Part 4 – When the Vet Finally Comes
El Paso, Texas – March 11, 2016 (Friday)
The first sound Rowan Greaves heard that morning wasn’t the wind or the hum of power lines.
It was Patch vomiting.
Rowan sat up fast. The floor was cold. He shuffled over, crouched down, and ran his hand gently along the dog’s belly. Patch whimpered once, then tried to lick his chin.
“Too much air in your belly again?” Rowan whispered.
He cleaned up the mess with an old T-shirt and gave Patch a splash of water. Then he checked the clock — 7:19 a.m.
The vet was supposed to come at ten.
He wiped down the counter, straightened a few picture frames, and even combed his beard. The shirt he chose had the fewest holes. He was halfway through sweeping the front step when his hip gave out again.
He slumped onto the porch rail, breathing through his teeth.
Patch watched from the doorway, head tilted, as if asking: Why’re you trying so hard?
Rowan laughed. “Because someone’s coming over who ain’t here to take something.”
At 10:06 a.m., a small white van pulled into the dirt lot.
The side read: Hope & Paws Mobile Vet Unit
The back window had a sticker of a dog paw in a heart.
Rowan squinted. A woman stepped out — mid-thirties maybe, short red hair, canvas bag slung over her shoulder. She wore jeans, a faded t-shirt, and mud on her boots.
“Mr. Greaves?” she asked.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Dr. Kinley. This your buddy?”
She knelt in front of Patch and didn’t go for his head — smart move. She let him sniff her arm first. Then she scratched under his ear, exactly where Patch liked it.
“Well, aren’t you a crooked old gentleman,” she smiled. “Permission to come inside?”
Rowan waved her in.
He apologized for the mess. She waved it off.
“I’ve seen worse. Once treated a cat in a karaoke bar with no roof.”
That broke the tension. He chuckled. Patch wagged.
She set up on the floor. A soft pad. Latex gloves. Tongue depressor. Stethoscope. She moved gently — talking to Patch the whole time like he was royalty.
“You mind if I ask how he lost the leg?” she said.
Rowan nodded. “Car. Two years ago. Hit and run out near Agua Dulce.”
“You adopted him after?”
“Yeah.”
“Must’ve cost you a pretty penny.”
“I traded a shotgun for the surgery,” Rowan said simply.
She paused.
“I kept the shells,” he added, with a grin.
The exam took twenty minutes.
She checked his teeth, ears, heartbeat, joints. Found a few cysts on his skin and one cracked nail. Nothing urgent, she said, but the skin inflammation would need a prescription cream.
“That stuff’s not cheap,” she admitted. “But I’ve got samples.”
She pulled out a tiny box.
Rowan blinked. “You’re serious?”
“Always,” she said. “I used to be broke too.”
They moved to the kitchen.
She scribbled on a clipboard, filling in income info, checking boxes for “no internet,” “no insurance,” “disability status: yes.”
“Can I ask something personal?” she said.
“Depends if I gotta lie.”
She smiled. “Your insulin. You using the low-dose type?”
Rowan frowned. “How’d you know?”
“You’re twitchy. Hands go cold. And there’s a bottle cap in your trash from Walmart brand insulin — I’ve been there.”
He didn’t answer.
She added softly, “You skipping doses?”
Still no answer.
She checked a box and said nothing more.
As she packed up, she handed him a flyer.
Seniors Veterinary Relief Grant — Apply via Hope & Paws Outreach
Covers: Medication, Dental, Emergency Visits
Eligibility: Over 60, under $18K/year, pet older than 5
Decision within 14 days
Rowan stared at it. “You think I’d qualify?”
She gave him a look. “Rowan, I came in through a screen door with duct tape on it. You’re not just qualified — you’re why this exists.”
He stood quiet as she loaded the van.
Patch followed her, whining once, like he didn’t want her to leave.
“You’ve got a loyal one here,” she said.
“He’s all I got.”
“That’s enough,” she said. “More than enough.”
Then she paused. “Can I ask something weird?”
Rowan shrugged. “Try me.”
“You got something buried under your floorboards?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Patch pawed the same tile three times. Either there’s food down there or memory.”
Rowan exhaled through his nose. “Bit of both.”
She gave a knowing smile. “Sometimes the ones we lose stay with us harder than the ones who stay.”
After she left, Rowan crouched at that tile.
He hadn’t touched it in years.
With effort, he pried it loose and pulled up the small tin box beneath. Inside was Dusty’s collar, a scorched photograph, and an old army map — the kind they used in the field.
He laid it all out on the floor. Patch came and sat beside it, ears twitching.
Rowan whispered, “She saved me twice. Once from the fire. Once from myself.”
Patch pressed his nose to the photo. Didn’t move.
Later that night, Rowan boiled rice and added half a boiled egg. He gave the bigger portion to Patch.
They ate in silence.
Then Rowan did something he hadn’t done in years.
He reached for a pencil and wrote a letter.
Not to Hasan. Not to Valerie.
To Dusty.
“You didn’t run.
You never ran.
You left me with more than memory.
You left me with the strength to try again.
I don’t know what I believe anymore, but if there’s a place beyond all this dust — I hope you’re warm, fed, and curled up near someone kind.”
He folded it, tucked it into the tin, and sealed it again.
Then he looked at Patch.
“You know something, boy?”
Patch tilted his head.
“I think you’re the reason I never left this world.”
Outside, the desert breathed.
The wind carried old dust and maybe, just maybe, something else.
Something warm.