Sleeping With The Fishes

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My first indication that something was wrong was when I leaned back, took a deep breath to relax, and smelled smoke. I wasn’t supposed to smell smoke. I was in the storeroom of my vet clinic, doing inventory for the week as I made sure I had adequate supplies of all the drugs I used on a regular basis.

Dropping the clipboard I was holding on the floor, I darted back out into the main lobby of the clinic. My first thought was of the kennels in the back. But no, there were no animals staying overnight at the clinic right now, thank goodness.

My cat, Bee, who spent some of her days at the vet clinic, had spent today at home with the kittens she had been fostering. Sophie, my best friend and veterinary technician, had gone home ten minutes earlier.

As soon as I made my way back into the lobby I gasped. The floor was on fire; shards of glass indicated someone had opened the front door and lobbed a Molotov cocktail into my vet clinic. Poop on a stick! This wasn’t the sort of thing that happened here. What was going on? Why had someone set my clinic on fire? Those were all questions I figured I could ask myself after the fire was put out.

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