“Let me guess. Cat food is bad for iguanas.”
“You got it. He needs lots of fresh greens, with some veggies and fruit every once in a while. Iggy’s bones are weak and spongy. They’re close to breaking. He needs a total change in diet.”
She gently moves her green patient to a small cage. There is a pile of crisp leaves in a bowl for him. Iggy sniffs the leaves suspiciously, then turns up his nose.
“Isn’t he going to eat them?” I ask.
“He thinks cat food tastes better. It’s what he’s used to,” Gran says as she washes her hands briskly with hot water and soap. “Changes are hard. I’m sure you’d agree. Now...” she starts, turning her full attention on me.
Gran has blue eyes. When she wants to (like now), she can make them like lasers, pinning her helpless victim against the wall.
Here it comes.
“The halls are crowded, the teachers are crazy, and you have a ‘ton’ of homework,” she says. “Since you have so much of it, you should get started right away, don’t you think?”
We’re interrupted by the jangling sound of the bell over the front door. The next patient has arrived.
I open the door.
I don’t believe it—it’s Scout! He’s sitting next to Mr. Carlson in the middle of the waiting room, holding up his right front paw. The fur is stained with blood. Mr. Carlson turns toward us.
“We need the vet right away.”
Chapter Five
What happened, Mr. Carlson?“ I ask anxiously as Gran lifts Scout onto the exam table.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Carlson says. “Who is speaking?”
“It’s me, Maggie MacKenzie, from eighth-period biology. Is Scout OK? Is his foot broken?”
Gran holds up her hand. “He just got here, Maggie. Give me a few minutes.”
“Maggie? What are you doing here?” Mr. Carlson asks, puzzled until he makes the connection. “Ahh, Dr. Mac—MacKenzie!” he says. “You’re related?”
Gran scratches Scout between the ears. “Maggie is my granddaughter. She lives with me and helps out at the clinic.”
My teacher nods. “You told me about that at the end of class, didn’t you?”
I start to nod, then say, “Yes. What happened to Scout?”
Mr. Carlson takes a deep breath and quietly explains. “I stepped on his paw. We were running late because we got lost. When I realized what time it was, I rushed and landed right on Scout’s paw with my boot.”
I glance at his feet. Mr. Carlson wears fancy cowboy boots. I didn’t notice that in class. They are pretty neat looking, but I can see how their thick heels could have hurt a paw.
While Mr. Carlson’s talking, Gran quickly examines the dog’s eyes and mouth and takes his pulse. She always checks an animal’s overall health before she zeroes in on what is bothering him. Scout watches Gran, but he keeps one eye on Mr. Carlson, too. I think the guide dog looks a little anxious. Maybe he thinks he messed up.
“I could tell he was limping right away,” Mr. Carlson continues, “and I felt the blood on his paw. I called a taxi and told the driver to bring me to the best vet in town. She brought me here.” He rubs his forehead. “I hope his foot’s not broken.”
Gran slips on a pair of latex gloves. “Let’s not jump to conclusions before we have all the facts. Scout can put weight on the paw, which is a good sign. I’m going to take a closer look now. Mr. Carlson, would you please ask Scout to lie down?”
“Scout, down,” Mr. Carlson commands.
Scout obeys right away, stretching until he is lying down perfectly. He looks at Mr. Carlson expectantly. He’s waiting for praise. You should always congratulate a dog when he’s done the right thing.
Mr. Carlson is silent.
“Good boy, Scout,” I say loudly. I reach over and pet his head, and he pants happily. “He listened to you perfectly, Mr. Carlson,” I say.
“The guide-dog school trained him very well,” Mr. Carlson says.
Scout looks at his human companion, eagerly waiting for something, anything, but Mr. Carlson doesn’t move toward him.
Gran looks at me and gives a little shake of her head. She’s thinking the same thing I am, but now is not the time to mention it.
“Want me to hold his head?” I ask.
“Sure,” Gran says. She gently touches Scout’s left paw, watching him closely.
“Isn’t it his right paw that’s hurt?” I ask Gran.
“It is,” Gran says, squeezing the left paw a little. “Some dogs don’t like their paws touched at all. I’m starting with his good one to see if he is comfortable with it.”
Scout looks relaxed. He lets Gran feel his good paw without any complaint.
“Good boy,” Gran says as she gives him a friendly pat. “Now let’s see the other one.”
She picks up the injured paw and cradles it carefully in her hand. Scout watches her, but he isn’t showing any signs of pain.
“Maggie, get me an antiseptic wash and some gauze pads. I need to clean off this blood.”
I quickly hand the big bottle to Gran, and she gently sprays antiseptic over Scout’s paw. I get a handful of paper towels ready to sop up the mess.
“That’s better,” Gran says. She bends over to see the pads of the paw. When she touches his right paw, Scout whimpers and tries to pull it out of her hands.
“Shh, shh,” I say softly. I stroke the fur on his neck and shoulder. “I know it hurts,” I say, “but it’s just for a minute. Then she’ll make it feel better. It’s OK, Scout. You’re a good dog.”
I look over at Mr. Carlson. He can’t see any of this. I close my eyes to imagine what it’s like for him. I can hear Scout panting, Brenna talking out in the waiting room, a radio playing down the hall. Scout whimpers again, and I open my eyes.
“How does it look?” Mr. Carlson asks.
“Not too bad,” Gran answers. “We washed the blood off. He has a cut on the side of the pads. The boot pinched it. His nails are in good shape—none of them are split or broken. That’s really good. It can be very painful for a dog to lose a toenail. Right now I’m feeling his metacarpals, the little bones in his foot. His foot pads are a little swollen and tender, especially around the cut, but I don’t think anything is broken.”
After working her fingers along the bones in his paw, ankle, and foreleg, Gran gently flexes Scout’s foot. Scout doesn’t flinch.
“Ah, you’re fine,” Gran tells him. “Do you want to feel, Mr. Carlson?”
“Yes, thank you,” my teacher says. He steps closer to the exam table.
“Let me show you on his good leg,” Gran suggests. She takes Mr. Carlson’s right hand and sets it on Scout’s left leg. Scout wags his tail and leans against Mr. Carlson’s arm.
Gran plows ahead. “Can you feel how thick the skin is on his pads?” Gran asks as she guides Mr. Carlson’s fingers to the bottom of Scout’s paw. “It is kind of like a moccasin—thick enough to protect, but sensitive. It is bruised, but it will heal. Scout’s bones are fine. He has a compression injury along with a contusion.”
“Meaning my boot squashed his paw and cut it,” Mr. Carlson adds with a wince.
“Exactly,” Gran says. “But don’t be too hard on yourself. These things happen to everyone.”
“How long will it take Scout to recover? Should he rest? Can he walk with me?”
“It’s not that bad,” Gran says with a friendly laugh. “I’ll bandage his paw, but he can walk fine. He can still guide you. The skin will heal quickly. I’ll give you some antibiotic ointment to use.”
Mr. Carlson frowns. “The bandage will need changing, won’t it?”
“I could change the bandage for you,” I say. “After class. Or Gran can show you how to do it.”
Gran rips open a package of sterile pads. “Come close and put your hands on mine as I wrap the bandage. Then you can try it on your own.”
Mr. Carlson thinks about it for a minute, then nods his head once. “That might work.”
Gran wraps the injured pa
w with Mr. Carlson following every step. “Maggie tells me that you and Scout are new partners,” she says. “How long have you been working together?”
“Exactly one week. We’re going back to the guide-dog school tomorrow for a follow-up visit. It’s a good thing, too. I have lots of questions.”
“Scout looks like a skilled guide,” Gran says. “I’m sure the two of you make a terrific team.”
Scout wags his tail happily. He can tell when someone gives him a compliment.
“We’re still learning,” Mr. Carlson says. “I wish we had had more time to get used to each other before I went back to teaching. There’s just so much going on right now with school starting: my students, my dog, not getting lost in the building... ”
“Didn’t they teach you about all this stuff at the guide-dog school?” I ask.
“They did a great job,” Mr. Carlson says. “But it’s still a big adjustment.”
Gran tapes the bandage in place. “I’ve read about guide-dog training, but I’ve never seen the school. Do you want some company tomorrow? ”
“That would be great,” Mr. Carlson says. “In fact, I’d feel better if you came along. You can explain what happened to the school’s veterinarian. ”
They discuss the details of getting together on Saturday while I put away the bandaging supplies. After breakfast, Gran will pick up Mr. Carlson and Scout and drive to the guide-dog school in her van.
“Would you like to come, too, Maggie?” Mr. Carlson asks as Gran helps Scout off the table.
Spend Saturday with Scout?
Scout shakes his coat once and looks up at me.
“Sure!”
Scout grins and wags his tail.
“Good. That’s settled,” Mr. Carlson says as he bends to pick up Scout’s leash. “You’re sure it won’t hurt his foot to guide me?”
“Scout’s honor,” Gran says, with a chuckle.
Mr. Carlson grins. “That’s a good one, Dr. Mac.”
Scout whines just a tiny bit and scootches closer to Mr. Carlson. He looks up at his companion, waiting. Why doesn’t Mr. Carlson pet Scout? That little whine was Scout’s way of asking for attention. Maybe my teacher’s not much of a dog person.
“Why don’t you give him a hug,” Gran suggests. “I think Scout could use some reassurance.”
Mr. Carlson pats Scout’s head. “That’s the kind of thing I have trouble remembering,” he admits. “I still feel awkward around him. Between teaching again and getting used to Scout, my brain is ready to explode. I feel like a kid—a kid with too much homework and a pop quiz every day.”
I know exactly what that feels like.
Chapter Six
This is torture.
I am locked in a speeding van with my grandmother and my biology teacher, who spend the two-hour drive to the guide-dog school yakking about mice and frogs and microscopes. I wish someone would develop one of those sci-fi transporters. We’d be with the dogs in no time!
Scout sleeps by Mr. Carlson’s feet. I thought maybe he could sit next to me, but Gran said no. I think she wants Scout to be as close to Mr. Carlson as possible, to help them bond. I don’t know why Mr. Carlson didn’t click with Scout right away. Maybe it’s because he never had a dog before. I just hope it doesn’t hurt Scout’s feelings. Even working dogs need a little TLC—tender loving care.
The guide-dog school is on the edge of a busy town called Franklin. The school reminds me of a college campus, with low brick buildings and walking paths that wind around beautiful gardens. As we park in the visitors’ lot, we see a small group of blind people with their dogs and instructors walking down the sidewalk toward town.
I sit up straighter. The guide dogs are gorgeous: they’re golden retrievers, black Labs, and German shepherds. They walk quickly with their heads up, tongues lolling out of their mouths, and tails wagging eagerly. An entire school devoted to people and dogs—sign me up!
Before Mr. Carlson takes Gran to the veterinary center, he introduces me to John Liu. John was his instructor. He trained Scout and taught Mr. Carlson how to work with the dog.
John (he says I have to call him that) has short black hair and is wearing jeans, a dark green polo shirt, hiking boots, and a faded Mets baseball cap. He looks more like a mountain climber than a teacher.
“Pleased to meet you,” I say as I shake his hand. Gran is big on hand shaking.
“Pleasure to meet you, too,” he says.
“We thought you might be able to show Maggie around,” Mr. Carlson says.
“I’d love to,” John answers.
We agree to meet at the van later. Gran, Mr. Carlson, and Scout leave to visit the school’s clinic. John turns to me.
“Now, Maggie, I could give you a tour of the grounds, complete with video presentation and an armful of brochures.”
Oh, no. That sounds like a class trip to the Museum of Boring Things. I want to see dogs!
He pushes up the brim of his cap. “But I remember what it felt like to be a kid,” he continues. “Follow me.”
We walk down a grassy hill to a long building that has dog runs jutting out one side. I hear barking. My heart starts to beat faster.
We step through the door of the building and—wow!—a litter of German shepherd puppies! They look to be about four weeks old, chasing, tumbling, and playing in a giant puppy pen. The mom dog is napping in the corner. She lifts her head to look at the intruders and wags her tail happily when she sees John.
“They are so cute!” I squeal. I’m normally not the kind of person who squeals, but puppies bring out my inner Zoe.
“Will the mom let me pet them?” New mothers can be very protective of their puppies.
“Sure,” John says as he scratches the mom dog’s ears. “We want the dogs to be as sociable as possible. She is very comfortable with visitors.”
I step into the puppy pen and kneel down. The puppies are all over me in an instant, kissing my face, licking my hands and arms, jumping up and down. I burst into giggles. Their ears are still floppy, and their fur is more like fuzz. When they grow up, they will be regal, dignified dogs like Scout. Right now, they are tubby little fluff balls that want to chew on my hair. It’s great.
Every school in America should have a puppy pen. That way any kid having a bad day could visit for fifteen minutes of puppy love. That would cure anyone’s bad mood. I bet grades would go up, too.
“Do you raise all the puppies here?” I ask as I toss a ball across the pen.
John takes a brush from a hook on the wall and starts to groom the mom dog’s coat. She closes her eyes in pleasure.
“We breed all our dogs here,” he explains. “The pups stay with their mother for eight weeks. Then we send them out to volunteer puppy-raising families. The puppy raisers take care of their pups until they’re about eighteen months old. They teach them basic obedience and make sure they’re exposed to lots of social experiences.”
“Do they teach any of the commands that the blind people use?” I ask.
“Only basic obedience, like ‘Sit,’ ‘Stay,’ and ‘Come.’ The real work starts when the dogs come back here. If they pass their medical exams, the dogs are assigned an instructor, like me. We work with the dogs for about four months, teaching them the skills they need to be successful guide dogs. When the companions arrive at the school, they work with their dogs for a month. Assuming all goes well, the dogs and companions graduate and leave as a team.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s a lot of change, a lot of moving around for the dogs. How can they bond with anyone?”
John picks up the tufts of fur from the floor. “They are totally surrounded by love and affection every step of the way. Big changes are easier to handle if you know people love you—that’s true for dogs and people. But it takes time and patience. The tricky part is when the dog and blind companion leave here and go back to real life. The outside world takes some getting used to.”
“I think that’s what Mr. Carlson and Scout are going throug
h,” I say.
“What do you mean?” John asks.
I stroke the head of the sleepy puppy in my lap and explain what I know. John lifts his cap, scratches the back of his head, and puts the cap back on.
“I knew it would be a challenge, starting with Scout and then going back to teaching right away,” he says. “But James, Mr. Carlson, is a really independent guy. And Scout is a smart dog, well suited for a teacher. They need time together, and they need to keep up on their training. And James has to remember to be affectionate with Scout.”
The puppy in my lap lets out a little snore. I wonder if there is something I can do to help. Teach my teacher? Is that possible?
“Come on,” John says. “You’ve seen the puppies. Now I want to show you how we train the adult dogs.”
“This is Nugent,” John says as he opens a kennel door. A medium-sized golden retriever with a shiny reddish coat bounds out. John bends down and hugs him, ruffling his fur.
“Do you want to pet him?” he asks.
“Can I?” I ask, puzzled. “Gran told me I shouldn’t pet a guide dog, not even a little.”
John hooks a leash on Nugent’s collar. “She’s right. But Nugent isn’t wearing his guide harness right now, so he’s off duty. He knows that he’s not working.”
I kneel in front of the happy dog and let him smell my hand. He sniffs it over very carefully, then gives it a big slurp.
“I like you, too,” I chuckle. As I reach out to pet him, Nugent rolls over so that I can scratch his belly. Oooh, he loves that!
After a few minutes of petting and playing, John fastens on Nugent’s harness. It looks exactly like Scout’s. Nugent stops acting goofy as soon as the harness is on. He sits attentively by John’s left foot.
“Do you want to walk with him?” John asks.
“Can I? Wow! Sure!”
I take the harness from John. Nugent looks over his shoulder and smiles at me. John tells me to grip the handle lightly and to keep it back by my left leg.
“He’s there to guide you, not to drag you down the street. But be prepared. Nugent walks quickly. The commands are simple: ‘Forward,’ ‘Halt,’ ‘Left,’ ‘Right.’ If he slows down to investigate or smell something, you say, ‘Hup-up.’ Got it?”