We broke into a flurry of the anodyne-sounding jargon that our peculiar profession uses.

“Do you know if Millie’s daschund had her abscess seen to? She was in a bad way.” («Crowley-6 incursion expected mid-north Europe soonest»)
“Oh, the last I heard was that she was having trouble finding a good vet in the district.” («Locus not determinable more closely?»)
“It can be difficult, especially with something she cares about so much- the best ones can be so expensive”." («City/conurbation 2 million souls plus»)
My “mother”, “Elaine”, chipped in; “I believe there’s a good man in Wendover.” («Best intel Central and allies available this time»)

She kept her face as stony as Buster Keaton- there was a lot to admire about a person who could conceal their reaction to some many-angled entity bursting through from the danker end of the multiverse and eating the minds of at least 2 million people.

“Do you have his name?” («Awaiting deployment instructions: request front line»)
“Have you a notepad?”, said “mother”.