End of the Race (5 page)

“Can I help?” I offer.

“Your timing is perfect. I’m almost done.” He pulls his gloves off and blows on his red fingers. “Actually, you could salt it down.”

“Sure. You should get inside. Looks like you’re working on a case of frostbite.” I open the bag of rock salt and scoop some up in an old coffee can.

“Can’t. I gotta scoot. Mr. Quinn’s expecting me.” David puts his gloves back on and hops on his bike. He works two afternoons a week at Quinn’s Stables in exchange for riding lessons. He’s as crazy about horses as I am about dogs.

As I shake salt in zigzags over the icy cement steps, a gold SUV speeds up the drive. A stout woman in fur boots and a dress coat steps out, clutching a bloody towel and crying, “Emergency!” Whatever she’s got in there must be in bad shape.

I hold the door open. “Come right in.” I escort her toward the Herriot Room.

Gran looks up as we enter. “I’m Dr. MacKenzie. What can we do for you?”

“I’m Mrs. West,” the woman says. Her voice sounds shaky, as if she’s trying not to cry. “My little kitten, Missy, got attacked by my neighbor’s dog. He bit her badly.”

“Let’s have a look.” Gran helps Mrs. West lay the towel gently on the examining table and open it. We all gasp. A young kitten, once white-furred, is now red-furred. Her head leans sideways, blood pumping from a wound in her neck. Gran quickly grabs some gauze and applies pressure.

Poor kitty. Dread creeps through me.

“I had to pry that greyhound’s jaws off poor Missy. It was just horrible.” Mrs. West blinks back tears.

A greyhound did this? Darla said greyhounds were gentle.

Gran presses her intercom. “Taryn, would you bring me a new chart? Also, tell Brenna to prepare the recovery room and be ready for us. Maggie, prepare for surgery, please.”

I scramble into scrubs and wash with antibacterial soap.

“Can you save Missy?” Mrs. West’s unsteady voice cracks.

“We’ll do the best we can. I’ll know more after we treat her for shock and stop this bleeding. Has she had her rabies shots?” Gran asks.

“Yes. All her inoculations.”

“That’s good. These bites are deep. We’ll leave them open and treat for infection, but the wound on her neck has a major vessel torn and some muscle damage that will need immediate attention,” Gran cautions. She administers a painkiller, then cleans Missy’s shoulder area and inserts an I.V. with electrolytes for shock. Next, Gran collects some blood to type it, in case Missy needs a transfusion later.

Taryn records info on the chart as I dictate: “Missy, white female cat, four months old, multiple puncture wounds, loss of blood resulting from muscle tear and lacerated vessel. Patient in shock.” Taryn seems to be keeping her cool at her first sight of gore—not bad for a beginner.

“Thanks, Taryn,” Gran says. “Just set the chart on the counter, then show Mrs. West to the waiting room and cover the phone.”

“Sure, Dr. Mac.” Taryn escorts Mrs. West out.

“Maggie, we’ll need clippers, antiseptic wash, a
suture pack, and bandage material,” Gran says as she hooks up Missy to the heart monitor. My own heart beats double-time. There’s an awful lot of blood. I’m glad that Sunita’s not here. She loves cats so much, she’d be terribly upset.

Gran shaves the kitten around all bite areas. There’s the deep one on her neck and another on her back. She gently checks Missy’s frail body, including her neck. “No broken bones.” The kitten hardly makes a sound. I clean each injury with antiseptic and continue to apply pressure with gauze to the neck wound to reduce blood loss. As with Gingerbread, Gran decides not to put Missy under general anesthesia because she’s too weak. Instead, Gran injects local anesthetic. Once the area is numb, she slowly removes the gauze and spots the pumping vessel. She uses hemostats to clamp the vessel shut.

“Now that I’ve stopped the bleeding,” Gran says, “I can suture the torn muscle in place and then close the skin with a final layer of stitches.” When Gran’s finished, we clean up and bandage the wound.

“Missy has lost a significant amount of blood,” Gran says. “Maggie, go find Socrates. He’s the same blood type as Missy.”

I run into Gran’s office and find Socrates in his usual place—sitting in the middle of the desk on top of all Gran’s papers. I pick him up quickly and take him to Gran. Socrates may have an attitude, but he knows when Gran means business. The swish of his tail is the only indication that he’s less than happy to give blood. I hold him still while Gran draws blood from his neck with a special syringe that keeps the blood from clotting. Gran slowly administers the life-saving cells through Missy’s I.V. catheter.

We watch the blips on the heart monitor, uneven and faint. Gran looks as solemn as I feel.

I whisper softly in Missy’s ear. “Sweet thing, try to pull through.” The kitten’s ribs shudder in and out.

Gran pages Brenna to bring Missy to the recovery room. She sighs and removes her gloves. “Maggie, let’s debrief Mrs. West.”

In the waiting room, we explain to Mrs. West what we’ve done.

“Then she’s going to be OK, Dr. MacKenzie?” Mrs. West looks doubtful.

“Time will tell, but there may be internal injuries we don’t know about yet. Some animals can
handle major trauma like that, but others…well, we’ll hope for the best.” Gran gazes at Mrs. West. “You say your kitten was bitten by your neighbor’s greyhound?”

“Yes.” She nods. “That dog came racing into our yard and attacked Missy for no good reason. Missy must have climbed out of her box in the garage and wandered onto the lawn. That woman next door does not know how to control her dogs! They’re always getting out of their pens. Just last week there was still
another
dog, whining and limping around.”

“What’s your neighbor’s name?” I ask. Gran shoots me a quizzical look but doesn’t say anything.

“Roselyn. Roselyn Drescher.” Mrs. West shakes her head. “I don’t know her very well. She keeps to herself.”

Roselyn? How many Roselyns with greyhounds could there be in Ambler? “The dog that was limping, was it a reddish color?” I ask.

“Why yes, I think so.” Mrs. West smooths the wrinkles from her dress. “Why?”

“The dog and owner sound similar to a client who came in here a few days ago,” I reply.

Mrs. West’s mouth curves downward into a frown. “If anything happens to Missy…”

Brenna bursts into the waiting room, her eyes red and teary. “Dr. Mac?”

“Yes, Brenna?” Gran turns.

“We lost Missy. Her heartbeat just stopped.”

Mrs. West explodes into sobs. “My Missy!”

Each time we lose an animal, my heart breaks. I can’t help picturing that little kitten in the greyhound’s jaws.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. West,” Gran says gently. “We did all we could. Would you like to bring Missy’s body home with you?”

Mrs. West nods, then looks at us with quiet anger. “Those dogs are dangerous. I’m going to demand that the one who killed my Missy be put to sleep, or I’ll sue.”

When she’s finally out the door with the kitten’s tiny body wrapped in a towel, I turn to Gran in the waiting room. “There are no bad dogs, only bad owners—right, Gran? Maybe that greyhound had a reason for what he did. I hear they’re very gentle dogs.” I can’t believe I’m actually quoting Darla, as if she were some big expert. “Let’s talk to Roselyn. There’s something
odd going on, and I want to find out what it is.”

Gran nods wearily. “That’s not a bad idea. I’ll ask Dr. Gabe to cover, and Brenna’s here, too. Taryn, can you stay a while longer? Dr. Gabe may need your help.”

“You bet.” Taryn beams. I swear, she’s like an overeager puppy dog. Annoyance pricks at me. I go to get my coat.

I
sn’t this Mrs. West’s road?” I point to a street sign off to our right. What if it’s not the same Roselyn who brought in Gingerbread? If it is, will she be angry we tracked her down? My heart skips a beat as Gran turns onto the hilly road.

“Maggie, remember, there are always two sides to a story.” Gran looks over her glasses at me.

“Of course, Gran.” I nod.

Gran parks in front of number 23, a smaller house than the rest, with an overgrown lawn and scrubby pines lining the porch. A whirligig twirls
in the wind by the walkway. Looking closer, I see it’s a wooden dog with spinning legs.

We walk up to the porch. I gather my nerve and press the bell. Dogs bark from behind the house—two or three distinct yaps. The curtain slides back an inch, a lock clicks, and the door opens. Sure enough, it is the same Roselyn—same short hair and big green eyes in a nervous face.

“Hello, Roselyn,” Gran says.

Roselyn looks from Gran to me. Finally she asks, “Is Gingerbread all right, Dr. MacKenzie?”

“Gingerbread’s pulling through fine,” Gran answers.

I scrounge up my nerve. “Her leg is healing. But we’re not here about that. I mean, not exactly.” My face turns hot from embarrassment.

“May we come in?” asks Gran.

Roselyn holds open the screen door. “Please.” She leads us into a small room with a few chairs and a worn sofa. “Have a seat.”

A photo on the coffee table shows Roselyn with a heavy-set man in front of a stadium. Arranged along wall shelves are gold-colored trophies: greyhounds leaping in the air, greyhounds standing proudly at attention. If her dogs aren’t racing
dogs, then what are they—maybe show dogs? Her place hardly looks like a serious show-dog setup, but all these trophies…

Gran starts. “Your neighbor, Mrs. West, came into the clinic today with her kitten, Missy.”

Roselyn squirms in her chair.

“Her kitten died!” I blurt out.

Roselyn’s face stiffens. “Yes, I know. Mrs. West called me up this morning, screaming.” Roselyn’s knuckles turn white as she grips the armrests on her chair. “She’s threatening to sue me and says she’s going to have my dog, Swift, put down. Can she do that? He’s a good dog, never touched an animal before. I don’t know what came over him.” She shakes her head from side to side. “I try to watch my dogs, but sometimes they get out.” Her eyes search Gran’s.

“Do you have any idea why Swift might have attacked Missy?” Gran asks.

“Not really.” Roselyn’s eyes shift to the floor.

“Are those statuettes along your shelves racing trophies?” I ask.

No answer. Roselyn’s eyes are still focused on the rug. Why won’t she look at us?

Finally, Roselyn’s voice squeaks out, tight and strained. “OK, it’s true. Swift and Gingerbread and
all the dogs I’ve owned, they’re all racing dogs. Or rather, they were. Swift probably thought he was back at the track, chasing a lure.” Roselyn looks scared, like she did at the clinic when she first came in.

Gran exhales slowly. I can tell she’s holding back an angry response, but she speaks perfectly calmly.

“It’s not uncommon for an ex-racing dog, who’s been trained to chase a mechanical hare, to chase small animals. Has Swift been around any small animals outside of the track?”

“No. Well, one,” Roselyn replies. “Mrs. West has a full-grown cat, but Swift has never bothered it. I didn’t know about the kittens until it was too late.”

“How many dogs do you have?” I ask. Gran might be calm, but my heart is racing.

“Right now? Gingerbread, Swift, and Yellow Bird.” Roselyn’s fingers loosen their grip on the armrests. “Sometimes I have more, sometimes less.”

“Where do all the greyhounds come from?” I ask. “There’s no track around here, is there?”

“Dog racing is illegal in Pennsylvania,” Gran points out. “Roselyn, I want to make sure nothing
like this happens again. I’d hate to have to report you to the Humane Society.”

“Please don’t do that,” Roselyn says nervously. “Let me explain.” She hunkers down in her chair. “First of all, my name is Roselyn Drescher. My brother, Manny, and I opened Drescher’s Speedway, near Bridgeport, Connecticut, about five years ago. We bought Speedway from a racing family we’d met at a dog show. It seemed like a great business at first. I love dogs, always have. I loved to watch them run. They’re such graceful, beautiful creatures. Like dancers.” She smiles sadly. “It was good money, lots of excitement. All our friends got into it. The business got bigger and more complex, with dog owners from all over the East Coast.” She pauses. “Then…”

“Go on,” Gran says softly.

“Then I began to see how the dogs were handled—like objects, or business inventory, not like animals with souls. As much as I love dogs, the business became intolerable.”

“What do they do to the dogs?” I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer.

Roselyn picks at the chair fabric. “Greed does strange things to people. Not all people, mind you. Some of the owners were great. But some ran their
dogs too hard, or abandoned them when they stopped winning, or even force-fed them diuretics, which remove body fluids, to make them lighter and faster, which is against gaming commission rules. And worse.”

My stomach twists. “That’s sickening.”

“Yes,” Roselyn nods. “Sickening’s right. I had to get out, but I didn’t tell Manny at first. I was scared of him—he has quite a temper, so I eased out slowly. When Manny realized what I was doing, he threw an absolute fit! You see, he needed my help to keep Speedway running. But, in time, he calmed down some. And I’ve never regretted my decision.”