She didn’t whimper when the needle went in—just blinked up at me with those cloudy eyes.
Every Wednesday at 10:45, she limps in and curls up by the front desk.
No barking. No leash tugging. Just quiet, old-dog waiting.
Beside her sits a bunny in a vest, a lizard in a shoebox, and a cockatoo who curses kindly.
And every time I think it’s the last visit… she teaches me something new.
Part 1 – “The Corner Seat”
The bell over the vet clinic door gave a weary jingle, like it, too, had grown tired of winter. Margaret Hollis pushed the door open with her elbow, her right arm cradling a blanket-wrapped bundle that hardly weighed more than a loaf of bread.
“Morning, Junebug,” said the receptionist softly, already reaching for the clipboard.
Junebug didn’t lift her head, but her stump of a tail gave one soft wag beneath the knitted yellow shawl. Her breath came slow, raspy. She nestled deeper into Margaret’s arms, letting the warmth of the old woman’s corduroy coat surround her.
The waiting room always smelled faintly of bleach and peanut butter. Today, it also carried the sharp tang of someone’s nervous ferret and the dry, papery scent of old magazines stacked neatly under the coat rack. Margaret sat in the same chair she always did—third from the door, against the wall where the heater buzzed quietly.
She unfolded the blanket with slow hands. Junebug blinked once, twice, then let her chin rest on Margaret’s knee. The dog’s fur was a mottled patchwork—bits of brindle and soot, dulled with age. Her ears, once perky and mismatched, now drooped like soggy paper. Heartworm had turned her body into a soft war zone. Still, she greeted the world with a gentle, steady patience Margaret never quite understood.
“I brought the journal,” Margaret murmured, reaching into her bag.
It was a simple spiral notebook, the cover faded from once-blue to sky-gray. Inside were names and sketches, fragments of overheard conversations, and little stories about the creatures that came and went.
Baxter, the lizard in the shoebox with one eyelid missing.
Sister Abigail, the service bunny with a limp but a preacher’s soul.
Milo, the cockatoo who called everyone “Sweet Ass” but meant well.
They all came on Wednesdays. Not always the same time, not always the same urgency. But somehow, the quiet animals and their quiet people gravitated to the 10:45 lull between urgent surgeries and the lunch-hour rush.
Margaret began jotting down today’s date:
March 3rd, 1998 – Overcast. Smells like snow. Junebug still breathing slow.
Across the room, a man in a stained denim jacket balanced a shoebox on his lap.
“Baxter’s shedding again,” he said gruffly. “Won’t eat the crickets.”
Margaret gave him a polite nod. She didn’t know his name, but she knew he always wore mismatched socks and carried a tiny flashlight to check on the lizard’s eyes. She’d written that down two weeks ago. People don’t realize how revealing habits are until they sit still long enough.
At 10:52, the cockatoo arrived.
“You beautiful mess!” Milo screeched as the woman carrying him shuffled in. He flapped his wings once and sent a flurry of feathers into the air like confetti. “Hey, nurse lady! Got treats?”
Margaret smiled. “Not today, sir. Junebug’s stomach’s been touchy.”
Junebug stirred slightly, one paw twitching against Margaret’s skirt. She never reacted much to noise, but she always listened.
Then came Sister Abigail, hopping solemnly beside a young boy with bright orange mittens and a wet cough. The bunny wore her usual blue vest with a stitched-on cross and a tiny satin bell.
“Abigail insisted on coming,” the boy’s mother sighed. “She gets restless if we skip a week.”
Margaret let the journal rest on her lap.
In some way, this odd little corner of the clinic had become a chapel. Not the grand, pew-filled kind—but the sort of place where silence and company made something sacred.
A dog with half a heart.
A bunny with a purpose.
A lizard with a single good eye.
A bird with a sailor’s mouth and an angel’s memory.
And humans—staring at floor tiles, waiting to hear good news or brace for the end.
Dr. Sorenson opened the exam room door and called, “Junebug?”
Margaret stood carefully. The dog in her arms didn’t stir, only let out a soft grunt as she was lifted. The moment she passed through the doorway, Milo went oddly quiet. Even the boy in orange mittens watched her go with wide, wondering eyes.
Inside the exam room, Margaret laid Junebug gently onto the padded table.
Dr. Sorenson pressed his stethoscope to her chest. “She’s hanging on.”
“For what?” Margaret asked.
The vet didn’t answer.
Instead, he reached for a syringe.
And just as Margaret reached out to comfort her dog, Junebug’s body jolted—eyes snapping open.
Something was wrong.
Part 2 – “The Jolt”
Junebug’s body didn’t convulse—just tensed all at once, as if her soul had suddenly remembered something urgent. Her legs stiffened, eyes wide and distant. Margaret gasped, flattening her palm gently over the little dog’s chest.
“Easy now, baby girl,” she whispered. “You’re alright. I’m here.”
Dr. Sorenson paused with the syringe half-filled. “That wasn’t pain. That looked like… alertness.”
Junebug’s heart wasn’t racing. If anything, it seemed calmer now—more measured. She blinked again, slow this time. Her paw reached slightly toward Margaret’s hand. The same paw that hadn’t moved much in days.
“You saw that?” Margaret whispered.
The vet nodded, but said nothing. He bent close again, his stethoscope shifting as he listened longer than usual. Then he ran a thumb gently along Junebug’s spine, and finally leaned back with a furrowed brow.
“Her lungs are still congested. Pulse weak. But something in her brain just… lit up.”
Margaret’s throat tightened. “What does that mean?”
Dr. Sorenson exhaled slowly. “It means maybe she’s not ready yet.”
Margaret let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She bent low and kissed the patch of white fur above Junebug’s eye. It smelled like rain and old wool blankets.
“She’ll tell me when it’s time,” Margaret said quietly. “She always has.”
Back in the waiting room, the others looked up as the door opened. Junebug was in Margaret’s arms again, her head now slightly raised.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Milo croaked. “Still kickin’, huh, sweetheart?”
The man with the lizard whistled under his breath. “That dog’s got somethin’ keeping her here.”
Margaret sat again in her corner chair, her limbs trembling from the weight of both the dog and the moment. Junebug was different now—not stronger, not better—but aware. Her eyes followed the soft ring of the front bell as a new visitor entered.
A young woman, not older than thirty, stepped in holding a cardboard carrier that smelled unmistakably of fear and ammonia. She looked lost, unsure if she’d come to the right place.
Margaret gave her a gentle smile.
“First time?” she asked.
The woman nodded, clutching the box. “Yeah. My cat—Muffin. She hasn’t eaten in three days.”
“Sit near the heater,” Margaret offered. “The animals seem to like the quiet spot.”
The girl hesitated, then slid into the chair beside her. The waiting room settled again.
Junebug sniffed toward the carrier, giving a soft grunt.
“That’s Junebug,” Margaret explained. “She’s been coming here a long time. Got a heart that doesn’t work right, but somehow keeps going.”
The girl looked down, eyes softening. “She seems… peaceful.”
“She’s earned it,” Margaret said. “She teaches us how to wait.”
The girl didn’t reply, but her shoulders eased.
Milo clicked his beak and leaned toward the new arrival. “Name’s Muffin? Sounds delicious. Bet you taste like Sunday brunch.”
“Don’t mind him,” Margaret chuckled. “He thinks he’s charming.”
Behind them, the receptionist’s voice broke in. “Toby Brinker? You’re up.”
The man with the lizard stood. “That’s me. And this here’s Baxter.”
He passed the bunny and bird with a respectful nod, his shoebox cradled like something sacred. Before disappearing through the exam room door, he turned to Margaret.
“If Junebug wants to sit by the window later,” he said, “we’ll scoot over.”
Margaret nodded, smiling. “She’d like that.”
Junebug didn’t move, but she exhaled—a low, whistling sound that seemed like agreement.
Later, as the heater hummed and snow ticked softly at the windows, Margaret opened her journal again.
March 3rd, continued:
Junebug’s eyes opened. Not just open—seeing.
Milo nearly cursed himself quiet. Baxter shed a little more. Abigail blinked three times like a Morse code prayer. I think the room shifted.
There’s something about watching a room full of creatures hold their breath for one another. It makes you believe in mercy.
Across the room, Sister Abigail hopped a little closer to the orange-mittened boy’s leg. He looked down at her and whispered something. Margaret couldn’t hear the words, but the bunny stilled.
She closed the journal and looked at Junebug, now fully asleep again, her chest rising in slow rhythm. Margaret traced the blanket’s edge with her fingertips.
She knew the next visit could be the last.
But something about today felt borrowed. Borrowed time. Borrowed warmth. Borrowed stories.
The kind worth writing down.
Part 3 – “Borrowed Time”
The next Wednesday came cold and gray, the kind of March morning that could break a knee on black ice or bruise an old heart with wind alone. Margaret double-knotted her scarf and tucked Junebug close, buttoning the top of her coat around the dog’s trembling body.
They moved slowly now—one step for Margaret’s knees, one pause for Junebug’s lungs. The walk from the car to the clinic door took nearly five minutes. Still, Margaret wouldn’t accept help. Not even from the kind volunteer who opened the door and offered an arm. Some things needed to be done in full. Step by stubborn step.
The bell above the door chimed again. Familiar.
Milo was already there, perched on the shoulder of his person, Doris, who wore aviator glasses and walked like someone who used to fly planes. Probably did. Milo was muttering something about “goddamn squirrels” and whistling Sinatra.
“Morning, Marge,” Doris called. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
“Junebug insisted,” Margaret said, settling into her usual seat.
Milo fluffed up, cocked his head, and gave Junebug a long stare.
“Look who’s still clocking in,” he said gently. “You ever get tired of being brave, sweetheart?”
Junebug didn’t lift her head, but her tail made a small motion beneath the blanket. Margaret smiled at the gesture. It had become her new barometer: not breathing, not blinking—but that tiny, slow wag.
The boy with the orange mittens was already there, sketching quietly in a notebook while Sister Abigail dozed at his feet. Margaret noticed that today, the bunny wore a different vest—this one green, with a little felt clover sewn above the cross.
“St. Paddy’s Day early?” Margaret asked his mother.
The woman laughed softly. “He said Abigail needed a bit of luck.”
The boy looked up and added shyly, “For Junebug.”
Margaret’s throat caught.
She opened her own notebook and began writing before her hand could tremble too much.
March 10th – Windy and mean. The boy brought a clover. Milo’s feathers are molting more. Junebug is sleeping deeper. I think we all are.
She paused.
Then, without lifting her pen, added:
It’s starting to feel like this waiting room isn’t where animals come to be healed… but where they come to help us prepare.
The door opened again.
It was the girl from last week—Muffin’s owner—holding the carrier with both hands like it might collapse if she blinked too long. Her eyes were red. The box was empty.
She didn’t go to the front desk. She came straight to Margaret.
“She didn’t make it,” the girl said.
Margaret nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, dear.”
“I didn’t think I’d come back,” she whispered. “But… I had to. I needed to sit here. Just once more.”
“Of course.”
The girl lowered herself into the seat beside Margaret and stared at the floor, hands in her lap. After a moment, Milo fluttered down from his perch and landed softly beside her boot.
“You smell sad,” he said. “Wanna peanut?”
She laughed, barely.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Even the bird remembers her.”
“He remembers all of us,” Margaret said. “Even the ones we haven’t lost yet.”
Junebug stirred. A quiet grunt. Her eyes fluttered open just for a breath, then closed again. Margaret pressed her lips to the top of her head.
“That’s my girl,” she murmured. “Still listening.”
Twenty minutes later, Dr. Sorenson came out. The room quieted like a congregation.
“Junebug?”
Margaret rose slowly. The girl beside her touched her arm gently. “Can I… come in with you?”
Margaret hesitated. Then nodded.
“Come on,” she said. “You loved one. That’s all the qualification we need in there.”
They entered together, the young woman holding the door while Margaret carried Junebug.
Inside, the lights were soft. A warm towel had already been laid on the table. Dr. Sorenson moved with slow reverence now. He checked Junebug’s pulse. Her gums. Listened. Said little.
“She’s tired,” he said. “Not in pain, but… tired.”
Margaret sat down on the small bench beside the exam table. The girl took the seat beside her. For a while, no one spoke.
Then Margaret took out the journal and flipped through pages. She turned it to the girl.
“Read this.”
It was an entry from January. One of the first.
“Junebug, two weeks into treatment. She flinched when the bird screamed, but stayed. She sat beside a three-legged shepherd. Didn’t judge. Just waited. That’s her language—waiting. Watching. Teaching.”
The girl read it twice.
“She taught me something, too,” she said. “Muffin was scared. But Junebug… she wasn’t.”
Margaret closed the notebook.
“She’s a mutt with a bum heart and eyes that never blink at pain. That kind of soul doesn’t end here. It just… rests.”
Then Junebug opened her eyes again.
For just one long moment.
And looked directly at the girl.
Continue Reading Part 4 – “The Look”
