An Autumn in Paris
Baloo clings to me, scrabbling and whining as I try to set him down.
“Do you know the breed?” Dr. Brousse asks, studying Baloo.
I try to peel his paws off me. “Likely a Terrier cross. He’s a rescue dog.”
Losing my patience with the uncooperative Baloo, I force him onto the table without realizing that one of his paws is in my shirt.
The fabric tears, buttons fly off, and the next instant I’m staring at my breasts on full display, nipples prodding my unpadded, wire-free bra. I lift my eyes in horror and catch him staring at my boobs.
He averts his gaze immediately.
I cover my chest with my left hand, the right one gripping Baloo so he wouldn’t fall off the high table.
The vet takes hold of the dog. “I have him.”
Letting go, I yank the lapels of my shirt over my breasts and hold them together, hoping my face isn’t too red.
Except, I know it is. My cheeks and ears feel hot enough to spontaneously combust at any moment.