• • • • •
Friday morning I wake up early. I make sure Cuddles eats, then I clean out her cage and wait for Josh to finish breakfast. It’s time to take Cuddles to Dr. Mac’s, and I’m glad Josh has agreed to go with me. When we get to Dr. Mac’s, the door is still locked, so Josh rings the after-hours bell. Through the glass door we see Sherlock lumber out through the side door, followed by Dr. Mac. She unlocks the door.
“Good morning, everyone,” Dr. Mac says. “Thanks for bringing Cuddles by bright and early.” The vet looks a little tired.
“I hope we didn’t make you get up too early,” Josh says.
“Oh no, we were up early feeding hungry kittens!” Dr. Mac laughs. “In fact, Maggie is still feeding the last one now.”
Dr. Mac asks a couple of quick questions about how Cuddles is feeling and when she last ate, then tells us she’ll do the spay later in the morning, “When Dr. Gabe is here to help hold down the fort. You can come by after school. Cuddles should be sufficiently recovered by then, and you can take her home to rest up.”
“Okay,” Josh says.
“See you soon, Cuddles. Be good,” I say. My throat tightens as I open the latch on the cage and pet her before we go. “Will she be okay?” I ask Dr. Mac.
Dr. Mac nods, and Josh grabs my arm.
“Come on, Jules,” he says. “Cuddles will be fine. We don’t want to miss the bus. Let’s go.”
“Don’t worry,” Dr. Mac says. “You’ll see Cuddles right after school.” Then she heads down the hall toward the Dolittle Room, carrying Cuddles in her cage. Cuddles looks at me as if she is saying, Wait? Where am I going? She looks smaller and smaller as she is carried away down the hall.
“Maggie,” Dr. Mac calls out. “Grab your stuff. You’re going to be late for the bus again!”
“Let’s go,” I tell Josh. And we walk quickly to the bus stop.
Chapter Sixteen
I know that Dr. Mac is a great veterinarian and that she told me not to worry. But I can’t help wondering about how Cuddles is doing. I worry during science class, looking at the empty spot where her cage used to be. I can barely eat during lunch because I’m still worrying. So instead, I go to the library and look up rabbit spaying on the Internet. Most of the links just say how good it is to have your rabbit spayed. But a few of them describe complications. So I worry the rest of the day and the entire bus ride home. I can’t wait to get to the clinic.
David gets off the bus with Josh and me. “I promised Dr. Mac I’d help feed the kittens after school today,” David tells Josh. “Do you want to come?”
“Sure,” Josh says. “Jules is heading over to pick up Cuddles, anyway. I just need to go home first and tell my parents. I can meet you there in about twenty minutes.”
“Great,” says David. “I’ll drop my stuff at home, too. See you there.”
Josh and I head home.
Mom wants us to wash up and eat a snack before we head back to Dr. Mac’s, but I’m so nervous about Cuddles, I can barely eat. I hope she’s okay.
Dad comes with Josh and me, while Sophie stays at home with Mom.
“I’ll decorate her house some more,” Sophie says. “And make her a welcome home sign.”
When we arrive, Josh heads off to find David. Dr. Mac is with another patient, so Dr. Gabe takes Dad and me to see Cuddles in the recovery room, a quiet, dimly lit room with other cages—mostly big cages for cats and dogs. Cuddles looks so tiny and alone.
“Hey there, Cuddles,” I say. I open the latch to pet her through the top of the cage. But she moves away from my hand and crouches down in the back corner of the cage. “Is she okay?” I ask Dr. Gabe.
“Yes, the surgery went fine. No problems. She might be a little more cautious for a day or two as she recuperates.”
Dad says, “Thank you,” and shakes Dr. Gabe’s hand. Then he squats down next to me to look at Cuddles.
“Dr. Mac will be out in a minute to tell you more about postsurgery care.” Dr. Gabe says.
Dad’s cell phone rings. He goes outside to answer it so he won’t disturb the animals.
“May I stay here with Cuddles?” I ask.
“Of course,” Dr. Gabe says.
“Thanks.” I sit on the floor outside Cuddles’s cage. “I’m here, Cuddles,” I say. She stays very still. She doesn’t approach me or look at me at all.
Dr. Mac enters the recovery room and squats down beside me. She listens to Cuddles with her stethoscope.
“Cuddles is doing just fine, Jules. The incision site might be sensitive, so be very gentle and try not to let her hop around too much. And be sure she eats and drinks. It’s important to keep a rabbit’s digestive system moving. She doesn’t look at ease here with the cats and dogs in recovery, so I think she’ll be happier at home.”
“Okay,” I say, happy I can bring her home but nervous, too. “Do I need to do anything?”
“Just keep her calm and quiet,” Dr. Mac says. “And try to get her to eat a little tonight if you can. The sooner she eats, the better.”
Dr. Mac lifts Cuddles carefully out of her cage and shows me her shaved belly, where the stitches are. “You can see, it’s a little tender now, but there shouldn’t be swelling or discharge. You can check her incision site once or twice a day. Keep her cage and litter box clean and that will help keep the incision clean, too.”
“Should I feed her anything different?” I ask.
“No, just your usual, or, if she seems reluctant to eat, give her any treats she likes,” Dr. Mac says.
“She loves apples and carrots,” I say.
“Perfect,” Dr. Mac says. “After you rinse them in water, don’t dry them off. That will give Cuddles a little bit of liquid at the same time, in case she is not drinking yet. And offer her plenty of hay as well.”
“I will.”
“Call or bring her back if she isn’t eating or using her litter box by tomorrow, if she’s not her usual self in a few days, or if it looks like there is any sign of infection at the incision site. There shouldn’t be, but keep an eye out just in case.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks, Dr. Mac.”
Dad is still outside on the phone. I can see him through the front window. Dr. Mac walks with me. I carry Cuddles in her cage toward the door, where we see Josh and David coming down the hall.
“Great, there you are,” Dr. Mac tells them. “The kittens are mewing and very hungry.”
“Kitten patrol to the rescue,” says David. “I brought Josh to help.”
“The more the merrier and the sooner they can eat, the better,” Dr. Mac says. “Be sure the calico gets enough. She’s been slower to nurse, and she isn’t gaining weight like the others.”
“Will do,” David says.
“They’re in the Dolittle Room, mewing up a storm,” Dr. Mac says. “The bottles and kitten formula are there, too, all clean and ready to go. You can take it from here, right, David?”
“Sure,” he says.
“All right, then. Bye, Jules. Bye, boys. I’m off to my next patient,” Dr. Mac says, and she heads toward the Herriot Room.
“Jules is great with cats,” Josh tells David. “It’s like she has a sixth sense—Animal Sense. Can she help us feed the kittens?”
“Fine by me,” David says.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I have to watch Cuddles.”
“Just ask your dad to bring Cuddles home, or bring Cuddles in with us,” David says. “There’s plenty of room for her cage on the floor. Come on, we have to get started. You can help us with poop patrol, too.”
Of course I’d love to help with the kittens, but I think of Maggie telling me to stay away. And I think about Cuddles. She must be stressed enough from her surgery. I need to get her home and make sure she is calm and comfortable. I doubt she’ll like
being around mewing kittens right now, even though I’d sure like to be.
“No, I have to go,” I say.
“Don’t you even want to see them?” Josh asks.
“Oh okay,” I say. “Just for a minute.” I poke my head out the door and tell Dad I’ll be out shortly.
“Take your time,” Dad says, and goes back to his phone call.
I bring Cuddles in her cage and follow Josh and David into the room with the box full of kittens.
They are even cuter than last time. The two gray ones and the two black ones are noticeably chubbier, lifting their heads and mewing loudly. But the little calico is tinier than the rest and her mew is so much weaker.
David and Josh wash their hands, and I go closer to peek into the box. “Feed the calico first,” I say. “She needs it the most.”
David fills five bottles with kitten formula, and then warms them in a pot of water. “You sure you don’t want to help us?” he asks.
“Oh, I do,” I say, “but I’ve got to get home.”
“Maybe next time,” he says.
“Maybe,” I say. I pick up Cuddles in her cage and leave the clinic, trying not to bump the cage too much.
Maybe next time. I wish I could come back when Cuddles is feeling better so I could help with those tiny kittens. But there won’t be any next time. Today might be my last time at Dr. Mac’s clinic before Cuddles’s next checkup. Looks like Josh is well on his way to being a Vet Volunteer. But not me.
I wish I hadn’t squished Maggie’s project on the bus. I wish I hadn’t said anything about the whole tutoring thing, or tried to “fix it” when Maggie was talking to Mr. Hart about her project. I wish that I was better at basketball and that Maggie didn’t think I was a snoop—or even worse, a thief. Everything’s gone from bad to worse with Maggie. It’s so bad now, I can’t ever be a Vet Volunteer.
Dad helps me carry Cuddles as gently as we can back home. I bring her to my room, keep the lights dim, and sit down next to her cage. She looks at me but stays hunched and still in the back of her cage.
“How are you doing, Cuddles?” I ask. “I know how you feel. Pretty rotten, huh?”
She has her hay and rabbit food to eat, but she is not touching it. She doesn’t go near her water bottle, either. Dr. Mac said to try to get her to eat as soon as possible. So I leave her for a few minutes to rinse some leafy greens, carrots, and apple slices. But she won’t even take the tiniest bite. Not even of her favorite, sliced apples.
She lets me pet her through the top of her cage, but it is pretty clear she does not want to come out and hop around. So I pet her, talk to her, and tell her I hope she feels better soon. I offer her more carrots and apple slices one by one, but she just turns her head and refuses to take a bite.
That night, I have a hard time going to sleep, worrying about her.
Chapter Seventeen
In the morning, I wake to the familiar sound of Cuddles sipping from her water bottle. Thank goodness. The little metal pipe makes a reassuring clicking sound as she licks it to get the water.
I’m out of bed and next to her cage. “Feeling better?” I ask in a quiet voice. “Did you eat anything?”
I look at her food bowls and my heart drops. All three bowls are still full. She hasn’t touched her hay, her bunny food, or the carrots and apples and greens. In fact, the apples look brown and yucky and the greens are wilted. I check her litter box and there is just a little urine and hardly any poop. The few droppings that are there are smaller than usual.
“Come on, Cuddles. I’m glad you’re drinking, but you have to eat. And poop, too. Doctor’s orders.” I open her cage, pet her a little, remove the apples and greens, and latch her cage closed again.
Dad and I are supposed to go to Stream Cleanup Day. Josh camped out at David’s last night, and they’re probably riding bikes to the cleanup site already.
“All ready, Jules?” Dad asks as I enter the kitchen.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think I’ll stay home and watch Cuddles. She still seems a little down after her surgery.”
“Oh,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
Mom looks up. “Something’s wrong?” she asks. Is she concerned about how Cuddles is feeling, or is she concerned I might not be a responsible pet owner?
“Well, I’m doing everything Dr. Mac told me,” I say. “And Cuddles is drinking her water, but she is not eating much yet.” I don’t say I’m worried because it looks like she hasn’t eaten at all since yesterday morning.
“Didn’t Dr. Mac say that’s normal after surgery?” Mom asks.
“Yes, but she also said I should offer her treats and watch her to make sure she’s eating and using her litter box,” I say. “I don’t think I should be away from her all day. Sorry, Dad, I was looking forward to cleaning up the stream with you.”
“I’ll go with you, Daddy!” Sophie says as she jumps into Dad’s lap and grabs him tightly around his neck. Dad hugs Sophie back, but he raises his eyebrows and looks at Mom.
“Maybe I’ll go, too,” Mom says. “I’ve been stuck indoors all week getting the books set up for the store. It’ll be great to be outdoors for a change. And help out with a good cause. Jules, are you sure you won’t join us? Will you be okay alone?”
I nod.
“Yay! We’re going to the stream.” Sophie shouts, and runs to our room.
“Sophie, not so loud!” I say. “Cuddles needs calm and quiet to recuperate.”
“Sorry,” Sophie says, then I hear her whispering loudly to Cuddles, “Bye, Cuddles, see you later.”
Soon Mom, Dad, and Sophie are racing up and down the stairs to the store, then back and forth to the car in the alley, loading up plastic bags, shovels, boots, and flyers about the grand opening of Wrenches & Roses. I’m sad I’m not going with them, but when they finally leave I’m glad the house is quiet. I bet Cuddles is, too. I wash and slice a new apple, a few sprigs of parsley, and some celery leaves and return to my room, hoping to find Cuddles already eating her hay or bunny food.
Oh no! The latch is undone on her cage door. The cage door is completely open, and the cage is empty. Cuddles is gone!
Sophie must have unhooked the latch to pet Cuddles when she said good-bye, then left it completely open. I close the bedroom door. “Cuddles, here, Cuddles,” I call. She must still be in the room. I look under the beds, behind our desks, and in the closet that Sophie left open, too. I look everywhere in our bedroom, but I can’t find her. I run to the hallway. All the bedroom and bathroom doors are open, so I close them all and check the hallway, the kitchen, and the living room first. Not a trace of her. Not even a single little dropping. Now I’m really worried.
“Cuddles, Cuddles,” I call again, even though she has never come when I called.
I check the bathroom and carefully search my parents’ and Josh’s bedrooms. I hope she doesn’t chew a cord, eat something poisonous, or injure herself hopping around. Then I remember the stairs and door to the back alley. It was open when Mom, Dad, and Sophie were running up and down getting supplies for the stream cleanup. What if Cuddles got out? Could she have hopped down the stairs when no one was looking?
I should call Mom and Dad. I need help. Did they bring their cell phones? But wait. What if Mom thinks I’m a bad pet owner?
How could Sophie leave the latch open like that? Okay, think, Jules. When did they leave? Just five or ten minutes ago. Cuddles couldn’t have gotten far.
“Cuddles, Cuddles, where are you?” I whisper. I race to the stairs and go up and down them twice, trying to decide what to do. I look out in the alley and catch my breath. I don’t think she could have gotten down the stairs after being sore from her surgery. Not without anyone seeing her.
I’ll never forgive Sophie if something happens to Cuddles. I’ll never forgive myself. I shouldn’t have shown
Sophie how to open and close the latch. I should have reminded her to close it every time. I should have double-checked.
I have to keep looking. If I don’t find her in five minutes, I’ll call Mom and Dad.
I get the cordless phone from the kitchen. I check the clock. Back to my bedroom. That’s the last place I saw her. I squat down near her cage. I have to think like a rabbit. If I were feeling sore and groggy, what would I do?
Eat? No.
Run away? No.
Hide? Yes.
I lie on the floor and try to look at everything from Cuddles’s point of view. Under the beds would be good, but she’s not there.
Four minutes left.
I pick up Cuddles’s cardboard castle and put it on my bed. It’s bulky but not very heavy so I don’t expect to find Cuddles there, but I check each little hidey hole, tunnel, and room. No. No Cuddles. But oh no, maybe she was hiding there. There’s a drop of blood on the cardboard floor of the castle. Fresh blood.
I carefully pick up Sophie’s pajamas from the floor. No Cuddles, but another drop of blood.
Two minutes left.
I’m on my hands and knees, looking for more drops of blood. This is bad, really bad. It’s so quiet, I can hear my heart thumping. Then there’s a rustle in our closet. I carefully slide the closet door open, and there she is, sitting on Sophie’s robe, which has fallen to the floor. She stops chewing on the fuzzy collar of the robe and looks up at me.
“Cuddles, there you are.”
I am so relieved, but when I reach for her, Cuddles grunts at me and hops away. “Come on, Cuddles, it’s time to rest up now. You had me so worried,” I say, but Cuddles does not want to be picked up. Every time I reach for her, she hops away. She’s not as playful and as full of dancing hops as she was before she got spayed. In fact, she is slower, and she seems afraid of me. I close the closet door so she has one less place to hide. I close our bedroom door, too, and decide just to wait to see if she calms down. I put her water bottle facing the outside on her cage, and I bring her food bowls out, too, hoping she will feel hungry or thirsty after all her hopping around. I lie on my bed, talking calmly to her. And I wait.