“Havana,” he told me again, not slower but much louder, “is eight weeks old.” I shook my head. “Six. Impossible. Six weeks. Definitely.” He pulled out the chart and hmm’ed to himself.
“Yeppers. You brought her in four weeks ago for her antibiotics. She was four weeks old then, now she’s eight weeks.” He snorted. “And you wonder why she’s hungry all the time. You need to give her more kibbles!”
I bit my lip. I felt bad for Havana.