End of the Race (2 page)

A girl sits at the receptionist desk, filing charts. Her tightly curled black hair is held back by two yellow clips, which match her sweater. The normally messy desktop has been straightened up. All the active charts and phone messages are in neat piles. She’s even put the jumble of pens in a Dr. Mac’s Place coffee mug!

“Who are you?” I ask. Why is she sitting at the desk, and where is Gran? Sunita’s usually the one who
straightens up the desk. I wonder how she feels about this.

“I’m Taryn. Taryn Barbosa. Dr. Mac asked me to help out today.”

“What for?” Brenna will be back in town soon and David’s right across the street. We don’t need another assistant.

“Something about her granddaughter coming in late from basketball practice, and she needed someone to fill in.” Dimples crease her dark cheeks.

“I’m her granddaughter, Maggie.” Oh, great, joining the basketball team is suddenly a trade-off for working at the clinic?

“You look familiar, Taryn,” Sunita says. “You go to Elizabeth Blackwell Elementary, don’t you? Didn’t you come in last year with your sick canary?”

“Yep. And I also came here last year with my sick rabbit. Dr. Mac did a great job with her. But she died this fall. She just got too old.” Taryn looks sad about the rabbit but pleased that Sunita remembers her. Suddenly, I remember her, too. Taryn is the fastest runner at Blackwell, our old school. But what does she know about animals?

“Nice to meet you, Taryn,” says Sunita, then she
turns to me. “I’m going to check the meds inventory in the storeroom.”

“Need any help?” asks Taryn.

“Thanks, but I can handle it,” Sunita replies.

Dr. Gabe, Gran’s associate vet, steps out of his office. “Hey girls, how was the first day back at school?”

“Ugh,” I groan. Sunita shrugs.

“That bad?” His handsome face crinkles into a grin as he pulls on his coat. “Will you tell Dr. Mac I’m off to check on that tired mama cow?”

I nod. “Sure.” He helped yesterday with a tricky breech calf birth on a farm near Dr. Mac’s Place. “Where’s Dr. Mac?” I ask Taryn.

“She’s putting the kittens back in their pen. Not only were they chock-full of roundworms, but they needed another flea bath. Yuck.” Taryn gets up. “I’ll go get her for you.”

“That’s OK.” I start down the hall to help Gran when a loud vehicle rumbles up the drive. I run to the window and pull back the curtains.

An old blue truck pulls in. A woman in a faded woolen jacket jumps out, leading a badly limping dog up the steps. The doorbell jangles.

“Can I help?” Taryn beats me to the door and holds it open.

“Is this the animal clinic?” asks the woman. Her huge green eyes look frightened.

“Yes,” I say, glancing at the dog. It’s a bony greyhound the color of gingerbread, whimpering and shivering. “Your dog looks cold. You’d better come in, not that it’s much warmer in here.”

“Thanks.” She stamps her snowy boots on the floor mat. “My name’s Roselyn.”

Gran hurries into the waiting room. “Hi, girls. Sorry, I was tied up on a phone call.” Gran rubs her arms. “Brrr…That storm is really chilling everything down quickly, isn’t it?”

“Snow’s about a foot deep already,” Roselyn says.

Gran leans over the greyhound for a better look. “Hello, what’s the matter today?”

“Dog’s got a bad leg,” Roselyn says. She looks uncomfortable.

“I see.” Gran spots the crooked bandage around the dog’s leg. “Bring her right in.” She motions Roselyn into the Dolittle exam room.

I can’t help until I disinfect my hands, so I go to the sink and turn on the faucet. The water is cold and stays that way. It won’t heat up. How could we be out of hot water? Suddenly, I realize why
everyone’s so cold. “Gran, the heat is off!”

“Oh, drat, I knew we should have bought a new boiler last year,” Gran sighs. “Maggie, could you set out heat lamps for the kittens and the boarders?”

Sunita walks in with the meds order form on a clipboard. “Hi, Dr. Mac. We’re running low on some meds.”

“Sunita, glad you’re here,” Gran says. “Could you help Maggie with the heat lamps? Taryn, please call David Hutchinson and the boiler repairman. Sunita, show her where their numbers are on the Rolodex.” As she gives orders, Gran removes the bandage and feels gently up and down the greyhound’s swollen leg. The dog yelps as Gran probes with her fingers. “How long has she been like this?”

Roselyn shakes her head. “Not sure. The dog’s not really mine. Maybe a week?”

Gran frowns. “I need to take some X-rays. You girls hurry with those lamps!”

I’m itching to help with the greyhound, but the lamps come first. The animals, especially the kittens, mustn’t get chilled.

W
e’ll need at least six heat lamps, two for each area,” Sunita reasons. I race to check the closet.

“Here are four.” I grab one in each hand.

The doorbell clangs and David Hutchinson, our volunteer from across the street, barges in. “’Scuse me, Maggie.” He eyes the lamps. “Things are sure heating up in here, girls!” he cracks.

“No time for jokes, David.” I check the lamps to make sure they’re working.

“Dr. Mac needs you immediately in the Dolittle Room,” Sunita tells him.

Sunita and I carry the lamps to the kittens’ pen. The kittens are piled together to keep warm, except
for one with a brown eye patch, who totters around.

“This poor baby’s shivering,” Sunita whispers. She puts him down next to the others. “There, little lost one, come get warm.”

I place one lamp on a nearby table and the other across from it, making sure they’re high enough that the kittens can’t climb up, and far enough away that they won’t get burned. I turn both lamps on.

We go to another bank of cages that holds a rabbit, an old gray cat, and Podge. Podge’s teeth stick out from the corners of his mouth, which is matted with drool. “Don’t worry, Podge, nothing a little dental wizardry can’t fix.” I pat him through the bars while Sunita turns on the other two lamps.

“Quick,” Sunita says, “we need two more lamps for the large boarding kennels.” She runs to the back storeroom while I search another supply closet. An avalanche of supplies tumbles down. What a mess. Finally, one more lamp!

“Found one,” Sunita calls as she runs back.

“Me too,” I reply. We enter the kennel area to a burst of barks. “Boy, it’s nippy in here!”

We position the lamps at a safe distance from the
dogs. I pause by each dog to say a quickie hello. “Hey, Sparks. Hi, Goldy. You warmer now, Fletcher?” Fletcher sneezes. I pat his floppy spaniel ears. “Got to run. There’s a really sick greyhound. See you later.” He cocks his head and looks at me with pleading eyes. “I promise.”

Sunita’s still fussing with the lamps.

“C’mon, let’s hurry,” I say to her. “I want to get back to the greyhound.”

Gran gives us an update. “Just took X-rays, and the boiler repairman’s on his way. David’s hauled over several buckets of hot water from his house to use for scrubbing up.”

The greyhound lies on the metal examining table. Her right front leg is terribly swollen, with a line of nasty, oozing cuts. David’s hands steady the dog while Roselyn hovers by nervously. What are the cuts from? Did the dog fall on something?

David’s in my spot.
Poor girl, I should be next to you, comforting you,
I think.

“Prepare for surgery, girls,” Gran directs. “I could use your help while I clean and treat her wounds.” Gran often asks us to help during surgical
procedures, especially if Dr. Gabe is gone. “David, could you help Taryn cover the front desk? The boiler repairman will soon be here. Will you show him where to go?”

“Sure, Dr. Mac.” David rushes off to help Taryn.

Sunita and I wash with disinfectant soap and pull on scrubs—surgical garb.

I take the dog’s temperature. “Her temp is one hundred five, Gran.” Normal is around one hundred one degrees.

“She has a serious fever from the infection,” says Gran. She looks at Roselyn and shakes her head. “It may be too late to help her.”

I know what Gran is thinking—the same thing I am. Why did this woman wait so long to get help?

Roselyn’s brow creases with worry. “I thought I could heal the cuts on my own with antibiotic ointment and gauze—I didn’t know it would get this bad.” I feel sorry for Roselyn, but much sorrier for the dog.

Gran prepares the greyhound for an I.V. With the electric clipper, she shaves the fur from the left foreleg and from around the infected areas. Gently, I hold the dog’s head down when she tries
to lick her wounds. “Stay calm, now,” I whisper.

Gran swabs the uninjured left foreleg with antiseptic and inserts a catheter for the I.V. “She’s one sick dog. We need to treat the infection immediately and try to reduce her fever with fluids.”

I stroke the greyhound’s copper-colored head gently. “Hang on, girl.”

“Sunita, we need an antibiotic drip,” Gran says.

Sunita brings over a bag of antibiotics. Gran inserts the meds into the I.V. and hangs the bag on the I.V. pole. Next, she injects the dog with a painkiller.

The greyhound jumps and whimpers. I stroke her softly. “What’s her name?” I ask.

“Gingerbread.” Roselyn’s face reddens as if she’s on the verge of tears. “Will she make it?”

“Time will tell. Sunita, will you please show Roselyn into the waiting room? Families of the animals are generally not allowed in the room during procedures,” Gran explains gently.

“I understand.” Roselyn wipes her eyes on her shirtsleeve as Sunita leads her out.

Gran retrieves the X-rays and clips them onto the light box. “Hmmm…this poor girl’s had quite a tumble. She
has two stress fractures of the right radius. Another few centimeters and this would have been a compound fracture. That means she’s broken the bone in her right front leg in two places—but not all the way through.” Gran points with her pencil to the places on the film.

Sunita returns, and we all examine the film more closely. “I see it, three inches below the joint,” Sunita says. “Was Gingerbread hit by a car?”

“Probably not,” Gran replies. “These injuries are not typical of a car accident. They look like stress fractures—the kind of injury that comes from running very fast and falling.”

I look down at Gingerbread. Her soft brown eyes gaze into mine.
Were you running? Did you fall? I wish you could tell us what happened.
She licks my hand.

Taryn pops her head in. “Dr. Mac, can I help?”

Oh, brother, she shouldn’t be in here.

“Taryn, you’re being a great help at the receptionist desk. Just stay there and keep answering the phone,” Gran says.

“Will do, Dr. Mac,” Taryn chirps on her way out.

“If it was
a fall, Gingerbread really scraped herself in the process,” Gran notes as she swabs out the lacerations with orange iodine antiseptic. It’s a good thing Gran didn’t ask for Taryn’s help—Taryn would surely freak over all the pus and blood in here. Working in a veterinary clinic takes some getting used to.

“I hate to put this dog under with that fever, but those lacerations look ugly and will be very painful to clean up,” says Gran. “I’ll probably have to remove some dead skin. I’ll wait to suture the cuts until after the infection and swelling are gone.” Gran prepares an injection of creamy white liquid.

“What’s that, Dr. Mac?” Sunita asks.

“It’s propofol,” Gran replies. “It’s an ultrashort-acting anesthetic that I always use on greyhounds. They’re very sensitive to anesthetics.”

Slowly, Gran gives the propofol injection to relax the dog. Gingerbread’s muscles go limp. I stroke her to help calm her down.

Wait a minute. This dog is way more than relaxed—her chest isn’t moving at all! “Gran—she’s not breathing!” My stomach twists. I can’t catch my breath, either.

Gran quickly checks the color of Gingerbread’s gums. “Sunita, bring the anesthetic machine and an endotracheal tube. Hurry.” Sunita. runs back with the tube, and Gran slides it down the dog’s windpipe. She connects it to the anesthetic machine and gives Gingerbread several breaths of oxygen.

I watch Gingerbread’s chest. “She’s breathing, Gran, but just barely.” Tears prick my eyes.
Hang in there, Gingerbread.
I listen again. “The breaths are coming faster.”