I parked my car in the gravel lot outside the small animal clinic, the afternoon sun beating down through the windshield. Inside, my puppy — a hyper little golden retriever mix named Leo — whined softly from his crate in the backseat. He'd been lethargic for two days, refusing to eat, and the worry had been gnawing at me nonstop.
I'd made the appointment that morning after finding him curled up under the bed, something he never did. The receptionist's voice had been pleasant, professional. "Dr. Caldwell can see you at 3 PM. He's wonderful with anxious pets — and anxious owners."
My only goal tonight is to get soakin' wet and get paid for every single drop I make. But here's the catch if you think I can make you wet, then you better be ready to cash me out. I'm talkin' messy, sloppy, tongue-twistin', back-archin', sheets-soakin' nasty. You feel that pulse? That's me workin' you 'til you're drippin' proof. So tell me—am I makin' you wet yet? 'Cause if I am, you know the price. Pay up, or shut up and watch me drown in it.
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