It was late afternoon in the cramped back room of my small veterinary clinic—just past closing hours when Mrs. Hammond brought in Daisy, her aging Labrador who was about to have her puppies.
The air was still, the kind of stillness that settles in after a busy day, when you can finally breathe and let your thoughts catch up.
Daisy lay on the table, her sides heaving with the effort of labor, while Mrs. Hammond hovered nearby, her hands wringing in nervous anticipation.
The room was dimly lit, the overhead lights casting soft shadows that seemed to stretch and sway with the quiet movements around the room.
Dr. Miller was there too, his presence as steady as always, focused and attentive.
He moved with the practiced ease of someone who had delivered countless litters, but when the twelfth pup was delivered, he paused.
I watched as he leaned closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as he examined the tiny creature.
‘These aren’t Labradors…’
His voice was barely above a whisper, but in the quiet of the room, it seemed to echo.
A chill ran down my spine, the kind of unease that creeps in when something isn’t quite right.
