Doc leaned over the side of his chair to poke his head out of his office, frowning at the front door. Did he just hear-
He wasn't much of one for beliving in premonitions or precognition, but as he pushed away from his desk and rose to his feet, he already felt a looming sense of dread that made him reluctant to investigate the noise from outside. His feet shuffled across the floor as he stepped out into the front office and peered through the glass door.
There were three things unusual enough to merit his notice:
First, there was a young man laying half-on, half-off the sidewalk in front of the clinic.
Second, he was wearing the white shirt with gold trims and logo from The Golden Burger, Doc's favorite restaurant in town, and this white shirt was stained with what looked like ketchup splattered over his chest, arms and face.
And third, he was keeping up a rather impressive stream of curses directed towards something farther uphill.
Turning his head, Doc saw what was likely his #9 special with bacon, swiss and red onions, smearing the inside of a white paper bag hanging from the jaws of that pesky, flea-bitten werewolf mutt that always followed the boy wolf around. She had waited for his attention to fall on her before her jaws split in a canine grin of triumph, tail wagging happily.
For a split second, Doc was half tempted to join the young man in his epic cursing. But it wasn't worth it. Any energy he may have expended towards indignation toward the werewolf was gone, and instead, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He selected two bills, both 20s, and laid them on the hood of the truck next to the young man. "For your trouble and for your dry cleaning," he said, then sighed, shook his head, and retreated back into the clinic for some Tylenol.