June has only one more summer before she marries her high school sweetheart. She intends to make the most of it, but she has no idea what is waiting for her in Dolphin Coast. Socks on the Beach is a tale of steamy love, jaw-dropping heartbreak, and...
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You can do this, Nathan.
I stretched out my veiny hands and arms, preparing for battle.
Injury was likely-
No.
Inevitable, but I'd survived up until now.
This time will be no different.
From the wall, I collected my armor, a shredded pair of once impenetrable arm guards, and slipped my hands into them as I stared my worthy opponent in the eye. Fury and malice shined back at me.
I was afraid, but I hoped I didn't show it. I must've, because the beast dropped back on its haunches, a low warning growl ripping from its throat.
"I'm ready," announced my backup, similarly adorned in armor.
"Let's do this thing."
I picked up a fuzzy pink towel, embroidered with paw prints. My first line of defense. With a trembling hand, I unlatched the kennel door and it creaked open.
"Shhh... Mr. Whiskers, we're not going to hurt you." I crept my hands into the kennel, holding the towel upright, a thin veil of protection between me and the sixteen year old indoor/outdoor tabby-cat with an overbite that came in for a routine physical and nail trim.
The elderly cat shrunk into the corner of the kennel growling louder now before letting out a valiant hiss and swatting violently. His claw got caught on the threading of the towel, and he thrashed.
Now's my chance!
I gathered the loose half of the towel and firmly, but gently wrapped it around the back half of the cat. Now I was able to get a hold of the animal, scooping him up and attempting to secure the towel around the flailing murder mittens. His face stuck out the end of the kitty burrito, rallying war cries to anyone who would listen.
When my backup swooped in, Mr. Whiskers didn't stand a chance.
Five-foot-two and ninety pounds soaking wet, Sam was the best backup I could have asked for in this scenario. A frequent 'mosher' at metal shows and a self proclaimed 'psychonaut,' she rarely took injuries on the battlefield. Fear did not exist to the little goth. We weren't friends, just like I wasn't really friends with any of the other vet techs, just semi-pleasant co-workers, but I had a respect for her and her work ethic. She was cute, too.
"Mr. Whiskers, I know baby... it'll be okay," Sam sing-songed. Her nose was scrunched in concentration.
She gently grabbed ahold of the loose foot and freed the claw from the towel before getting to work, clipping each nail on each little toe bean. Mr. Whiskers thrashed again in my arms and I readjusted to secure him against my chest. The clever little creature took the shuffle of my readjustment as an opportunity: his front foot came flying out the top of the burrito, managing to minorly scratch my chin in the process. I barely felt it.
