Trapped

  I take a deep yoga-breath and let it out. Think calm. Think peaceful. I grab my camera and look up at the trees through the viewfinder. Their tall trunks rise into the sky majestically. I know they’re just trees, but somehow they look old and wise.

  I try to imagine how the shot will look in black and white. That’s the type of film I usually use. It’s the best way to capture the lights and darks of the forest. You can really see the details of something when you don’t have color to distract you. You see what’s true. Of course, that might just be me being “black and white” again!

  Somehow I don’t feel like clicking the shutter just now. I let the camera drop to my side and stand still for a moment, to soak it all in.

  It’s so quiet, I can hear a woodpecker drumming away on a dead tree and two chickadees calling to each other.

  Suddenly I hear another sound, a crashing noise coming from my right. I look over just in time to see a young deer leaping through the underbrush. Its white tail flashes as it bounds away, faster than I could ever run. I must have scared the animal when I moved. I wish I could call out to it, tell it that it’s safe here in the nature preserve.

  And I would have loved to snap the deer’s picture, but it was moving way too fast for that.

  I walk down to the creek now and stoop to take a closer look at a tiny fern growing out of a rock. Mom and I are trying to learn to identify the different types, but I can’t remember what this one is called. I take out my camera again and focus on the fern. Click. I’ll look it up in our field guide when I get my pictures back.

  As I straighten up, I hear something else. A whimpering sound, very faint. I know that sound.

  It’s an animal in pain.

  I listen carefully to figure out which direction it’s coming from, then tuck my camera into my basket and start to run.

  I come into a clearing just beyond the creek, near an old apple tree that still blooms sometimes in the spring. The whimpering sound is louder here, but I can’t tell what it is.

  Then I look down near the base of the tree, and I gasp.

  There’s a wolf lying there.

  No. That can’t be!

  There are no wolves in these woods. I take a closer look. It’s a dog, but the shape of his head and his thick, shaggy coat make him look like a wolf.

  This dog is in trouble. His beautiful coat—shades of cream, tan, and gray tipped with brown—is dull and matted. And he’s so thin I can practically count every rib. I can see the way his panting makes his chest rise.

  At least he’s still alive.

  I approach him carefully, trying to see if he’s wearing a collar.

  “Are you OK, boy? What happened?”

  He watches me closely and curls his upper lip, but he’s too exhausted to growl, much less snap at me. He can barely lift his head. I can’t figure it out. Why is he just lying there?

  Then I take one step closer, and I know.

  My stomach flips over. My knees turn to Jell-O. Suddenly I can’t catch my breath.

  The dog’s front leg is caught in a trap.

  Chapter Three

  I can’t move. I just stand there, staring at the dog. “Oh!” is all I can say. “Oh, no!”

  He looks up at me. His brown eyes are dull.

  I pull it together. “Wait here, boy,” I tell the dog. “I’ll be right back.” I want to stroke his fur, to comfort him, but I know better than to touch an animal in distress.

  I turn and start running. It isn’t easy, because my eyes are filled with tears, but I thread my way through the trees and take a shortcut back to the house.

  I make it back in record time and burst into Dad’s carpentry shop. He looks up, startled.

  “Brenna?” he asks. He puts down the piece of wood he’s holding, turns off the saw, and comes toward me, taking off his safety goggles. “What is it, honey?”

  “It’s a dog!” I say. “His foot is in a trap. I think he’s”—I take a huge, sobbing breath—“dying.”

  Dad doesn’t waste any time. He steps to the door of his shop. “Jayvee!” he yells. Jayvee is playing out back. “Tell Sage to call Dr. Mac’s. We’re bringing in an emergency patient. Then call Mrs. Piper and ask if you can go play with Jason for a while.” He turns back to me. “Let’s see,” he says. “We’ll need a chain cutter to get the trap off. And a first-aid kit, and probably a litter to transport the poor guy...Gloves... Something to muzzle him with.”

  He’s thinking out loud. He walks through the shop, grabbing things and handing them to me. Then we head over to the critter barn to get some more supplies. Sage meets us there.

  “What’s up?” he asks. “I called Dr. Mac. She’ll be ready when we get there.”

  “Dog in a trap,” Dad says.

  Sage curses.

  Dad doesn’t even blink at the swear word. “Come with us,” Dad says. “We may need help carrying the animal.”

  Our neighbor, Mrs. Piper, comes to pick up Jayvee, and we take off. As we head back down the path into the woods, I look at Sage, trotting next to me. His mouth is a tight line and his eyes are dark and intense. I barely recognize him. He’s not saying a word, but he doesn’t have to. I know what he’s thinking. He is furious.

  So am I. How could someone hurt an innocent animal that way? I picture the dog running along, nose to the ground and tail wagging, happy and free. Then I imagine the sickening snap of the trap, the metal jaw springing closed and clamping around his leg, and the fear the dog must have felt when he realized he was caught. Ugh. I shake my head to clear the image away and concentrate on leading Dad and Sage to the dog.

  When we come into the clearing, the dog doesn’t even move. His eyes are open and he’s still panting, but he has no energy left to react. Sage squats down and shakes his head in disgust.

  Dad moves slowly, gently. He talks to the dog in a low voice as he pulls on his gloves. Quickly, Dad wraps a soft piece of gauze around the dog’s muzzle. That will keep the dog from biting. Then Dad reaches for the chain cutter and slices right through the chain that holds the trap to an anchor buried in the dirt.

  “We’ll take that off at Dr. Mac’s,” Dad says, sighing at the mess the trap has made of the dog’s foot.

  I don’t look too closely, but what I do see turns my stomach. The wound around the trap is raw, and I think I can see bone.

  “Let’s lift him onto the litter,” Dad says to Sage.

  The litter is a piece of canvas slung between two wooden rods. Dad and Sage get in position, one on either side of the dog. I stand by. “On my count,” Dad says. “One, two, three.” They lift, I move the litter beneath the dog, and we’re ready to go.

  Dad and Sage carry the litter and I walk behind, carrying the chain cutter and first-aid kit. We’re moving more slowly now, since they have to be careful not to jostle the dog. It seems to take hours to get back to the house, even though it’s really only minutes.

  I open the gate of Dad’s pickup, and Dad and Sage ease the litter into the truck bed. I hop in next to the litter while the two of them get into the front seats. I’m not usually allowed to ride in back, but this time Dad doesn’t try to stop me. He starts up the truck and takes off. We’ve barely spoken a word.

  I study the dog lying next to me. His eyes are glazed, and he’s panting harder than ever. I check the second hand of my watch and try to count his respirations, his breaths. Dr. Mac will need that information. But the road is bumpy and I can’t concentrate. And I know better than to reach over and take his pulse, even though he’s muzzled. I don’t want to make him any more stressed than he is.

  He’s wearing a worn leather collar. It has no tags that I can see, but the collar means he must once have been somebody’s pet, even if he’s a stray now.

  I talk to him in what I hope is a low, soothing voice like the one Dad was using, but I can’t hide how upset and angry I am. “It’s gonna be OK, boy,” I say, even though I’m not so sure.

  He needs a name. I can’t just keep calling him “boy.” We do
n’t usually name the animals we rehab, but this case is different. “Chico,” I say softly. That means boy in Spanish. The dog’s left eyelid twitches. “Chico,” I repeat. “That’s your name. Listen, Chico, we’re going to do everything we can to help you. Dr. Mac is the best vet in the world.”

  I shout to Dad through the little window between the pickup bed and the cab. “How long do you think he was in that trap?” I ask.

  I see Dad’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He looks tired, sad. There are little bits of sawdust in his beard. “Almost too long,” he shouts back, shaking his head. “It looks like he may have tried to chew off his own foot to escape.”

  I hear Sage swear again. This time Dad shoots him a look. “That’s enough,” he says.

  “Enough?” Sage asks. “What, so I’m supposed to sit here politely while some idiot is torturing animals?” He folds his arms across his chest. “OK,” he says. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. Actions speak louder than words, anyway.”

  Dad looks over at him. “What exactly do you mean by that, Sage?” he asks.

  Sage just shakes his head, refusing to speak.

  “Sage.” There’s a warning in Dad’s voice.

  Sage looks out the window, his mouth set in that hard line.

  I turn back to Chico. “It’s gonna be OK,” I tell him again. “We’ll take care of you.”

  Maggie runs out as soon as we pull into the clinic parking lot. “What’s going on?” she asks. Sunita, David, and Zoe are right behind her.

  “It’s a dog,” I explain. “He got caught in a trap.”

  I hear gasps, then questions, but I’m too distracted to tell them any more. Dad and Sage are guiding the litter out of the truck.

  “Oh, man,” Maggie groans when she sees Chico. “That dog is in trouble.” She runs into the clinic to let her grandmother know that we’re here.

  Zoe holds the door for us. Sunita and David just watch the litter go by, shaking their heads.

  “That’s awful,” Sunita says. “Aren’t those traps illegal?”

  We follow Maggie past the reception area and beyond the two exam rooms, right into the operating room. Dr. Mac has prepped the stainless steel table by disinfecting it and putting down a warm pad covered with an old towel. The pad, called a water blanket, is heated with hot water and helps stabilize animals who might be going into shock.

  Dr. Mac asks Maggie, Sunita, and David to go back to their regular Sunday jobs, cleaning the reception area and the exam rooms. “Brenna, you can stay in here and help,” she tells me.

  Dad and Sage gently lift Chico off the litter and onto the table. He doesn’t even seem to notice or care where he is.

  Frowning as she gazes down at the injured dog, Dr. Mac runs a hand through her short gray hair. “I guess I won’t need to sedate him,” she says.

  “He’s pretty out of it,” Dad agrees.

  “But let’s get a real muzzle on him, just to be safe,” Dr. Mac continues. Then she looks at me. “You found him?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “We’ll do everything we can,” she tells me.

  “I know,” I say. “That’s what I’ve been telling him. I’ve been calling him Chico.”

  “Chico?” she asks. She looks at him again and pushes up her sleeves. “OK, Chico,” she says. “Let’s get a temperature, pulse, and respirations.” She works quickly and efficiently, touching Chico gently. She reels off the numbers, and I scribble them down on a clinic record sheet.

  Dr. Mac runs her hands all over Chico’s body, checking for injuries. “Hmmm, he’s definitely malnourished,” she says, as she feels his ribs. She takes a gentle pinch of his skin, lets go, and watches to see how long it takes the pinched part to spring back to normal. “Dehydrated, too. Brenna, can you grab an I.V. bag of Lactated Ringer’s? We’ll get him started on that right away.”

  I get a bag from the cupboard and hang it on a metal stand, the way we’ve learned. Dr. Mac connects some plastic tubing to the bag. Then she inserts an I.V. catheter into Chico’s left rear leg. “Normally, I’d want to put this in a foreleg,” she says, “but it might be in our way.”

  After she gets the I.V. going, she prepares a couple of injections. “Antibiotics,” she says, as she gives Chico a shot. “And some steroids for shock. I’ll give him pain medication, too.”

  “What about a rabies shot?” I ask. “In case he hasn’t had one recently.” There’s no way to tell, since he doesn’t have any tags on his collar.

  Dr. Mac shakes her head. “We can’t give him a rabies shot, or any other vaccinations, until he’s recovered. We don’t want to put any more stress on his immune system. For now, we’ll just have to be careful when we handle him.”

  Chico is still lying there quietly. The only movement that I can see is in his rib cage. He’s panting a little bit.

  “OK, let’s get this thing off,” Dr. Mac says, making a face at the trap. “If you two can help . . .” She looks at my dad and Sage. “I’ll hold Chico and stabilize the leg while you pry the jaws apart.”

  Dad and Sage step forward. I can’t see exactly how they do it, but in a minute the trap is off and Dr. Mac is looking at Chico’s leg.

  “Badly damaged,” she says, shaking her head. “That trap’s been on for a while, and it’s cut right through some muscles and tendons. The bone may even be fractured, and there’s probably nerve damage.” She flushes the wound with sterile saline solution so she can see it better.

  “But you can fix it, right?” I ask.

  For a second, she doesn’t answer. She’s applying some ointment to the wounds, and she doesn’t look up at me.

  “Dr. Mac?” I need to know.

  “I’m not sure, Brenna,” she tells me, meeting my eyes. “The tissue beneath the area where the trap was may be dead, beyond saving. If it is, it could become gangrenous, and that kind of infection could kill Chico.”

  “So, what are you saying?” I hold my breath.

  “We have to get him stabilized first, no matter what. Tomorrow, I’ll take another look at the wound and see how it’s doing. If there’s any blood still moving through the foot, we may be able to save it.” She pauses and looks down at Chico. “But there’s a good chance I’ll have to amputate.”

  Sage shakes his head in disgust. “If that dog loses its leg—” he begins, like he’s going to make some kind of threat.

  Dad shushes him. “Not now, Sage.”

  I see Dr. Mac’s eyes go from Dad to Sage. She knows my family pretty well, and she can tell when there’s trouble between us. But I can’t think about the tension between my dad and Sage right now. I’m trying to make sense of what Dr. Mac just said.

  “Amputate?” Sunita looks horrified.

  It’s an hour later. Chico is settled in the recovery room, which has a row of cages in it supplied with extra-comfy blankets. The room is kept warm and quiet, and recovery room patients are checked frequently. There’s a clipboard attached to each cage to keep track of information about things like medications and vital signs.

  Chico is still very, very weak, and I can tell that Dr. Mac is worried about him. Dad and Sage are on their way home, and Dr. Mac is writing up notes.

  I’m not ready to leave, so I join my friends as they clean the reception area of the clinic. I pick up a rag and go through the motions of dusting while I fill everybody in on Chico’s status. Sunita’s not the only one who’s shocked to hear he might lose his leg.

  “I can’t believe it!” Zoe says.

  “I can’t believe it, either,” I echo.

  “Poor Chico. It doesn’t have to be the end of the world, though,” Maggie says, trying to cheer us up. “Last year Gran had this patient, an Airedale named Buck. His paw was broken really badly when he was hit by a car, and she had to amputate. That dog was up and walking around, like, ten hours after the surgery! And now when he comes in, it’s like he always had three legs. You should see him chase after a ball or a stick. Buck runs just as fast as any other dog.”

  “Still
,” David says, leaning on his broom, “it’s awful. But at least he’s not a horse. Horses have to be put down if they break an ankle and the bone can’t be repaired.”

  David is our resident horse expert. He spends as much time over at Quinn’s stables, helping to take care of his favorite horse, Trickster, as he does here at the clinic.

  “Maybe she won’t have to amputate,” Zoe says hopefully. She squeezes out her mop. “Maybe he’ll be OK.” Zoe’s always trying to look at the bright side, but even she knows things don’t always work out the way you hope they will. One of her favorite dog patients died of cancer a few months ago.

  “I hope he will be.” Sunita strokes Socrates, Gran’s fat, rust-colored tabby. He’s sleeping on the counter, in the middle of a pile of paperwork that Sunita is trying to organize.

  Sunita has bonded with that cat, big time. According to Maggie, Socrates has never let anyone else get as close to him as Sunita is. He must sense what a huge cat lover she is. “I wonder where Chico’s owners are,” Sunita adds. “They must be worried about him.”

  “Dr. Mac says we should get to work on that,” I tell her. “We’re supposed to call the shelter and the police and let them know he’s here, in case somebody is looking for him. I said I would make some signs, too.”

  “I’ll help,” Sunita offers.

  “We can all help,” Maggie says. She looks around. “I think we’re done here, anyway. Let’s go into the house and work on signs right now.”

  “I’ll make popcorn for everyone.” Zoe loves to feed people. “I think a snack might make us all feel better.”

  She means well, but I know it’s going to take a lot more than popcorn for my mood to improve. It’s been a long, hard day, and Chico’s life—or at least his leg—is still in danger.

  Chapter Four

  I know we shouldn’t be doing this. Dr. Mac and my parents would be furious if they knew. But I can’t help myself. I’m too furious not to do it. Maggie feels the same way. She was really upset and angry about what happened to Chico.