Dr. Helen Morris had treated Nacho when he was young.
She was older now, with silver hair and reading glasses hanging from a cord around her neck.
When she entered the room, she stared at him for several seconds.
“Claire,” she said softly. “Is that really him?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
I told her about the parking lot.
Then I told her about Marcus and Lily.
I expected her to say what I wanted to hear.
I expected her to look at her old records and tell me there was no question.
Instead, she became very quiet.
She examined the scar on his ear.
She checked his teeth, his paws and the white patch under his chin.
“He matches every note we have,” she said.
“So he’s Nacho.”
“Yes.”
Relief rushed through me.
Then she added, “And he may also be Sunny.”
I looked at her.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means animals do not understand ownership the way people do.”
“He was my cat.”
“I know.”
“You remember what happened.”
“I do.”
“Then why are you talking like I’m taking him from someone?”
Dr. Morris pulled up a stool.
“I am not saying that.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“I’m saying he has lived a whole life during the years you were apart.”
I crossed my arms.
“He’s underweight.”
“Now, yes. But not for long.”
She showed me the wear on his teeth and the condition of his claws.
“Someone cared for him. He had dental work within the last two years. One of his back claws was removed after an injury, probably by a veterinarian. His coat was brushed regularly until recently.”
I stared at Nacho on the exam table.
He looked at me with tired green eyes.
“There’s something else,” she said.
She moved the scanner over his shoulders again.
A number appeared.
My heart jumped.
“You said he wasn’t chipped.”
“He wasn’t when I treated him.”
She scanned again.
“The chip may have moved lower under the skin, or the earlier clinic may not have found it. But this one is newer than your records.”
