Fight for Life (3 page)

“Yeah, I guess so. Make sure you scrub the corners—that’s important.” I think I may have met my match. I hand her fresh newspaper. “The crow. Tell me how you got Poe.”

“I saw him get shot. I was walking in a field looking for red-shouldered hawks. I heard a gun go off and I hit the ground. Something fell near me. It was Poe.”

“Somebody shot him? That’s so sick.”

“I jumped up hollering and they took off. They were kids, not much older than you and me, using a pellet gun. I took my jacket off, wrapped it around Poe, and carried him home. Dad drove me here. That was last fall. I thought we were going to be able to set him free, but his wing is wrecked. Before we knew it, he was one of the family.”

“Your parents let you keep him?”

“It was my parents’ idea.”

“I’d like to meet them.”

“They’re pretty cool,” she says as she closes the last cage. “All clean. Now what should I do?”

“It’s definitely time to check the puppies.”

We sit on the floor across from each other, with the puppies in the warm pen between us. Dinky is still breathing quickly, so I count the number of breaths per minute. One... two ... three... He’s OK. It’s the same rate as earlier.

“Can I pet them?” Brenna asks quietly.

“Not yet,” I say quickly. “We shouldn’t disturb them too much while they’re on an I.V. See how the fluid is dripping slowly?” I point out the way the fluid drops into Dinky’s tube.

“Is that bad or good?” Brenna asks.

“It’s good in this case. It means he needs less fluid. He’s getting better.”

“How do you know about all this stuff?”

“Gran taught me. I grew up here.”

The phone rings once, then stops. Gran must have picked it up.

“You live with Dr. Mac?” Brenna asks.

“Yep. My parents died in a car crash when I was a baby.”

“Oh. That’s awful. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s OK. Gran’s a good mom and a good dad—not to mention a terrific grandmother. This is the only home I remember.”

Brenna leans closer to Dinky. “Maggie, this one’s shaking. Is that bad or good?”

I lightly rest my hand on his back. “Bad. He’s probably cold. Puppies this small get cold easily. Believe it or not, it can kill them, especially if they’re already sick and malnourished. We need to keep him warm because he’s probably using all his energy to fight off the infection.” I pull a small blanket out of the cupboard. “This will help.”

As I tuck the blanket around him, Dinky opens his tiny mouth and yawns, then snuggles his face against the palm of my hand. “Wow,” Brenna says. “No wonder you’re behind on your homework. You get to hang out with little critters like this!”

Gran comes through the door wearing her serious vet face—no smile, just sheer concentration.

Brenna jumps to her feet. “Hi, Dr. MacKenzie. Maggie was just teaching me about the I.V. stuff. The cages are all clean.”

“Relax, relax,” Gran says. “Anyone can clean cages. A veterinary clinic needs people who love animals. I wish I had more like you and Maggie.”

“What’s up?” I ask.

“A litter of sick puppies is on the way in,” she says as she rubs her neck.

“Yikes. A whole litter? Is Dr. Gabe coming?” I ask.

“He’s out vaccinating the Wilsons’ goats,” she explains. “I’ll try to find another vet or a vet technician to come in.”

“What’s wrong with the puppies?” I ask.

Gran pauses. “Who knows? It sounds like they’re malnourished and wormy. I’ll need some extra eyes and hands. I can’t watch seven puppies at once.” She holds the phone between her ear and shoulder and looks for a phone number in the directory. “You two can help. Wash up.”

G
ran hangs up the phone. “Bad news. Everyone is busy,” she says. “Gabe is dealing with an emergency at the Wilsons’ barn, so he’ll be late. We’re on our own.”

“Do you really need another vet?” Brenna asks. “Maybe we just need a couple more people to help watch the puppies.”

Gran nods. “You’re right. But I need them now.” She takes the phone book back out of the drawer and flips it open.

“Who are you calling?” I ask.

“David. David Hutchinson from across the street. He’s been pestering me about volunteering.”

“Please, Gran, I’m begging you. Not David!”

Gran points at a number on the page and dials the phone. “It’s time to give him a chance. He has grown up a bit.”

“But . . . he’s a goofball. He’s a klutz—”

“He’s enthusiastic. And he’s close.”

Two minutes later, David gallops into the clinic as if he had been waiting for the call. His bangs flop in front of his eyes. He’s wearing a hockey jersey, the same pair of jeans he has worn every day for the past year, and sneakers. Untied, of course.

“Hey, what’s up, Dr. Mac? Finally decided you couldn’t live without me? Or is it Maggie who needs my help?”

David steps toward me. My hands curl into fists.

“Maybe not!” He backs away.

“This is Brenna Lake,” Gran says. “She’s helping out, too.”

“David and I are in the same class,” Brenna says with a sigh. “We did a science project together. He almost set the table on fire.”

“It was a small explosion,” David explains. “I had it all under control. Did you finish the homework?” he asks Brenna.

“I did it on the bus,” she answers. “Do you have to pay for the broken microscope?”

“You broke a microscope?” I ask. Typical. David can’t walk to the bus stop without causing damage. Gran is nuts to let him in here. What is she thinking?

“OK, everyone, you can chitchat later. Put these on.” Gran hands us scrub tops.

“Hey, cool!” David says. “These are just like the ones real docs wear.”

“David, you need to wash your hands, and yes, you have to use soap. And scrub your nails,” Gran says.

The bells on the front door jingle. Brenna jumps up and David spins around.

It’s not the lady with the litter of sick puppies. It’s Sunita Patel, her arms loaded down with books she borrowed from Gran.

Sunita is one of the quietest kids in Ambler, Pennsylvania. She’s about my size, with chocolate brown eyes and long black hair. Her parents are from India. They’re both doctors—human doctors. Anyway, she’s wearing a typical Sunita outfit: loafers, khakis, and a purple turtleneck. She looks good in purple because her skin is a beautiful light brown color, like milky tea. If I wear purple, I look like I’m going to barf.

“Hello, Dr. MacKenzie?” she says with a shy smile. “I just came to return the books you lent me. Thanks. Sorry for interrupting.” She puts the books on the counter and then turns to leave.

“Stay, Sunita,” Gran says. “I’m collecting volunteers, and we could use your help.” She explains to her what we’re all waiting for.

“I don’t know,” Sunita says. “I’m not sure I’ll be much help.”

“C’mon. It’ll be fun. And you’ll get to wear one of these,” David says, tugging on his scrub top.

“It’s not supposed to be fun,” Brenna argues. “It’s serious.”

I jump in. “Gran needs our help. Will you stay, Sunita? Please?”

She nods and smiles. “All right. But I have to be home in time for dinner.” She sits on one of the plastic chairs. “What do you want me to do?”

“I need your eyes,” Gran says. “I need everyone’s eyes,” she repeats, louder.

The rest of us take a seat. Gran has center stage.

“There are seven puppies coming in. I can’t examine seven at once,” she explains. “I’ll decide who is the sickest, who I have to treat first. All of you need to keep an eye on the other pups. If you notice any change—if they breathe faster or slower, if they shake or stop shaking, if they drool, if their eyelids flutter—tell me immediately. Are you up to it?”

David looks serious for a change. Sunita is alert. Brenna’s knee bounces up and down. I’m up to it—I was born ready to take care of animals like this. We all nod.

Brenna turns to the window. “They’re here!”

A
woman carries two large picnic baskets into the clinic. Gran hustles her straight back to the Dolittle Room. The woman sets the baskets on the table, and we all crowd around for a look. Gran opens the baskets. Inside are six tiny collies only a few weeks old, plus a mutt—a mixed-breed.

Gran gently pulls up the skin of one of the pups. It falls back into place too slowly. “Looks like they’re dehydrated,” explains Gran. “Let’s get each pup a bed. Maggie, fill some surgical gloves with warm water so we can rest the pups on them. Brenna, roll that O
₂
canister over here.”

“Maggie!” Brenna whispers. “What’s O
₂
?”

“Oxygen. Let me show you.” I roll the small canister of oxygen to Gran. “We’ll need a small mask since we’re dealing with puppies here.” I hook up a mask to the tubing. “See? It’s easy.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Here, help me with the beds,” I say to Brenna, David, and Sunita. I show them how to fill surgical gloves with warm water, tie them off, and line them up on the counter. Then we cover them with towels.

“Ready, Gran,” I shout.

“All right!” Gran says briskly. “I’ll take a puppy out of the basket, look it over quickly, and hand it to Maggie. Maggie will bring it over to you. Then you stand guard over the pups. Here we go.”

Gran takes one of the larger pups out and hands it to me. He’s shaking, just like Dinky did earlier. I carefully carry him to Brenna and set him on his warm bed. He lets out a weak whimper. Brenna stands close to the counter, her hands on either side of the puppy, protecting him and making sure he doesn’t crawl away.

“Next!” calls Gran.

I take the next patient, the mutt, to David, then return for another one.

As Gran hands over the pups, the owner tells us what she knows. “I found them crowded into a dirty cage at the farmer’s market yesterday,” she says. “They didn’t have any food or water, and they were filthy. Whenever they whined, the owner yelled at them and rattled the cage until they stopped.”

It’s the same guy who sold Shelby, Inky, and Dinky. I just know it.

“Let me guess,” Gran says. “He didn’t give you any health information, no papers, no nothing.”

“He was mad that I even asked questions about their health. We argued,” the owner admits. “I threatened to report him to the Humane Society for abusing the dogs. It was obvious they were sick. He picked up the cage and walked away from me.”

“Then how did you get the puppies?” Sunita asks.

“I followed him. When we got to his truck, I took out my wallet. I gave him all the cash I had. I just couldn’t let him take them away.”

“Good for you!” Brenna says.

“So you rescued these puppies yesterday?” Gran asks, gently pulling the last puppy out of the basket.

The owner blushes. “I know. I should have called you right away. I thought the little guys just needed a clean, warm home and some food. I was going to make an appointment this weekend, but then the shaking and diarrhea started.”

“Are you going to keep all of them?” David asks.

“No. I can’t. I thought if I cleaned them up, I could find good homes for them.”

Gran hands me the last puppy. I’m going to watch over this one. Brenna, David, and Sunita stand in a line along the counter, all carefully watching over two puppies each.

Gran strides over to check on Sunita’s collie. “This one wins first place.” She puts her stethoscope against his chest. We all watch in silence, as if we’re listening for the pup’s heartbeat, too.

“He’s breathing fast and his lungs are congested.” Gran presses her fingertips against the inside of the pup’s hind leg. “Pulse is fast and weak. His heart is struggling. Maggie, take his temperature.”

David shifts over to watch my puppy in addition to his two so I can help Gran. I lift the collie’s tail and insert a thermometer. I think he’s too sick to notice. Gran is looking in his mouth.

“He’s anemic. See how his gums are white? They should be pink.” Her hands glide over the puppy’s tiny body, checking for other clues to what is making him sick.

I remove the thermometer and read it aloud. “One hundred and five.”

“That’s what we call a fever,” Gran observes.

Brenna is shocked. “He has a temperature of one hundred and five degrees? I thought that could kill you.”

“The normal temperature for a dog is between 100 and 102.5 degrees,” I explain. “A temperature of 105 is high, but it’s not really, really high.”

Brenna strokes the two puppies in front of her. “I guess it’s hard to tell just by touching them, isn’t it? Is this one too hot?”

“Hang on,” Gran says to Brenna. “I’ll be there in a second.”

“I heard that if a dog’s nose is dry, it means he has a fever,” David says.

“That’s just an old wives’ tale,” Gran explains. “The only way you can take a dog’s temperature is to use a thermometer. Maggie, could you get me some Ringer’s solution?”