Shelby's Afternoon

Shelby Rose Tucker sat on a poorly-upholstered chair, with stuffing fighting its way out of unseen holes and cracks every time she shifted her weight. It was snowing beneath her.

She was supposed to be doing her homework, but her eyes wandered, busy elsewhere - surveying the occupants of the waiting room. When she was younger, she used to pretend she was on a safari, using her San Diego Zoo binoculars to observe the less-than-wild animals and their owners from behind this very chair. Now she was 10 - double digits! - and much too old for such juvenile nonsense, but she still delighted in the activity, minus the binoculars.

Most adults who knew Shelby would describe her as a queer little girl, always poking her head in where she clearly wasn’t wanted and prodding for answers when the other was obviously uncomfortable. But the same adults would also describe her as exceedingly clever for her age, comparable to the likes of Dahl’s Matilda. She could converse on a number of complex subjects with ease and class. She was the type that seemed to belong in a palace, learning from the world’s very best, but here she was in a veterinarian’s waiting room, waiting for her father’s shift to be over so they could both head home and eat microwave dumplings.

Her father was the one usually subject to her ramblings - this day it had been various thoughts on corals and polyps in general and did he think they were likely to be sentient creatures? She had yet to find out, only two chapters into the marine biology textbook she had borrowed from a friend of his. He had been relatively silent the whole drive, only nodding and saying “Mmm…” when it had seemed appropriate. Shelby was more than three quarters sure she knew why he was so unresponsive. Over breakfast, he had mentioned in passing that they were “putting down one of the little fellas”, as he called his patients, this afternoon. Dr. Tucker’s tender heart was always sad when he had to put down an animal.

Shelby spent many of her afternoons at the clinic. Her father was a busy, busy man and her mother was “no longer in her life”, as she too often told pity-eyed strangers. She had become well acquainted with the usuals at the clinic, some of which were watching her warily right now over the tops of their Better Homes & Gardens magazines. Not everybody was receptive to Shelby’s talkative ways.

She attempted to focus on her math worksheet, a horrifically vibrant mess of knockoff Disney characters wearing smiles with speech bubbles bearing statements like “Multiplication and division come before addition and subtraction!” Shelby wondered at her school being able to afford colored ink. The water fountain near the lockers had been broken for at least two years. Ford Elementary had to reconsider its budget.

A ding from the front signaled another client. Shelby looked up. It was a woman she didn’t recognize, at least 60 years old, cradling what appeared to be a beagle in her arms. New people always piqued her interest. The animals were all good and fine too, but that was more her dad’s specialty. Shelby Rose, she was a people person, through and through.

Hoping to seem inconspicuous, she scooted over one seat closer to the lady. She watched the clock until a minute passed, then scooted over another seat. She repeated this as the others in the room amusedly relived the time it had been themselves she was carefully approaching.

Shelby pretended to be engrossed in the worksheet. The lady made the first move.

“You know all the answers, don’t you?”

“Huh?” replied Shelby. “I mean, pardon?”

The lady tilted her chin toward the CMYK monstrosity in Shelby’s hands. “That worksheet. You know all the answers already, don’t you? You just haven’t written them down.”

“How did you know?”

“You seem like a girl much too smart for that. Be honest, you’re years ahead of that, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been looking into Pre-algebra,” responded Shelby shyly.

“Ah,” said the lady, “I thought that might be the case.”

Shelby remembered her manners and stuck out her hand. “I’m Shelby Rose Tucker, ma’am, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Smiling, the lady shook her hand. “Daughter of Dr. Tucker, I presume? I came here because I heard he could provide some… services my normal vet couldn’t. Ah. Well I’m Jodie, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“And what’s his name?” asked Shelby, pointing to the beagle now sitting at her feet.

“That there is Waterloo.”

“Waterloo.. like the battle or the ABBA song?”

Jodie didn’t even flinch. Most adults were surprised that Shelby knew 70s pop. “The battle. I used to be a history teacher, you know.”

Many topics of conversation relating to this new revelation about Jodie ran through Shelby’s mind, but Waterloo’s whimpering interrupted her train of thought. “He’s hurting, isn’t he?”

“Who?” asked Jodie. “Oh, Waterloo. Yes, yes he is. But he won’t be hurting anymore very soon.”

As if summoned, Shelby’s dad called Jodie and Waterloo up, and they both disappeared behind the corner where the rest of the clinic lay. It was strictly forbidden territory for Shelby.

She picked up a magazine and began flipping through it, but found nothing of interest. She filled in the answers on the worksheet, then signed her name at the top in crooked cursive. She watched one of the grumpy usuals, Mrs. Hartford, and her unexplainably clothed chihuahua. Who put a leotard on a dog?

She saw Jodie turn the corner again. “Hey Jodie!” She didn’t seem to hear her as she slowly made her way to the door. She seemed heavier.

“Waterloo! You forgot Waterloo! Jodie, you forgot your dog!” Jodie was already at the door. Before letting it close, she turned around. She was crying.

“Jodie? Jodie, you forgot your dog!” Shelby’s dad appeared at her side. “Dad, why won’t you tell her she forgot her dog?” She looked up. Dr. Tucker was crying too.

“You’re a smart girl, Shelby. You know.”

“No dad, I don’t, no I don’t!” But she knew. Shelby knew what it meant, what it always meant, when an owner enters the clinic with a pet and exits without.