Teacher's Pet (2 page)

Mrs. Donovan greets us, then herds her brood into the clinic. I follow behind Gran, with Sherlock close at my heels.

“Do they have an appointment?” I ask her under my breath.

Gran shakes her head. “No. I hope everything is all right.”

“SHERLOCK! ”

Christopher, Nicholas, Inky, and Shelby all pounce on my dog as soon as he puts a paw into the waiting room. Sherlock stands like a saint as Christopher pats his ears, Nicholas tosses him a ball, Inky smells his butt, and Shelby barks loudly, calling him to play. To the Donovans, Dr. Mac's Place is not a veterinary clinic. It's where they come to play with Sherlock Holmes.

“What's the trouble today, Mrs. Donovan?” Gran shouts over the din.

Mrs. Donovan tries to keep an eye on her kids (all four of them) while she talks.

“I've got two of them, Dr. Mac,” she starts. “Inky keeps biting his leg. The back one, on the right.”

Sure enough, Inky pauses in mid-sniff to twist around quickly and nibble at his fur. Sometimes dogs use their teeth to scratch their itches. This spot looks like it's really bothering him. He's gnawing so hard that his dog tags are jingling. Maybe he has fleas.

“And this morning, Shelby did this,” Mrs. Donovan continues, holding out her left hand for Gran to inspect.

It is a perfectly normal left hand—no bites, scratches, or marks. It has a few freckles on it, but not as many as I have. Does her hand hurt? Does she think Gran will fix it? Maybe Mrs. Donovan has finally snapped from all the stress.

“Notice the missing wedding ring?” she says, her voice rising. “Shelby ate it. I'm a patient woman, Dr. Mac. I didn't complain when he ate my socks, or my bathing suit, or even part of the laundry room wall. But my wedding ring! How am I ever going to get it back?”

Gran's mouth twitches as she fights a smile. “It's OK. We'll get the ring. Dr. Gabe can X-ray Shelby while I check Inky's skin problem.”

Mrs. Donovan clutches her purse. “Why do you have to X-ray?”

“I'd like to be safe. I want to make sure that the ring is there and that it isn't causing any kind of internal damage,” Gran says. “As long as it isn't blocking anything, it should pop out Shelby's back end in a day or so. You'll just have to, ah, dig around a little whenever he has a bowel movement.”

Mrs. Donovan's eyes widen. “You mean, look in his poops?” she says hoarsely.

Uh-oh. “Poop” is a magic word to three-year- olds, just like “underwear.” The boys howl with laughter.

“Look in his poops?” Christopher shrieks.

“Look in his poops!” Nicholas replies.

Shelby and Inky bark excitedly, then jump on Sherlock, who looks at me, pleading for a rescue.

Mrs. Donovan swallows hard. “The X-ray sounds like a good idea. And perhaps Shelby could stay here. Until, you know... ”

“Oh, I know,” Gran assures her. “Until the ring ‘appears.”'

After some juggling, we all head to our assigned places. Dr. Gabe takes Shelby back to X-ray him, with Brenna and Sunita tagging along to make sure the dog doesn't eat any medical equipment. David has to leave to go school shopping with his mother. Mrs. Donovan agrees to stay in the waiting room with the boys while Gran and I check out Inky's leg. I let Sherlock escape into the kitchen, where Zoe can show him her new stapler. I'm sure he'll be thrilled.

Gran and I lead Inky into the Dolittle exam room, named for one of Gran's favorite fictional veterinarians. When she closes the door behind us, we both let out a sign of relief.

“Nothing like a visit from the Donovans to make me appreciate how calm my life is,” Gran says. “Now, let's take a look at our itchy patient.”

I help Gran hoist Inky up onto the table.
Uff!
He's got to weigh at least forty pounds. The first time I saw him, he weighed two.

“He sure has grown,” I say.

“He's what, six months old now?” Gran asks as she pets the overgrown pup and lets him smell her hands.

I flip open his medical chart. “Seven months.”

“Time flies. You are an awfully big boy for seven months,” Gran tells Inky. He flaps his tail from side to side, knocking the folder with his medical records to the floor.

Gran examines his eyes, ears, and mouth. Then she pets his head, neck, and chest, skillfully moving her hands over his fur. Animals can't tell us what's wrong with them, so vets are trained to carefully examine their bodies for clues.

At last, Gran steps back. “You're growing like a teenager, Inky. No wonder you and your brother eat everything in sight. Let's take a look at that leg.”

I hold Inky's head while Gran gently examines the area of wet fur where he's been licking and chewing. Inky flinches a bit. It must be sore.

“Bingo,” Gran says. “A hot spot. Want to see?”

I crane my neck for a glimpse. Gran separates the fur so that I can see the hot spot. Ouch. It is twice as big as a quarter and a nasty red color. No wonder Inky's been itching it. Hot spots are little skin infections caused by bacteria. Once a dog starts working on them, they can get huge overnight.

Gran shaves the fur around the hot spot and cleans it with a special solution that will help dry the skin. She gives Inky a cortisone injection to soothe the itching.

“There.” Gran studies her work. “I bet that feels better already. I'll send him home with some antibiotics to fight infection, and he'll be good to go!”

Inky lifts his right front paw.

“Look,” I say. “He wants to shake and say thank you.”

Gran takes his paw and shakes. “You're welcome, young man.” She bends over and peers at his paw.

I know what's coming next. I open a drawer and take out a special pair of nail clippers that I hand to Gran.

Gran's eyebrows flash up in surprise. “How did you know that I wanted these?”

“I've only seen you do this a thousand times,” I say.

Gran takes the clippers and spreads Inky's paw. “I guess this puppy isn't the only thing that's growing up,” she says.

I smile to myself. Some people think Gran is a little gruff, but I know she's soft on the inside. She's just not a touchy-feely kind of person, which is fine with me.

I pet Inky while Gran trims his nails. You have to be careful with a dog's toenails. They actually have blood vessels in them, and if you trim back too far, it hurts the dog and the nails bleed. But Gran is a pro. In just a few minutes, all eighteen nails are trimmed without any trouble.

Gran sets Inky on the floor and tosses him a dog biscuit. He devours it in one gulp.

“Typical teenager,” Gran chuckles. “Reminds me of you.”

“I'm not a teenager yet,” I say as I get out the broom and dustpan to sweep up the nail clippings. “I'm only twelve.”

“You eat like one.” Gran tosses another biscuit to Inky, who shakes with delight at the treat. “And you start middle school tomorrow.”

“Don't remind me,” I say.

Gran clips Inky's leash onto his collar. “You're going to love it.”

I dump the clippings in the trash. “Is that why I feel like barfing whenever someone says ‘middle school'?”

Gran looks over the tops of her bifocals at me. “You know the MacKenzie motto, my girl: ‘No Fear.”'

Easy for her to say. Gran was an awesome student. She got scholarships to college and vet school because of her high-powered brain. I must take after the other side of the family.

Gran hugs Inky, and the dog gives her a slob bery kiss. “Don't worry, Maggie. It won't be as bad as you think.”

G
ran was right. Middle school is not as bad as I thought it would be.

It's worse.

My locker is two miles away from my classes, so I have to lug my books in a backpack all day. Each books feels like it weighs fifty pounds. I'm in real danger of tipping over backward.

All of my teachers give us homework. I have to read a chapter in social studies, write an essay for English, do fifty math problems, and make a poster for health. I'm never going to get through it all, not even if I work all weekend. I wish I could go home right now and never come back. Maybe I'll spend the afternoon begging Gran to let me go back to sixth grade.

But not yet. I have to suffer through one more class: science.

As soon as the bell rings, kids pour into the halls like streams flowing into a river. Since I'm shorter than everybody, I have to go with the flow, a small fish in the current of big bodies. I let the crowd carry me up the stairs and along the length of the building to the science wing.

Here it is, Room 222. “Mr. Carlson,” it says in raised letters by the door.

I take a deep breath and cut across the fast-moving lanes of human traffic. I keep my elbows out and my head down, like I'm driving the lane to the basketball hoop.

Made it! I push open the door, and ...

Wow!

There's a
dog
in here!

Not just any dog. This is a German shepherd, purebred by the looks of him. He's lying down next to the teacher's desk, his front paws elegantly crossed over each other. He looks full-grown. His coat is tan with a big black patch that wraps around his back. His ears are dark, but his tail is a golden color. He's wearing a funny harness around his chest with a square leather handle attached to the top of it. I've never seen one like that before.

As I step into the room, the dog's ears swivel. He looks me over quickly. His eyes are soft, brown, and intelligent. You know how some dogs look smarter than others? This guy looks like he could do all my homework tonight and still have time to play outside.

Am I going to walk past this magnificent creature and sit at an empty desk?

No way!

I crouch down and hold out a hand in friendship. He sniffs me quickly, picking up the smells of pencils, books, cafeteria hot dogs (belch, belch) , and all the animals I take care of at home. He can probably smell my bad mood, too. He licks my hand once and smiles at me, his tail wagging happily.

I scratch him between his ears. “You sure are beautiful! I say. ”What are you doing in a place like this?“

“He's working,” responds a kind voice.

I look up. Sitting behind the desk is a man. He's wearing a blue-and-white-checked shirt and a tie with a map of the solar system on it. I'm not great at guessing the age of grown-ups, but he's older than Dr. Gabe and a lot younger than Gran. He has blond hair, lighter than Zoe‘s, with a reddish beard and mustache.

“Please don't bother Scout,” the man continues. “He needs to stay focused on his job.”

“I was just petting him,” I say. “I wasn't bothering him. He liked it.”

The man smiles. “I understand. He loves the attention. But he's working right now. What's your name, please?”

Am I in trouble already? Can't be. I was just saying hello to this dog—to Scout. I lift my chin and look the man straight in the eye. “Maggie MacKenzie,” I say clearly.

He shuffles through the papers on his desk, his fingertips skimming the surface.

“Margaret MacKenzie?” he asks.

“Not Margaret,” I correct him. “Maggie.”

“I'm Mr. Carlson, Maggie. Welcome to biology. If you take your seat, I'll explain all about Scout and his job.”

This dog does not look like he's working. He's lying around, waiting for something fun to happen. Mr. Carlson is busy collecting some papers, so I sneak in one more pat on Scout's head before I stand up.

“What is his job, exactly?” I ask.

Mr. Carlson puts the papers down. “He's a guide dog,” he answers. “My guide dog.” He looks up at me. “I'm blind.”