Teacher's Pet (11 page)

By the time I get the critters stowed away in an empty exam room, Gran and Dr. Gabe are looking at X-rays on the light box on the operating-room wall. Scout is resting on the operating table.

“He's still stable,” Dr. Gabe assures me. “His blood pressure and pulse oxygenation are good, considering what happened.”

I look at the X-rays. “How bad is it?” I ask quietly.

“Ugly,” Gran says. She points to an X-ray with her pen. “Three fractured ribs. I'm pretty sure there is internal bleeding. That could mean a ruptured spleen or liver. We have to deal with that right away. He's also got a tear in the diaphragm. I don't think you've ever seen one of those before.”

I shake my head.

Gran uses herself as a model, placing her hand below her ribs. “Between the chest and the abdomen, we have a layer of muscle.”

I feel my own belly and nod my head.

“Those muscles protect all the soft organs inside—the intestines, the liver, and the spleen, among others. When the car hit Scout, the force tore open the muscles. Some of the stuff that should be nicely tucked in Scout's abdomen is now up in his chest. He can't expand his lungs properly to breathe. We have to get in there, repair any organ damage, stop the bleeding, and put everything back where it belongs.”

“That sounds like a lot. Is he up for surgery right now?”

Gran turns and studies her patient. “His heart wasn't damaged, and neither was his head—both good things. His left lung is a little beat-up from the force of the impact, but it's not punctured or collecting fluid. And he is young and very strong, which helps his case.”

“It sounds like you're going to say ‘But,”' I say.

“But there's a chance he won't make it. You've seen this before, Maggie. When a car hits a dog, the dog often loses. We're going to operate and hope for the best.

I blink back the tears. Scout has to make it!

W
hile Gran and Dr. Gabe scrub up for surgery, I lean over the operating table and quietly talk to Scout.

“OK, Scout, this is going to be hard, but I know you can do it,” I whisper. “Mr. Carlson is counting on you.”

Scout blinks his eyes slowly. He has a lot of painkillers in his system. Can he understand what I'm saying?

“I'll map it out for you,” I continue. “Step one, you make it through surgery. Step two, you recover. Step three, you go back to work. Don't give up.”

“Hnnnn, hnnnn,” Scout whines.

I stroke his head. “Shhh, shhh... ,” I say.

I glance over at the heart monitor. His other vital signs are a littler weaker, but his heart is beating steadily.

“How's he doing?” Dr. Gabe asks as he prepares the anesthesia machine.

I try to smile, but I can't. “We have to save him,” I say.

Dr. Gabe nods. He knows how serious this is.

He secures a face mask over Scout's muzzle and starts the anesthetic. It mixes with oxygen and flows through a clear tube to the mask. Scout takes a breath of the mixture and closes his eyes. The anesthetic puts him in a special kind of sleep so that the docs can operate on him without causing any pain. Before they start, Dr. Gabe will put a plastic tube into Scout's windpipe to deliver the oxygen and anesthetic.

Gran walks over. “Are you going to watch, Maggie?”

“I want to,” I say. Some kids would have a hard time watching surgery, but I grew up with it. Still, Gran always asks, just in case I'm not up for it, especially if I know the patient really well.

“OK,” Gran says. “You know what to do.”

I give Scout a quick kiss on the top of his head, then hurry over to the sink. While Dr. Gabe shaves the fur off Scout's belly and washes the skin with antiseptic, I pull scrubs on over my clothes, wash every single germ off my hands, and pull on a pair of latex gloves. There can't be any germs around during an operation.

When I walk back to the table, Scout is mostly covered by blue-green surgical sheets. There is one opening in the sheets, a little frame around his belly where Gran is going to operate. She is busy swabbing the area with orange antiseptic.

“Maggie, wipe this sweat off my forehead, will you?” she asks. “It's mighty warm in here.”

I grab a gauze pad from the cart and sponge off Gran's face.

“Thanks.” She reaches for a scalpel and stops. “Did you hear the bell?”

“Yeah,” Dr. Gabe says. “That's odd. We don't have any appointments on the book.”

There's a knock on the operating-room door.

“Get that,” Gran tells me. “It better not be somebody trying to sell us magazines.”

I open the door a crack. “Yes?”

“How is he? Can I see him?”

“Mr. Carlson!”

My science teacher is standing outside the operating-room door. He has a bandage on his forehead, and his left arm is in a sling. In his right hand, he's carrying a long white stick, the kind of cane blind people use to help them walk safely. He looks very pale and seems to be in a little bit of pain.

“Are you OK?” I gasp as I step into the hall and close the door to the operating room. “Oh my gosh, you should be at the hospital. Look at you, your arm, your head!”

“I'm fine,” he says in a hoarse voice. “They let me go. I have a sprained elbow and a bump on my forehead. Scout was the one who took the blow. Tell me, please, is he... ? Did you... ?”

“Mr. Carlson, he's alive. Gran is operating on him right now.”

My teacher exhales deeply and leans against the wall. “Thank heavens,” he says. “How is he? Can I see him?”

I don't know what to say. Gran is always totally honest about her patients' chances. She says it's important for people to know the truth.

“Hang on for one minute,” I tell Mr. Carlson.

I slip back into the operating room and hurry over to Gran.

“Mr. Carlson is here,” I say. “He came straight from the hospital. He wants to come in.”

“We don't let family members of patients observe surgery,” Gran says.

“It's all right,” Mr. Carlson calls from the doorway. “It's not like I can see what you're doing.”

Gran and Dr. Gabe exchange glances over their surgical masks. They shake their heads simultaneously. They need to concentrate on what they are doing.

“That won't work,” I say. “The docs need to be alone.”

“Of course,” Mr. Carlson murmurs.

“Let's go to the kitchen,” I suggest. “Follow me.”

We walk down the hall to the waiting room.

“This door connects the clinic to the house,” I explain. Mr. Carlson sweeps his cane in front of him to feel where the door is. He steps into the kitchen. I describe the room to him.

“This is the oldest part of the house. Gran had a wall knocked down to make it huge. You can sit at the kitchen table or on the couch. I vote for the couch. It's to your left.”

Mr. Carlson finds the couch and gingerly lowers himself to sit. He must be awfully sore.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Just a glass of water.”

I bring the water and set it on the table in front of him. I sit down in the recliner. Mr. Carlson doesn't touch the water. He stares in the direction of the fireplace.

“His chances are ... ,” I start, fumbling for the right words. “Gran and Dr. Gabe, they are great vets ... Scout is strong.”

“It's OK, Maggie,” Mr. Carlson says. “I know it's bad. Your grandmother will do her best.”

Toenails click across the kitchen floor as Sherlock Holmes waddles toward us. He looks at me, looks at Mr. Carlson, then heaves himself up onto the couch.

“Sorry,” I say, getting up from the chair. “That's my dog, Sherlock Holmes. I'll shoo him away.”

Sherlock scowls at me and half-crawls into Mr. Carlson's lap.

Mr. Carlson reaches out and pets Sherlock's head. “Can he stay? I like having him here.”

“Sure,” I say. “If you want.”

Zoe's dog, Sneakers, dashes into the room and leaps onto the couch. He settles in on the other side of my teacher.

“That's Sneakers,” I say.

“He can stay, too.”

Socrates, Gran's majestic tabby cat, saunters in last. He does not jump onto the couch. He settles next to the empty hearth, where he can watch everything. Then he closes his eyes and purrs.

“You've made some friends,” I say.

“Are they always like this?” Mr. Carlson asks. He has one hand on each dog.

“Only with the people they like,” I say. “I think they can tell when someone is hurting. And you might think this is silly, but I think they can make you feel better, too.”

“That's not silly at all,” Mr. Carlson says. “In fact, it makes sense.”

He scratches Sherlock's floppy ears. “A strange thing happened to me, right after we were hit. It shocked me, actually. My first thoughts were about Scout—was he alive, was he hurt, how could I help him...”

“That's not shocking,” I say. “That's normal.”

“Not for me, not until now. I had been thinking of Scout as another tool, like a replacement for this cane or my computer. That's not what they taught us at the guide-dog school, but I couldn't help it.”

His cheeks redden. “Maybe that was the real reason I was thinking about returning him. I didn't feel connected to him.”

“The accident changed that?” I ask.

He takes a sip of water and sets the glass back on the table. “I realized how much he means to me. He's not a tool. He's my companion.”

Mr. Carlson's voice cracks a bit, and he stops to clear his throat.

“He's my friend. In the ambulance, and then in the emergency room, I kept reaching for him. Not so much because I wanted him to guide me—they wouldn't let me walk anywhere until they took some X-rays—but to feel him near me. I wanted to know he was OK. I need him. I think he needs me, too.”

I can't say anything. What will Mr. Carlson do if Scout dies?

“He's waking up,” Gran says from the doorway.

“How is he?” Mr. Carlson asks.

Gran hesitates. “He lost a lot of blood, and there was internal damage. We're having a hard time getting him to wake up. I'm afraid he might be slipping into a coma.”

“Come on,” I say, tugging Mr. Carlson's hand. I've seen animals in this situation before. I think I know what to do.

I lead my teacher down the hall to the recovery room. Scout is lying on a heated pad on the floor, covered with a thin blanket. He still has an I.V. bag connected to his catheter and is hooked up to the machines that monitor his heart and lungs.

I guide Mr. Carlson to his dog. He kneels down and gently strokes Scout's head. He bends close to the dog's ears and whispers so softly that I can't hear him.

In the background, Gran and Dr. Gabe talk quietly. They have done everything they can with surgery and medicine.

I can see only my teacher and his dog. Mr. Carlson smooths Scout's face, his soft ears, the dark fur that sweeps away from the corners of his eyes.

Mr. Carlson talks a little louder. “Come on, Scout, fight it, come back to me. We're a team. I can't let you go.”

I glance at the monitor. The heart rate is slower. Scout is nearly motionless, his chest barely rising and falling. Dr. Gabe steps out of the room. Gran studies the floor. The heart rate slows a bit more. We're losing him.

I remember Mr. Carlson's diagram of the chambers of the heart. I think all four of my chambers are breaking.

“Scout, come back,” Mr. Carlson pleads. “We've got things to do, places to go. I need you, buddy.”

I can't stand it. I look away to where the tip of Scout's bushy tail pokes out from under the blanket. I'm waiting for the heart monitor to stop beeping, the silence that means the end.

The tail swishes an inch.

It swishes again, a little more.

I blink. I rub my eyes.

“I'm right here, Scout,” Mr. Carlson murmurs. “I'm not leaving you.”

The tail swishes back and forth. I glance at the machine. Scout's heart rate is up, and his blood pressure is rising.

“Look! I shout.

Gran crosses the room. Scout opens his eyes, sees Mr. Carlson, and tries to lift his head.

“He's back! I shout.

Gran fights a smile, trying to stay professional. “Don't scream in the recovery room, Maggie. It disturbs the patients.”