So I immediately start worrying, and call the vet at home (at 8am on a Sunday. I am such a joy to have as a client). She calls me back, and I arrange to meet her at the clinic at 10. I do and she does and we succeed in removing all the tape, and the catheter, and the foot begins to go down visibly. Whew.
So here I am in Stockton, and I have a cat with me on a sunny Sunday morning, and I want a book. Since Maxwell's Books shrank into nearly nothingness, the only bookstore I know of in Stockton is the B&N in the mall (spit). But I wish to cater to my impatience more than I want to avoid feeding giant chain evil.
I also wish to avoid leaving my poor sickly kitten in the truck in the full sunshine (even with the windows all the way down). I'm not sure if this is a pet-friendly establishment; they do serve food in the coffeehouse area; look at those Giant Windows, any security type could be watching from those... I pick up the carrier firmly and walk in. If you walk like you have a right to be where you are, most people won't challenge you. Right? Right.
So I go in, and it's not exactly a relaxed browsing session (the tension is all through my gut), but I find a book I really wanted, and head to the front. Which is deserted, except for a big elegant black guy, with his hair in random pigtails. He has the best smile.
As he's scanning things in, he asks "So, what'd the boss there do to deserve a ride?"
*boom*, goodbye tension, hello laughter. "We just came from the vets," I say. We perform the credit card ritual, but I go looking for my copy of the slip. Oh, it's in the bag. "If I don't put this in the right place," I say, "I am in big trouble." "Not from the boss, I hope?" I laugh again. "No, he doesn't give a damn about paperwork."
Entertaining angels unaware, I tell you.