Tainted Gold (Providence Gold 3)

Could a grown man bawl his eyes out because he needed to come? What was the etiquette over that shit?

“Tate,” Lily’s soft voice called from behind me. “We’ve got the appointment to go to.”

Today was a checkup appointment. We’d had another scan at twelve weeks where I’d gotten to see my son up close and it had been fucking amazing.

Let me tell you, and everyone I came across (even if they didn’t want to listen to the random person buying sugar in the store) – my kid was a genius at twelve weeks. During the scan, he’d been kicking his legs around, waving (at least that’s what it looked like), sucking his thumb (again, that’s what it looked like) and probably figuring out Pythagoras’s theorem. I didn’t have a clue what that was aside from remembering some Greek dude came up with it, but my kid already knew it in the womb.

We’d heard his heartbeat too and even that had a rhythm to it I’d never heard before. It was perfect, hitting the rate they said was optimal for a baby at twelve weeks gestation. He was hitting everything perfectly already!

Lily’s blood pressure had been a little high three days ago, so she was going back to get it checked. She hadn’t had a lot of morning sickness after five weeks, aside from one puke here and there, all of which were triggered by food, but she’d had other problems. Her feet and fingers were swelling slightly, she was struggling with energy levels, she’d had dizzy spells and she also had pain in her vagina.

So far, they were questioning her blood pressure, but happy because her urine was clear of whatever they were looking for, and they’d diagnosed the early onset of something called SPD – split pussy disorder, or whatever it stood for. Next week she had an appointment with a physical therapist who was going to teach her how to put this sticky support thing on her bump to take some of the pressure off her vagina, and they were going to be monitoring the other issues from now on.

Aside from that, it was plain sailing. Foxy Cleopatra (don’t get me started) was doing well and even though Lily hadn’t decided on what his name was definitely going to be, he was a great dog who answered to both of the ones being used on him. What was his other name? Was it better than Foxy Cleopatra? No, a big fat stinking no. His other name was Chew Barka, I shit you not. And his Labrador buddy’s name was Ozzy Pawsborne. I was steering her toward the last option for the puppy, it was less cruel that Foxy freakin’ Cleopatra.

We’d also found out what breed he was – a Deerhound. As the months passed, and he continued to grow, the best way to describe how he looked was like a long-haired Greyhound, but much bigger. Much, much, bigger… and fatter. I wasn’t sure if that was because of the breed, or because he was overfed by everyone, but that puppy had some girth.

Of course she’d decided she was keeping both of them, but I’d looked it up to make sure the breed was ok to have around babies and the smaller dogs in the family, just in case. Thankfully, it was. Not so thankfully, I’d also discovered that it would grow to roughly thirty-two inches tall, and weigh in at around one hundred pounds (although if they kept feeding him like they were, that could raise to double that figure).

Two big dogs, a chicken on steroids, a chicken whose breed was a sick joke, a shit flinging squirrel, and a baby. Who in their right minds would do that? Then again, my family weren’t known for making sane decisions on anything.

Levi had been horrified at the names appointed, and when Lily wasn’t around, he still called them Fergus and Dougal. When she was around, he used Chewy, Ozzy, or just “here puppy” when he called them. They even answered to those names too. That might have something to do with the fact that they were the most spoiled creatures in the history of domesticated animals though. They had stuff at Lily’s, mine and Levi’s houses, and never spent time alone. If one of us couldn’t be there, one of the other two stepped up. This also extended to Snickers, Bojangles and King Ferdinand. I’d started driving one of the company’s trucks just so I could fit them all in it if we stayed at a different house that night. And my family didn’t help, they were all about giving them loves and shit too.

A week after we’d gotten them, we’d gone to visit the animal behavioral specialist that Levi had worked with to see if there were any warning signs we should look out for with them that hadn’t been picked up initially. My worry had been the effect of his early days on Chewy, and maybe him having triggers. Ozzy also looked like she’d been well looked after, but we just weren’t sure. The specialist had run some exercises and tested their reactions and hadn’t been concerned. At the end, she told us we should watch out for the normal things like biting, being territorial over food, Chewy marking his territory, or him being aggressive like you would with every dog. So far, touch wood, nothing!