Ms. Cormet, Do You Sew?

"Melanie, Dr. Winters needs your help with a cat up front."

Hearing my name over the intercom has always made me uneasy. Like just before the gun goes off at the start of a swim race that I won't be winning.

"Be right up."

"Melanie, this is Ms. Cormet and she's veeeeery worried about Bobby Sox here, so we're going to take a couple pictures of the little baby."

Ms. Cormet already had mascara all over her face. She took the term "blubbering mess" to a whole other level. Also, I had not seen this much pink before in my life. Her hair was unreal. And fake. But, it worked because so were her lips and her eyes and her breasts and her Gucci cat bag and her so on and so forth.

It was 4:45pm. I'm off at 5pm.

I walked Bobby Sox to the X-ray room and put on my red lead gown and blue lead gloves. Bobby Sox was swallowing. Constantly. Hmm.
I took a shot from her trachea to her pelvis.

Nothing.

There's usually nothing. Which is nice, because then we can tell the owner, "It's nothing."
Now, occasionally I get this intuition. NOT the one they promise you when you're a little girl that's supposed to help you with men and cooking casseroles, but one that tells me "That is not a real Gucci cat bag" or "Take an X-ray of this cat's head." So...

"Holy shit!"
I do not use this exclamation mark frivolously.

Now I'm torn. Kitty has swallowed a sewing needle that is now lodged its little kitty head and is moments from disaster. I want to take another X-ray for my "personal collection" because this one will go with her to whichever clinic we refer her to. Effing conscience.

"Ms. Cormet? Do you sew?"

She seemed pleased by this question. I took a close look at her pink-on-pink dress and realized why.

"Yes. I do. *sniffle*"

"Come with me."

So, normally I would tell you that we sent both Bobby Sox and Ms. Cormet to the emergency center, respectively. But not this time. No, you see, Dr. Winters had just gotten back from vacationing "with the family." His huge hands needed some barehanded action in the worst way. It's why he's still working after all these years.

"Melanie, put the baby on the table."

"Ummmm..."

"Now hold on. Tight."

"Shit."

I couldn't explain it if I tried. Maybe if you think about those magicians who float and then make a taxi come out of your purse, it might help you get the picture. I mean, seriously, Dr. Winters has huge hands. Huge, Montana-bred, Vietnam Vet hands.

As Ms. Cormet walked out the door with Bobby Sox, I stood there with Dr. Winters and his mascara/lipstick covered face. We both smiled and sighed, then laughed. Hard.

I taped the sewing needle to a piece of paper, put it up on the wall, and told Dr. Winters he was crazy. And my favorite.