Fight for Life

  “He was mad that I even asked questions about their health. We argued,” the owner admits. “I threatened to report him to the Humane Society for abusing the dogs. It was obvious they were sick. He picked up the cage and walked away from me.”

  “Then how did you get the puppies?” Sunita asks.

  “I followed him. When we got to his truck, I took out my wallet. I gave him all the cash I had. I just couldn’t let him take them away.”

  “Good for you!” Brenna says.

  “So you rescued these puppies yesterday?” Gran asks, gently pulling the last puppy out of the basket.

  The owner blushes. “I know. I should have called you right away. I thought the little guys just needed a clean, warm home and some food. I was going to make an appointment this weekend, but then the shaking and diarrhea started.”

  “Are you going to keep all of them?” David asks.

  “No. I can’t. I thought if I cleaned them up, I could find good homes for them.”

  Gran hands me the last puppy. I’m going to watch over this one. Brenna, David, and Sunita stand in a line along the counter, all carefully watching over two puppies each.

  Gran strides over to check on Sunita’s collie. “This one wins first place.” She puts her stethoscope against his chest. We all watch in silence, as if we’re listening for the pup’s heartbeat, too.

  “He’s breathing fast and his lungs are congested.” Gran presses her fingertips against the inside of the pup’s hind leg. “Pulse is fast and weak. His heart is struggling. Maggie, take his temperature.”

  David shifts over to watch my puppy in addition to his two so I can help Gran. I lift the collie’s tail and insert a thermometer. I think he’s too sick to notice. Gran is looking in his mouth.

  “He’s anemic. See how his gums are white? They should be pink.” Her hands glide over the puppy’s tiny body, checking for other clues to what is making him sick.

  I remove the thermometer and read it aloud. “One hundred and five.”

  “That’s what we call a fever,” Gran observes.

  Brenna is shocked. “He has a temperature of one hundred and five degrees? I thought that could kill you.”

  “The normal temperature for a dog is between 100 and 102.5 degrees,” I explain. “A temperature of 105 is high, but it’s not really, really high.”

  Brenna strokes the two puppies in front of her. “I guess it’s hard to tell just by touching them, isn’t it? Is this one too hot?”

  “Hang on,” Gran says to Brenna. “I’ll be there in a second.”

  “I heard that if a dog’s nose is dry, it means he has a fever,” David says.

  “That’s just an old wives’ tale,” Gran explains. “The only way you can take a dog’s temperature is to use a thermometer. Maggie, could you get me some Ringer’s solution?”

  I grab a bag of the clear fluid and set it where Gran can reach.

  “He’s dangerously dehydrated. These fluids will replace what he has lost from the diarrhea,” she says, hooking the solution up to a tube that leads to the pup.

  “Hand me that syringe, Maggie.” Gran points to a plastic tube with a needle on one end and a plunger on the other. I hand it to her—carefully. She fills it with medicine, then gently but swiftly inserts the needle into the pup’s foreleg. “This is an antibiotic to help fight the infection,” she explains, pushing down on the plunger. “Next!”

  I push the instrument cart behind Gran as she walks down to where David is standing and examines the mutt.

  “I bet the mother of these puppies is sick, too,” I say. “Plus, the guy at the farmer’s market was selling different breeds. Collies and Labs. It’s a puppy mill, Gran. I know it. We’ve got to do something.”

  “What’s a puppy mill?” David asks.

  Gran draws a vial of blood from the mutt. “A puppy mill is a place where dogs are bred in unhealthy conditions. Puppy mills are illegal and unethical. The people who run them spend as little as possible to raise the pups so they can make a profit when they sell them. They are horrible places for dogs, run by people who care only about money.”

  My blood starts to boil just listening to Gran. Who could do such a thing?

  “We have to shut it down and rescue the other dogs!” Brenna says, joining my cause.

  “I wish I had the time, Brenna,” Gran says, giving the mutt an injection of antibiotics. “I’ll call the animal shelter and tell them what we have here. They probably don’t have enough staff to search for the puppy mill owner, but they can watch for other pups.”

  David cranes his neck to see what Gran is doing. He loses his balance and bumps into the instrument cart. Everything crashes to the ground. The noise startles the puppies and a few of them yip. Everybody stares at David.

  “Sorry,” he says with a shrug. “I’ll try to be more careful.”

  Great. Now I’ll have to sterilize those instruments again. I quickly get Gran a new instrument pack and pick up the mess on the floor.

  “Maggie, will you look at my puppies,” Brenna asks.

  “They’re fine,” I assure her. “See? Their chests are moving up and down, and they’re warm enough. You’re doing a great job.”

  I look over at Sunita. Her eyes are huge. “Oh—oh my,” she gasps.

  “Don’t faint,” Brenna commands. “Nobody has a free hand to catch you.”

  “I won’t faint,” Sunita says. “But one of my puppies just had diarrhea, and there is a lot of blood in it.”

  I grab some towels and help clean Sunita’s puppy.

  “Yech,” says David. He leans down to the puppies he’s watching. “Don’t you do that, OK? Promise?”

  “Maggie, we’re going to need fecal samples,” says Gran.

  That means I should save the messy towels from Sunita’s pup so Gran can study the feces under a microscope for germs.

  “They can’t die from this, can they?” asks David.

  “Yes, they can,” I say.

  “Oh, gee.” David tilts his head so his puppies can see him better. “No dying, got that? No pooping, no dying.”

  “Maggie, can you check my pups again?” Brenna asks.

  I bounce from dog to dog, from kid to kid. Gran works to stabilize the patients. Sunita, Brenna, and David concentrate on the little chests in front of them. The owner stands in the corner, watching our every move. It feels like time is frozen. I am totally focused.

  “Dr. Mac!” Brenna calls suddenly.

  Gran and I rush over to see what’s wrong. One of the collies is shaking violently.

  Gran listens to the puppy’s heartbeat, then calls for the oxygen mask. But before I can get to her, the puppy goes completely still. Gran feels for a pulse, then closes her eyes.

  She didn’t find one.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “There was nothing we could have done to save him. The infection was too strong.”

  Tears cloud my eyes and my stomach drops to my shoes. Sunita and David look at the floor. Brenna holds her breath.

  Poor pup. He had such a short life. I wonder how many others are—I can’t think about it now. I have to help Gran. I sniff and wipe my nose on my sleeve.

  “Can I take him home to bury him?” the owner asks.

  Gran nods. I wrap the tiny collie in a clean towel and hand him over. He’s still, but peaceful.

  “All right, deep breath, everybody,” Gran commands. “It’s hard when animals die, but we’re all doing our best. If any of you want to leave, you can. I’ll understand.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Brenna declares. “I’m here to help.”

  “I can’t leave,” says David. “These guys need me. The puppies, I mean, not you guys. I mean, you girls.” He stutters. “You know what I mean.”

  We all turn to Sunita. She is crouched over her messy collie, her hand resting gently on its back. She looks up.

  “He’s hardly breathing, Dr. Mac!”

  Gran wheels the oxygen canister over. She turns it on, slips the oxygen mask over
his snout, then listens with her stethoscope. She gives his chest a gentle push. “Come on, come on,” she mutters. “You can do it.” Another push. The collie takes a little breath, then a deeper one. “That’s it, nice and easy.”

  We all relax. He’s going to make it.

  Once all the puppies have been examined and treated, Gran and I move them to a special oxygen cage in the recovery room, where it will be easier for them to breathe. Then we all stand together, eyes glued on our patients. It’s like when people crowd around the window in the maternity ward. We feel connected to these dogs.

  Our moment of silence ends when the front door slams shut. We hear whistling. “Dr. Gabe is back,” I explain. “He works here with Gran and me. He’s the associate veterinarian.”

  “And he’ll take over from here,” Gran interrupts. “I am officially relieving all of you of your duties. All our patients need now is some peace and quiet. Gabe and I will take good care of them, don’t you worry.”

  I wait for her to thank the others and say they can go home now. They were helpful, but it feels kind of weird to have all these kids around.

  But then Gran says, “Maggie, take them into the kitchen for a snack. I’m sure everyone’s hungry.”

  Chapter Seven

  Cool!” Brenna says as we walk into the kitchen.

  I love this room. It is in the oldest part of the house. Gran combined the original dining room and the kitchen into one giant room with a fireplace and a couch, along with the normal stuff like tables, chairs, and a microwave. A sliding glass door looks out onto the patio and the backyard. It’s the best part of the house, without a doubt.

  David stretches out on the couch. “You can bring me my grapes now.” Brenna throws a pillow at his head. “Ow!”

  “Do you want some help?” Sunita asks me.

  I scan the pantry. “There’s not a lot to eat,” I say over the noise of Brenna and David’s pillow fight. “But we have plenty of dog biscuits.”

  “You’ve got to have something else,” says David as a pillow sails over his head. “How about some ice cream or chocolate-covered pretzels?”

  “Dog biscuits, liver treats... hang on, I’m still looking. Boy, do we need to go shopping.”

  “Some people like the way dog biscuits taste,” Sunita says.

  The pillow fight stops. We all stare at her.

  “Not me,” she says, blushing. “I read it in a magazine. Really.”

  “I believe you,” I say. “Let me try the cupboard. We have pasta, canned peas, oatmeal ...” I move the oatmeal container aside. “Aha! The last of the Girl Scout cookies!”

  “That’s more like it,” says David.

  There aren’t too many cookies, so I take a jar of pickles out of the fridge and set that on the table, too. I love pickles.

  “I’ll take the Thin Mints,” David says. He crams two cookies in his mouth.

  I whistle and Sherlock trots into the kitchen. I toss him a dog biscuit.

  “Well, he certainly looks healthy,” says Sunita as she wipes cookie crumbs off her mouth.

  “Sherlock is never sick,” I say. “He’s sort of our mascot. We have a cat, too, named Socrates. Wait until you see him—he’s the boss.”

  “It must be so wonderful to be surrounded by animals every day,” Sunita says with a sigh. “What’s the best part about living here?”

  “I never really thought about it.” I take a bite of pickle. “I guess I like getting to know our patients. Animals are like people to me. Sometimes they are better than people. You know what I mean?”

  David nods. “You can trust them.”

  “And they trust you,” adds Sunita.

  “They all have personalities, and most of them are fun. It’s great to watch Gran make a sick animal feel better, or help owners understand how to take care of their pets.”

  “There must be bad parts, though,” Brenna says.

  “The worst part is when an owner doesn’t treat a pet properly. And it’s hard not to get upset and cry when animals die. But it is such a rush to help animals and their owners—that makes up for the sad times. I’m definitely going to be a veterinarian when I grow up.”

  “Which is why you should do your homework,” Brenna points out.

  “Please! I’m eating.”

  “What’s wrong with homework?” Sunita asks.

  “Maggie hates it. She’s kind of grounded because she keeps blowing it off,” Brenna explains. She pulls a pickle out of the jar. “That’s why I’m here. Dr. Mac asked me to help with some of Maggie’s chores in the clinic.” I flash her a look and she freezes with the pickle halfway to her mouth. “At least for a while,” she adds.

  Sunita takes a pickle, too. “I wish I could come here every day.”

  David slaps his forehead.

  “Brainstorm!” he shouts. “I’m a genius.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say. The girls laugh.

  “No, listen,” he says. “This is a really good idea. We should all volunteer here. We could come after school and on the weekends.”

  “Awesome,” Brenna says.

  Awful.

  “Could we?” asks Sunita.

  They stare at me like golden retrievers begging for a walk.

  “I don’t know,” I begin. “We’re sort of used to doing things on our own around here.”

  “No, really, Maggie. We’d make a great team!” Brenna says. “Think about it. I’m strong and not afraid to get dirty. Sunita is friendly and smart. Now, David. What would he do?”

  David makes a face and Sunita giggles.

  Brenna nods. “OK. He’s good for a laugh now and then. And we’re all nuts about animals. Look at how great we handled the puppies that came in today. We’ll be like junior vets or something!”

  “You did help with the puppies,” I say. “That worked out OK, I guess ... ”

  “Of course it did,” Brenna says. “Now we need a plan. We have to show Dr. Mac that she needs us every day.”

  “We don’t need a plan,” David says. “Dr. Mac loves us.”

  Brenna and Sunita look at each other and crack up.

  “Are you always this optimistic?” Sunita asks.

  “You mean unrealistic,” Brenna says.

  “You have to think positive,” David says. “Like with my mom, whenever I ask for anything, I assume she’s going to say yes.”

  “Does it work?” Sunita asks.

  “Well . . . not always,” David admits. “But it’s worth trying.” He leans back. “It’s going to work. I know it. Dr. Mac is a smart lady. She’s not going to say no to volunteers like us. I’m seeing a very nice future.”

  That’s not what I see. I see trouble.

  I get up from the table and rummage in the cupboard for a napkin so the others can’t see my face. I hope Gran says no. We don’t need their help around here—not even Brenna’s. Gran has me. I’m not a real vet, but I know how to do all the little stuff. This is my place. I don’t want anyone else around.

  “What do you think, Maggie?” Sunita asks.

  Luckily for me, the phone rings just then. “Hang on, guys.” I pick it up. “Hello?”

  There is no response. Brenna laughs at something David says. I turn my back to them and cover my ear so I can hear better.

  “Hello?” I say again louder.

  “Maggie? This is your aunt Rose.”

  “Oh, hi, Aunt Rose.” Rose is my father’s sister. She and Gran hardly ever talk. They don’t get along. Aunt Rose and her daughter, Zoe—my cousin—live in New York City. Rose is an actress in a soap opera or something.

  “How are you?” she asks. Her voice is smooth, like the announcer on a shampoo commercial.

  “Fine.” Not really. “How are you?”

  “Fabulous. I’ve been offered a role, a leading role, in a new TV sitcom. I’m leaving for Los Angeles tomorrow.”

  “Um, congratulations.”

  Brenna says something to the others, and they run back to the clinic.

  “D
o you want to talk to Gran?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I set the phone down and call Gran on the intercom to pick up.

  I have a funny feeling about this.

  Chapter Eight

  When Gran picks up, I hang up the phone and look at Sherlock. “I bet they’re in the clinic right now waiting to ask Gran if they can all volunteer. What am I going to do? How do I tell her that I don’t want their help?”

  He ignores me and vacuums up the cookie crumbs that David dropped.

  I reach down and scratch between his ears. “I can’t exactly kick them out, can I?”

  Before I can get an answer, I hear a loud thump from the waiting room. “Rrruff!” growls Sherlock. He rumbles toward the door.

  “I’m right behind you,” I call, pushing open the swinging door to the waiting room.

  That noise was a large plant tipping over. It’s lying, roots and all, on the floor. David and Brenna are standing in the dirt on either side of it.

  David points at the mess. “It’s your fault, Brenna. You clean it up.”

  “My fault!” Brenna yells. She’s steamed. “I’m not picking this up. I didn’t do anything! You were the one pretending to be a ballerina.”

  Sunita can see how confusing this is to me. “I told them that I took ballet, and then David had to prove he could dance. He pirouetted right into the plant.”

  “At least I missed the window.”

  “You still have to clean it up,” says Brenna.

  “It wasn’t my fault! You were standing in the way.”

  “Somebody better do something quickly,” Sunita warns. “Dr. Mac’s next patient is coming up the walk.”

  David grabs the plant, Brenna pushes the pot under a chair, and I scoop up the dirt with my hands just as Mrs. Cooper walks through the front door with a yowling cat carrier.

  “Hello, Mrs. Cooper! How is Ling Ling today?” I ask, holding a handful of dirt.

  “Meerow.” A light brown paw pushes through the wire door of the cat carrier. Sunita melts.

  “A Siamese! Oh, how beautiful! I love Siamese cats.” She touches the paw with the tip of her finger.

  “Meerow! Meerow!” Ling Ling cries. Siamese are the most talkative kind of cat.