Fight for Life

Table of Contents

 

 

Thanks to Kimberly Michels, D.V.M., and
Judith Tamas, D.V.M., for their consultation and
review of veterinary procedures and practices.

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First published in the United States of America by Pleasant Company Publications, 2000
Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2007

 

Copyright © Laurie Halse Anderson, 2000, 2007

 

All rights reserved CIP DATA IS AVAILABLE

eISBN : 978-1-101-17666-5

 

 

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To my daughters, Meredith and Stephanie.
Thanks for your patience, encouragement, and
good jokes. May you always be wild at heart.

M
itzy, sit!”

Mitzy looks up at me and tilts her head to one side. She wags her tail, but she won’t sit.

“Grrr,” I growl. Mitzy whimpers and lowers her tail.

“Sorry, girl.” I kneel and give her a hug. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just frustrated. Teaching you to sit shouldn’t be this hard.”

Mitzy is a full-grown Airedale terrier. Her short, wiry coat is mostly tan, with a big black patch over her back. She has a long nose, a stubby tail, small ears, and a confused look in her eyes. The confused look is unusual for an Airedale. Airedales are usually very smart dogs.

“OK, let’s try again. Pay attention.” I stand in front of her. “Mitzy, sit.”

Mitzy chases her tail and barks. This is impossible.

When Mitzy’s owners brought her in, they warned me that she was a little “slow.” I promised them I could teach her the basic commands. “There is no such thing as a dumb dog,” I said. My grandmother, Dr. J.J. MacKenzie, taught me that.

Gran owns an animal clinic, Dr. Mac’s Place. She says that all animals—even pets like cats, dogs, and guinea pigs—are wild at heart. Kids, too. I taught her that.

My parents died when I was a baby, and Gran took me in. I don’t remember them, but Gran tells me I have my father’s freckles and my mom’s temper. Gran says taking care of animals prepared her for having me around. Very funny.

Some kids at school think I’m the luckiest person in the world, living with all these animals. It is fun, I have to admit that. Gran lets me help out with her patients at the clinic, and I sometimes get jobs, like training Mitzy.

Mitzy stops chasing her tail. I bet she’s dizzy.

“Come on, now. We’re not here to play. Mitzy, sit.”

Mitzy takes a step backward. “Rouff!” she barks.

I pull up gently on her leash and use my other hand to push down her rear end. Once her tail hits the ground, she lies down and rolls on her back, begging me to rub her stomach. She thinks this is a game. If I rub her tummy, she’ll think she can do whatever she wants in a training session.

“Come on, girl, stand up.”

Mitzy rolls back over and stands up, giving herself a good shake.

“Mitzy, sit.” I push down her rump. She stays in a sitting position for half a second.

“Good girl!” I shout. I scratch between her ears and hug her. The best way to train dogs is to praise them for what they do right. “That’s enough for one day.” I unclip the leash from Mitzy’s collar and she takes off, running as fast as she can around the fenced yard.

Mitzy is nothing like Sherlock Holmes, my old, slightly overweight basset hound who’s lazing in the shade by the oak tree right now. He’s my only pet. But our house is attached to Gran’s clinic, so I get to spend as much time as I want around dogs, cats, rabbits, hamsters, mice, lizards, snakes, birds, and the occasional horse or goat.

“Maggie!” Gran calls out the back door. “You have homework to do. Let’s go.”

Ugh. Homework. What a horrible word. It gives me the shivers. Don’t get me wrong, I can do lots of things: I can shoot a three-point shot (sometimes), scrub the skunk smell out of dog fur, and even catch escaped guinea pigs. But homework? School? No thank you.

It’s not that I don’t try. I’ve been trying forever, it seems. But I always mess up. Gran has been getting serious about my grades. She keeps bugging me about asking for help when I get stuck and giving me the old “You’re almost in middle school” lecture. When that doesn’t work, she trots out the “You need good grades to get into veterinary school” lecture.

I’m tired of being lectured.

“I need to work with Mitzy a little more,” I tell Gran. “Half an hour. I only have a little math.”

“I doubt that,” Gran answers. “I’ll give you five more minutes.”

Five minutes of freedom left.

As Gran closes the door, her cat, Socrates, squeezes out. Socrates is a big cat. He’s a feline football fullback, all rust-colored fur and muscle. Gran named him after a Greek philosopher. He sure does lie around and think a lot. Sometimes he acts like he’s guarding the clinic. Gran calls him a watchcat.

Socrates streaks across the yard, leaps onto the trunk of the old oak tree, and quickly claws his way up to a thick branch. Then he slinks along the branch and lies down where he can see the whole yard, like a lion watching the savanna.

“Show-off,” I say under my breath. “Come here, Sherlock,” I call. “Let’s show Mitzy how to do it.”

Sherlock gets up from his spot of shade and lumbers over to me, his long ears swinging and his tail wagging. Basset hounds are built low to the ground and can pick up smells easily. That’s why I named him after a detective. Sherlock’s nose is twitching, but everything must smell normal, because he comes right to me. He lifts his droopy eyelids expectantly.

“Sherlock, sit,” I say in a firm voice.

Thump.
His hindquarters hit the ground.

“Sherlock, lie down.”

He stretches out his forelegs until he is lying down. He waits for the next command. Mitzy is watching us. I hope she’s learning something.

“Stay.” I jog to the far end of the yard. “Sherlock, come!”

He leaps to his feet and sprints toward me. Mitzy runs beside him. I kneel down and pet Sherlock. “You are the best dog in the world, aren’t you? A genius, an absolute genius.”

Mitzy puts her paw on my lap. When I reach for it, she rolls on her back.

“OK. You’re a good dog, too, Mitz.” I scratch her chest and she closes her eyes in contentment. “You just have to pay attention. You should watch old Sherlock here. He’s a great teacher.”

Suddenly both dogs prick up their ears and turn their heads toward the house. A car screeches into the parking lot next to the clinic.

Looks like we have a patient.

T
he dogs dash to the front edge of the fence, with me close behind. We peek around the house. A frantic woman gets out of her car holding a limp puppy. She runs into the clinic.

“Sherlock! Mitzy! Come!” Sherlock comes right away. Mitzy plops her tail on the ground at the far end of the yard. Now she wants to sit.

There’s only one thing to do. “Mitzy, lie down!” I command.

Mitzy jumps up and runs to the door. Maybe she’s not stupid, after all. Maybe she’s just a little confused.

When I herd the dogs inside, we’re greeted by friendly barks from the boarding kennels. This is where we keep dogs whose owners are out of town. I put Mitzy in her cage and make sure she has fresh water to drink. She slurps, splashing water all over the floor. I’ll have to remember to mop in here later.

Sherlock ambles toward the door that connects the clinic to the house, sniffing along the ground in hopes of discovering a hidden snack. Since he lives here and is the sweetest dog in the entire universe, he gets to go wherever he wants.

I walk to the front of the clinic, where there are two exam rooms—one on each side of the waiting room. Gran is talking to someone in the Dolittle Room. She named the exam rooms after veterinarians in her favorite books. I knock gently on the open door.

“Come in,” Gran says.

Gran is a big woman, no matter how you look at her. She’s taller than me—everyone’s taller than me—and her hands and arms are strong. She wears bright colors, even when she’s working in the clinic. Her hair is cut short enough that she can dry it with a towel, and I can’t remember the last time she wore makeup. She’s not a cookies-and-milk granny. She’s a doctor—smart, tough, and kind. I love her lots.

“Take a look,” she says.

I make notes to myself the way Gran taught me. Our patient is a black Labrador retriever. He looks like he’s only two months old. Puppies this age are supposed to have nice fat tummies. This little guy is way too thin. He should be moving around, exploring everything. Instead, he lies on the table. His dark eyes are sunk into his head. That means he’s dehydrated—he doesn’t have enough fluid in his body. His coat is a dull black, dusted with white flakes. He probably has some kind of skin condition, too.

Gran works quickly. She uses a stethoscope to listen to his heart and lungs, then feels his abdomen with her hands. She tries to stand him up, but the little pup just collapses on the table. She peers into his mouth and eyes with a penlight. When she turns his head to examine one of his ears, he looks up at me with sad brown eyes. He’s in pretty bad shape. I get a lump in my throat, but swallow it quickly. As Gran says, getting upset won’t get the work done.