Free Fauna by Alissa York Page A

the waist to scoop up dog and basket; she does yoga too. It’s handy having a fit assistant. Sandi may be petite, but she can lift anything up to an adult Doberman with ease.
    Blue is late as usual, which isn’t the right way to think about it, Kate knows; it’s not Blue at the wheel of the Suburban. His owner, Joanne, is on her cell when they finally arrive. “I know. I told her. I know.”
    Kate steps out from behind the desk, patting her leg. Blue comes to her, lifting his nose to the treat pocket in her vest.
    “Hey, Blue. How’s that knee?”
    He nuzzles the pocket.
    “I’m there now,” Joanne says loudly. “I know.
I know
. I’ll call you back when we’re done.” She snaps shut her phone. “Oh my God, Kate, you should have heard how he was crying after the last session.”
    “Crying?”
    “All the time.”
    Kate reaches back to take hold of her ponytail; since childhood, she’s comforted herself by gathering it up in her fingers, running a hand down its dark length. “He cried non-stop?”
    “Well, whenever he’d try and get up, you know.”
    “Uh-huh.” Kate counts to three in her head. “And how long did he keep that up?”
    “The whole first day. He was just miserable.”
    She transfers her attention from Joanne’s face to Blue’s. “Well, there’s bound to be some soreness, but that sounds like it’s within normal range.”
    “I guess so, but—”
    “Let’s get you working, huh, boy?” Kate turns and heads down the hallway to the tank room with the dog at her heel, leaving Joanne to follow.
    Blue’s used to the tank; he ambles up the ramp, tucking round to face the front pane as it hinges closed. He keeps calm as the water begins to rise, even ducks his head to lap a chlorinated mouthful or two. Kate takes up her position on the bench that runs opposite the lateral view. The water creeps up Blue’s legs, narrowing them to their actual size. His mottled coat is even lovelier when wet.
    When he’s half submerged, Kate nods to Sandi, who stands by the controls near the tank’s back end. She stops the flow. A moment for Blue to get comfortable, and then Kate nods a second time, and the whirr of the treadmill begins.
    Blue has no trouble keeping up with the starting speed, his steps light, almost jaunty. He keeps his nose to the pane with ease, egged on by Joanne and her zip-lock bag of marrow bone treats. She’s slipped him three already. He’ll have had three dozen before they’re done.
    Kate watches him walk on the spot through the tri-panelled side of the tank. Good balance, and he’s favouring his strong side only slightly. “Up a notch,” she tells Sandi, who nods and presses the
Faster
button. Kate had to bite her lip to keep from grinning the first time Dr. Kelleher demonstrated the controls. Four fat red buttons:
Slower, Faster, Fill, Drain. Slower
doubled as “stop” when punched repeatedly.
Fill
both started and halted the tap.
    Blue slips a little with the increase in speed. In the corner of her eye Kate sees Joanne delve into her zip-lock. It’s one of the trickiest topics to bring up, especially when the owners are on the heavy side themselves. She can’t avoid it, though—every ounce over the optimum puts a strain on a TPLO case like Blue. Though routine, the operation is anything but simple: the bone plateau of the tibia levelled in order to compensate for the ruptured cranial cruciate ligament. Odds for a return to pre-injury function are good, but only if everyone involved takes the recovery period seriously.
    “How’s his eating?” she asks as Joanne hangs a treat-filled fist down into the tank.
    “Oh, it’s great. His appetite is really good.”
    Blue speeds up and snaffles the marrow bone. Chewing slows him down. His hindquarters bump up against the end of the tank.
    “So you’re sticking to regular mealtimes?” Kate rises and steps up onto the ramp to stand alongside Joanne. “Two feedings a day?”
    “Well, sometimes if he’s really mopey I