Today is vet day. Today is the best day.

Dark Larry snuck into the kitchen while Basil was baking this morning, and he ate a chocolate cupcake. I owe him one. Our vet, the only vet on the eastern seaboard willing to come within a mile of our maleficent menagerie, is seven feet tall, skeletal, and as dour as… You know, I was going to say a gravestone. But I've seen gravestones with both whimsy and mirth. If anything, a particularly dreary one should be compared to Dr. Baines, not the other way around.

I'm saying: This guy rules.

I test the latch I've replaced on the kitchen door as I wait for him to arrive. Door open, I try to jiggle the bolt, and it holds on tight. I close the door, lock it, pull. All good. Unlock and open the door, and there stands Dr. Baines, looking down on me in spite of the small set of stairs between us. Never disappoints.

He isn't one for greetings. I've found that if I respect his vibe (and how could I not), Dr. Baines will sometimes- sometimes- drop the most beautifully unhinged detail about his life out of absolutely nowhere. You can't elicit these details. You have to be patient and let them come of their own accord.

For instance, he's been excommunicated by two churches. Which ones, and why? Who can say. I'm still slowly piecing together the Baines mythos.

So I don't bother the man with any small talk or questions. I simply nod and join him outside.

Basil must still be checking the other animals for signs of chocolate cupcake. Dark Larry swore he was the only one, but even if I could explain that, I'm still feeling out how honest he is.

Dr. Baines draws a dented metal flask from inside his equally battered black overcoat as we walk. Both look to be at least as old as him- sixty or so years, I'd say. He stops at the gate to Dark Larry's pen to cross himself and take a swig. Our Baines doesn't limit himself to just one god's protection, though; I hear the various religious icons he wears around his neck clink together when he puts the flask away.

Dark Larry emerges from the shadows of his enclosure. He fixes his slit-pupil eyes on me, irises yellow with subtle flecks of orange and red. They shimmer against his black hair.

“Jaaaaaye,” he says pitifully, “help meeeeeee.”

Even as my heart breaks a little, I have to suppress a laugh. I'm really glad I started talking to these guys. They're much different than I thought—- Dark Larry especially.

I mean, okay. Was he rescued from a local Satanist cult who say they summoned the devil himself, and also claim to have put Old Scratch in this very goat? Yes. Do I believe those idiots? I do, actually. But is any of that DL's fault? Nah, not a bit. I enter the pen and scratch the base of his horns comfortingly.

There's nothing weird in my telling him, “You'll be just fine, buddy,” so I do.

Dark Larry asks, “How can you be sure? Ask him, ask the vet!”

Dr. Baines has been staring the nervous goat down in grim silence this whole time. It's their first meeting.

I start to ask, “He's fine, isn't—-” but Dark Larry shuffles into the corner of his pen, ears back, and begs me:

“No, wait, don't ask him! He's scary.”

Dr. Baines orders us to stay put as he takes his leave.

Dark Larry asks timidly, “I made him mad, didn't I?”

“No, that's just his aura. You're scared, huh, little guy?”

He's not really a little guy, but he looks like one when he says, “Yes. Oh, I wish I hadn't eaten that chocolate cupcake... with the dark chocolate ganache…. and the crunchy chocolate sprinkles…”

“You're wishing you had another one right now, aren't you?”

Dark Larry whimpers in the affirmative.

“Don't worry, DL. Even a normal goat would probably recover after just one cupcake. You'll definitely be fine. After all, it was devil's food cake! Ha! Right?”

Dark Larry looks up at me and says, “I am a normal goat.”

“Oh, uh. I can't really talk to normal goats. So...”

He mumbles, “Have you tried?”

I have, actually, but Dr. Baines returns with a wet cloth before I can answer. He wipes the remaining chocolate from Dark Larry's mouth and nose.

“This goat has had unholy dealings,” Dr. Baines announces.

I try to seem surprised. “You think so?”

“The devil's flame lingers.”

I can't tell if he's speaking generally or if he means specifically within Dark Larry, and I don't ask. I want that mythos, dangit.

Dr. Baines holds an unlit cigarette up to Dark Larry's mouth. The latter whispers, “Am I supposed to do something?”

Nothing happens, and Baines seems disappointed. He takes out a loose match from his overcoat pocket and strikes it on Dark Larry's left horn, observing, “Man has fires of his own.”

“Jaye, I don't like this guy.” Dark Larry is still whispering for reasons unknown. “You need to watch him closely. I don't trust him.”

I give Dark Larry a subtle, reassuring nod and turn to Dr. Baines. That freshly lit cigarette already smells stale, somehow. His aesthetic is just that powerful. “He'll be fine, right?”

“How big was the cupcake?”

“It was a mini cupcake.” I make a small circle with my fingers. “Pretty tiny.”

“Alright. Still,” he says with the air of a man who has seen too much, “we don't trust luck. I'll induce vomiting to begin with.”

“He already threw up.” Once I told Dark Larry that chocolate is poisonous to goats, he ejected that cupcake through sheer force of will. It was gross, but impressive.

“I see.” Dr. Baines closes his eyes and takes a long draw from his cigarette. “Activated charcoal, then. I have some in my car. Probably overkill in this case. However, I would not want to be responsible for the death of one of God's creatures, let alone one of Satan's.”

As he starts to walk away, Dark Larry gently butts my leg with his horns and says, “Go! Go with him. Make sure he's not plotting something.”

I flash DL a thumbs up and follow Baines out of the goat pen.

“Someone should keep an eye on the goat,” the doctor tells me.

“Basil's been checking in. Besides, uh, I'm still learning a lot about farm life. It'll be good for me to be around you. Lead the way.”

“To my station wagon,” he asks flatly.

I feel the mythos slipping further from my grasp as his stare hangs over me. I stammer, “Uh huh.”

“Let us take a look at the other animals as we go, then. Just a glance. We'll start with your sheep.”

He carries on, and I grin to myself for a self-indulgent second before straightening my face and catching up.

“Very few animals here for such a large farm,” Dr. Baines notes. He's walking us toward the sheep pen.

“Basil has big plans. She's in talks to rent a few of the back acres out to the power company, set up some solar panels, help fund the sanctuary.”

“The money is hard to come by. But she's a very determined young woman. She'll find a way.” He says this as though it's an ill portent.

As the crows that have been gathering here lately call out to each other from one gnarled tree to the next, their caws and cackles occasionally coalescing to form the word ‘SOON’, I guess I see his point.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

We find Pepper lying down in her pen, luxuriating. She spots me and says, “Oh, good, Jaye! I've been wanting to put my order in for today's afternoon treat.” Pepper stretches her legs wide, making her belly irresistibly long and fluffy. “I'm thinking apples. Gala apples, peeled and cored.”

Four people were found dead after a grain silo exploded at Pepper's last farm. Only one of them died from the explosion. The investigation is ongoing. From what I hear, a podcast is in the works, too.

“Oh,” Pepper adds, “and I didn't eat any chocolate. I'm not that stupid.”

And so I inform Dr. Baines, “We don't really think she got into the chocolate.”

“Yes, Basil just texted me.” He tucks away a brick of a flip phone.

To my surprise, I can't help stating, “You text.”

“It's not the worst form of communication.” He briefly unfurls his left hand, its pinky missing the whole of the top knuckle.

Unfortunately, this is not new information. I already knew Baines lost part of his pinky to a carrier pigeon. Evil pigeon, or simply angry, I can't say, but I don't have to worry about Basil tracking it down and adopting it: this happened roughly forty years ago. I do wonder where he managed to find a carrier pigeon in the 1980s, and not, for instance, World War I.

Looking Pepper over, Dr. Baines says, “She has half the pasture to herself?”

Behind the sheep pen, we have an acre of pastureland surrounded and divided by a fence I built from scrap wood, scavenged nails, and leftover paint. My first assignment here. It's held up well for what is essentially rearranged garbage.

“The whole thing. Dark Larry likes the land out by the woods better. More brambles.”

I expect him to educate me on the various systems of sheep grazing, but he only says, “It's good karma to spoil an old lady.”

Pepper is supremely charmed. “I knew I liked him. We share a certain rapport.” And they seem to, even if he does keep a measured distance from her.

“But I thought you had another sheep?” Dr. Baines asks, looking around.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Herb. He's… on his way.”

I hope it's true. He's been gone for six days. If he’s really coming back (and I still believe he is), Herb should be on his way by now.

“Another devil,” he guesses wearily.

That's hard to argue. Instead, I suggest, “On to the Gregs?”

Pepper doesn't let us go without reminding me, “Apples, dear!”

The Gregs (three today) are loudly discussing sitcoms as we approach. One says, “The dumber, the better. I don't wanna think. I wanna laugh.”

Another replies, “No, listen, thinking makes the laughing better.”

The last one says, “Who cares? Smart, stupid—funny is funny.”

They all sound the same. They look the same. I seriously think this is just one pig, talking to himself.

“Ey, it's Jaye!” The Gregs start snorting with excitement. “When are we getting a TV in here, Jaye?”

“TV, TV, TV,” one of them chants.

“She can't answer, you bozos. The vet's here.”

“The vet!” One of the Gregs chuckles. “Larry ate the cupcake, didn't he? I told him not to do it.”

As they speak, Dr. Baines is quietly studying them, pulling on the last of his cigarette just outside their pen. The pigs and the vet regard one another with mutual suspicion. I wait for whatever pig wisdom he has to bestow.

Dr. Baines concludes, “They'd eat you given half a chance.”

“Yeah, this guy, maybe,” one Greg says as he playfully nudges another.

“Who is this clown?” the Greg nearest me asks. “Is he even a real vet?”

They've met Dr. Baines before. They're just like this. Case in point: the furthest Greg says, “Eh, she can't understand us.”

“It’s all a trick!” the middle one goads him on.

“I'm telling you, she's faking it. Got all the others tricked. But not Greg! I see through you, girlie.”

I take a deep breath and turn to Dr. Baines. “They look good to me.”

“Yeah, we do!”

“We're handsome, boys.”

“She said it!”

Dr. Baines shakes his head slowly. “Healthy, yes. Good? I doubt that.”

The gravitas in his words is somewhat spoiled when the Gregs resume chanting as we leave, “TV, TV, TV!”

I don't know their deal yet. Basil told me they were rescued from a woman who didn't realize the baby pig she bought would grow up to weigh nearly two hundred pounds. Poor lady probably didn't plan on sometimes having three of them, either.

On a one-Greg day earlier this week, I asked him how many of him there really are. He just laughed at me and asked if I knew how to count. Maybe I can bribe him/them later with that old rabbit ear TV set in Basil's basement.

But that's not the information I'm after today.

The Baines-mobile, a brown and darker brown box of a 1970s station wagon, awaits us by the front gate. I steal a few glances inside while Dr. Baines digs around in the back—carved wooden boxes, velvet bags, a wide-brimmed black hat. Oh, man. I hope he wears that hat here sometime. It's perfect.

Basil’s melodious voice pulls me away from my snooping. “There you are!” She twists her long hair gracefully into a bun as she walks up to us. “How's Dark Larry doing?”

“Hey, boss! He's fine. We're just grabbing some charcoal to give him.”

“Thank you again for getting here so quickly, Dr. Baines. I know we probably overreacted.”

“There is no overreaction in a world of cruel whims and unfeeling fate.” He withdraws from the vehicle. “It seems I left the bag I need at my office. My apologies. I'll be back shortly.”

“Are you, um, good to drive?” Basil asks innocently.

To be fair, he is currently taking a drink from his flask. Dr. Baines answers, “I got here, didn't I?”

“I'll drive!” I'm so overcome with enthusiasm, I actually raise my hand as I volunteer.

“It's a stick shift,” Dr. Baines cautions.

I'd meant I could take him in my car, but this is even better. “I can drive stick. No problem.”

Basil looks so amazed, I can't help feeling a little embarrassed. She asks, “Is there anything you can't do?”

Mortuary school, am I right! Wait, no, I'm over that. I'm supposed to be over that. I wave her praise away, explaining, “My mom taught me so I could inherit my cousin's old ride. Save money. You know.”

With a shrug, Dr. Baines climbs in on the passenger side and leans over to hand me his keys. I try not to look too eager as I take the driver's seat and adjust it for my considerably shorter legs.

Leaning out the window, I tell Basil, “Let's give Pepper a gala apple for her treat today, peeled and cored. Oh, and Dark Larry is nervous. Keep him comfortable?”

“I'm on it!” Off goes Basil, humming something sweet to herself. I think today has ended up being a good distraction for her after Herb’s disappearance. It's nice to see.

The station wagon drives like a boat dragging a second, heavier boat, so I take it slow. This is a pretty big score. I savor it, doing my best to seem nonchalant. This becomes a tremendous challenge when I notice a crossbow sticking out from under one of the velvet bags in the back seat.

Maybe he hunts werewolves. Are werewolves real? Maybe he's out there LARPing on weekends.

“Turn left up here,” he instructs me.

“Sure thing.” Feeling emboldened by my good fortune today, I ask, “How did you end up working with the Langdon farm?”

“How does Basil find any of us? Another left in two blocks.”

Well, my aunt's hardware store for me, but I hear his larger point. She's got some kind of radar for huge weirdos. I'm appreciating it more and more.

We pass the Wakemouth sign, welcoming us to the Town of Fun Guys (a reference to the mass ergot poisoning that supposedly took place here in the 1600s). I say, “I'm thinking of moving here.”

He doesn't reply.

“Be close to work and all.”

Still nothing. Feeling out his silence, I think it's comfortable. Or, at least, not uncomfortable- not annoyed or awkward.

But then it goes on.

And on.

And before I know it, I'm so far in my head about it, I'm writing, directing, and starring in a one-act play about how much this man despises me.

“Back shortly,” Dr. Baines pulls me out of it.

The part of my brain not involved in depressive guerilla theatre has followed Baines's directions to the back parking lot of Wakemouth's second worst bar. The doctor steps around cracks and potholes with familiarity, ducking a little as he walks through the back door. Just as I'm thinking his office must be in a room upstairs, he's out again, brown leather messenger bag in hand.

Of course he conducts business out of a dive bar. You want drugs? Sorry, that's the guy in the other corner. This guy is animal husbandry and crossbow crimes. I smile and shake off the remnants of that little mental dip. Eyes on the prize. Mythos.

He folds himself into the station wagon and asks, “Do you need directions back?”

“No, sir.”

I accept the silence this time, leaving it be all the way to the farm. It's like when you build a birdhouse. How you have to think about what kind of bird you want to shelter, use the appropriate dimensions, size the entryway correctly, set the house in the right spot, and then step away hoping for the best. I know this. My thoughts just get too loud and I forget the things I know.

Dr. Baines is the first to speak. When I park by the gate and hand him his keys, he says, “Let us see what new horrors have gathered in our absence.”

With his long stride, he takes a natural lead in our walk to Dark Larry's pen. Pepper calls as we pass, “Excellent service today.”

Basil must have given her the apple. I wave, happy with the humble achievements of my newfound superpower.

Speaking of Basil, I hear her voice coming from the enclosure in Dark Larry’s pen. She's singing. It's a peaceful tune, if a little melancholy—Swedish, I think. What has gathered in our absence, we find, is an impromptu goat spa.

Dark Larry lies in a kiddie pool filled with water and rose petals. His beard has been braided and woven with delicate white flowers. A bowl of watermelon and a small terrycloth robe sit in Basil's lap.

“How did you even have time for this?” I ask at the first lull in her song.

“Welcome back!” Basil offers a smile of such sweet serenity, I instantly feel at ease. “Dark Larry seems to be feeling better.”

Licking a rose petal out of the water, he confirms, “This might be the best day of my life.”

While I’ve taken in the scene, Dr. Baines has managed to mix up a slurry of activated charcoal and water, which he has placed in a syringe. Based on the gold-filigreed bottle, I ask, “That's not holy water, right?”

“Not anymore.” I wait with great hope, but Baines doesn't elaborate.

Dark Larry turns his head away whenever Dr. Baines tries to place the syringe in his mouth. “It's okay,” I reassure him. “I promise, he doesn't want to hurt you.”

To my surprise, Dr. Baines then hands me the syringe, nodding me along. Dark Larry asks, “What do you think?”

“Nothing to be afraid of.”

He accepts the syringe.

“See!” Basil tells Dr. Baines, “Nothing she can't do.” She gives DL a piece of watermelon to wash down the charcoal.

“Yes,” Dr. Baines replies. “I observed her husbandry today at her request. Your animals are well cared for. We may yet be spared their wrath.”

Basil giggles, fortunately not seeing my eyes widen. She says, “Come with me over to the house. We'll get you paid and on your way.”

Today was a TEST? No wonder Baines didn't try to teach me anything. That wasn’t remotely what I meant when I asked to hang around him. Thank whatever poor, overworked guardian angel must be looking out for me that I didn't realize I apparently asked for this. I'm nervous now, in spite of it being over.

It's almost enough to distract me from the fact that I failed my mission, but not quite. Oh, well. At least Dark Larry isn't going to die and, I don't know, release Satan on us or something. I scratch his head.

“Jaye?” He munches thoughtfully on another rose petal. “If that guy isn’t evil, why was I so scared of him?”

“Well, buddy, I guess it's because he's a vet, and you're a goat.” More head scratches for my sweet boy. “A normal goat.”

His fire-flecked eyes beam with joy. “Yeah. That must be it.”

Feeling my phone buzz, I find a text from Basil.

Jaye,

Dr. Baines is all set. Thank you for your help.

She texts like a grandmother. It's pretty endearing, I won't lie. Another message follows:

By the way, did you know that he used to perform exorcisms? So many skills!

“Yessssss,” I whisper.