'Tis the Season. Robyn Carr

her frown, he realized he hadn’t scored with that comment.

      “Where is your father? I want a second opinion!”

      “Okay, you’re not so skinny anymore, either.” He smiled, proud of himself.

      “Very, very old joke, sparky,” she said.

      “Well, you’re out of luck, cupcake. My mom and dad finally realized a dream come true and moved to Arizona where they could have horses and be warm and pay lower taxes. One of my older sisters lives there with her family. I’ve got another sister in Southern California and another one in Nevada. I’m the new old Doc Jensen.”

      Now it was coming back to her—Doc Jensen had kids, all older than she was. Too much older for her to have known them in school. But she did vaguely remember the son who came with him to the farm on rare occasions. One corner of her mouth quirked up in a half grin. “Are you that little, pimply, tin-mouthed runt with the squeaky voice who came out to the farm with your dad sometimes?”

      He frowned and made a sound. “I was a late bloomer,” he said.

      “I’ll say.” She laughed.

      Nate was now checking out his third set of puppies.

      “Why don’t I remember you better?” she mused aloud.

      “I went to Catholic school down in Oakland my junior and senior year. I wasn’t going to get into a good college without some serious academic help, and those Jesuits live to get their hands on a challenge like me. They turned me around. And I grew five inches my first year of college.” He put down the puppies he’d been holding and picked up the first one. He became serious. She noticed a definite kindness, a softness, in his expression. “Annie, isn’t it? Or do you go by Anne now?”

      “Annie. McKenzie.”

      “Well, Annie, this little guy is real weak. I don’t know if he’ll make it.”

      A very sad look came into her eyes as she took the puppy from him and tucked him under her sweater again.

      Nodding at her, Nate said, “As much incentive as that is to live, I don’t know if it’ll do. How long were these guys outside before someone found them?”

      “No one knows. Probably since before sunrise. Jack was in and out all day, fussing with the tree, and he never saw anyone. His little boy crawled under the tree and came out holding a puppy. That’s how we found them.”

      “And what’s the plan now?”

      “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head.

      “Want me to drop them off at a shelter for you? Then you don’t have to witness the bad news if one or two don’t make it.”

      “No!” she exclaimed. “I mean, that’s probably a bad idea. Some of the shelters over on the Coast are excellent, but you know what it’s like this time of year. All those people adopting cute puppies for Christmas presents and then returning them in January. And returning them is the good scenario. All too often they’re neglected or abused. Wouldn’t it be better to take care of them until reliable homes can be found?”

      “Who, Annie?” he asked. “Who’s going to take care of them?”

      She shrugged. “I have a small house in Fortuna and I work all day.”

      “What about the farm?” he asked.

      She was shaking her head before he finished. “I don’t think so. My dad’s arthritis is bad enough that he slowly sold off the stock and my mom runs around like a crazy woman taking care of all the things that wear him out.”

      “Your dad’s Hank McKenzie, right? He gets around pretty good for someone with bad arthritis.”

      “Yeah, he’s proud. He doesn’t let on. But it would fall to my mom and I can’t ask her to take on eight puppies. And the whole family is coming home to the farm for Christmas. All thirteen of ’em.”

      “Well, Annie, I can’t think of many options here,” he said. “I know a few vets in the towns around here and I don’t know one that would take this on. They’d put ’em in a no-kill shelter.”

      “Can’t you help? You and your wife?”

      He smiled at her. “No wife, Annie McKenzie. I have a real nice vet tech who’s going to keep an eye on the stable while I’m out of town over Christmas, but that’s the only help I have out there, and she doesn’t have time to add eight puppies to her roster.”

      “Jack!” Annie called. She stood up. “Can you come here?”

      Jack ambled over, wiping his hands on a towel.

      “We have a situation, Jack,” Annie said. “Dr. Jensen can’t take the puppies and get them through this rough patch. He offered to drop them off at a shelter, but really, that’s not a great idea.” A couple of people had wandered over to listen in to the conversation, eavesdropping and making no bones about it. “I’ve volunteered at some of those shelters and they’re awesome, but they’re really, really busy at Christmastime. A lot of animals get adopted for presents, especially the really young, cute ones like these. You have no idea how many people think they want a fluffy pet for little Susie or Billie—until the first time the dog thinks the carpet is grass.”

      “Yeah?” Jack said, confused. A couple more people had wandered over from the bar to listen in to the conference.

      Annie took a breath. “It’s bad enough animals get returned. The worst case is they’re not taken care of properly, get neglected or abused or get sick and aren’t taken to the vet because the vet costs money. Sometimes people are embarrassed to return them and admit it was a mistake. Then they just take them to animal control, where they’re on death row for three days before...” She stopped. “It can be a bad situation.”

      “Well, what are you gonna do?” Jack said. “Better odds than freezing to death under a Christmas tree.”

      “We could take care of them here, Jack,” she said.

      “We?” he mimicked, lifting a brow. “I see you about four times a year, Annie.”

      “I’ll drive up after work every day. They’re kind of labor-intensive right now, but I’ll tell you exactly what to do and you can get—”

      “Whoa, Annie, whoa. I can’t keep dogs in the bar!”

      An old woman put a hand on Jack’s arm. “We already named ’em, Jack,” she said. “After Santa’s reindeer. At least the ones we could remember. Little Christopher already asked Preacher if he could have Comet. ’Course no one knows who Comet is yet, but—”

      “There’s no mother to clean up after them,” Nate pointed out. “That means puppy excrement. Times eight.”

      “Aw, that’s just great,” Jack said.

      “Don’t panic,” Annie said. “Here’s what you do. Get a nice, big wooden box or big plastic laundry basket. You could even put a wooden border around a plastic pad from an old playpen, then toss an old blanket or a couple of towels over it. Pull the blanket back to feed ’em the formula and cereal every few hours. Or feed a couple or three at a time outside the box so you can wipe up the floor. Trade the dirty towels for clean ones, wash one set while you use the other, and vice versa. Oh, and at least two of these little guys need a lot of encouragement to eat—the eyedropper gets ’em going. I could take the littlest, weakest ones to a vet but, Jack, they’re better off with their litter mates.”

      “Aw, f’chrissake, Annie,” Jack moaned.

      “You can just grab someone at the bar and ask them to take a couple of minutes to coax some food into a sick puppy,” she said hopefully.

      “Sure,” the old woman said as she pushed her glasses up on her nose. “I’ll commit to a puppy or two a day.”

      “Annie, I can’t