bone disease, I began to wonder if my receptionist, Kami, had forgotten Howard. I peeked into the waiting room, and at that moment Kami rushed forward breathlessly to hand me the file. It was so heavy I almost dropped it. Howard’s file had always been bulky, but now—I opened it and counted—there were thirty-seven new charts in it, each painstakingly filled out by Kami. All thirty-seven said exactly the same thing: species reptile, breed desert tortoise, color green, sex unknown, age two days.

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