End of the Race Read online

  I know what Gran is thinking—the same thing I am. Why did this woman wait so long to get help?

  Roselyn’s brow creases with worry. “I thought I could heal the cuts on my own with antibiotic ointment and gauze—I didn’t know it would get this bad.” I feel sorry for Roselyn, but much sorrier for the dog.

  Gran prepares the greyhound for an I.V. With the electric clipper, she shaves the fur from the left foreleg and from around the infected areas. Gently, I hold the dog’s head down when she tries to lick her wounds. “Stay calm, now,” I whisper.

  Gran swabs the uninjured left foreleg with antiseptic and inserts a catheter for the I.V. “She’s one sick dog. We need to treat the infection immediately and try to reduce her fever with fluids.”

  I stroke the greyhound’s copper-colored head gently. “Hang on, girl.”

  “Sunita, we need an antibiotic drip,” Gran says.

  Sunita brings over a bag of antibiotics. Gran inserts the meds into the I.V. and hangs the bag on the I.V. pole. Next, she injects the dog with a painkiller.

  The greyhound jumps and whimpers. I stroke her softly. “What’s her name?” I ask.

  “Gingerbread.” Roselyn’s face reddens as if she’s on the verge of tears. “Will she make it?”

  “Time will tell. Sunita, will you please show Roselyn into the waiting room? Families of the animals are generally not allowed in the room during procedures,” Gran explains gently.

  “I understand.” Roselyn wipes her eyes on her shirtsleeve as Sunita leads her out.

  Gran retrieves the X-rays and clips them onto the light box. “Hmmm…this poor girl’s had quite a tumble. She has two stress fractures of the right radius. Another few centimeters and this would have been a compound fracture. That means she’s broken the bone in her right front leg in two places—but not all the way through.” Gran points with her pencil to the places on the film.

  Sunita returns, and we all examine the film more closely. “I see it, three inches below the joint,” Sunita says. “Was Gingerbread hit by a car?”

  “Probably not,” Gran replies. “These injuries are not typical of a car accident. They look like stress fractures—the kind of injury that comes from running very fast and falling.”

  I look down at Gingerbread. Her soft brown eyes gaze into mine. Were you running? Did you fall? I wish you could tell us what happened. She licks my hand.

  Taryn pops her head in. “Dr. Mac, can I help?”

  Oh, brother, she shouldn’t be in here.

  “Taryn, you’re being a great help at the receptionist desk. Just stay there and keep answering the phone,” Gran says.

  “Will do, Dr. Mac,” Taryn chirps on her way out.

  “If it was a fall, Gingerbread really scraped herself in the process,” Gran notes as she swabs out the lacerations with orange iodine antiseptic. It’s a good thing Gran didn’t ask for Taryn’s help—Taryn would surely freak over all the pus and blood in here. Working in a veterinary clinic takes some getting used to.

  “I hate to put this dog under with that fever, but those lacerations look ugly and will be very painful to clean up,” says Gran. “I’ll probably have to remove some dead skin. I’ll wait to suture the cuts until after the infection and swelling are gone.” Gran prepares an injection of creamy white liquid.

  “What’s that, Dr. Mac?” Sunita asks.

  “It’s propofol,” Gran replies. “It’s an ultrashort-acting anesthetic that I always use on greyhounds. They’re very sensitive to anesthetics.”

  Slowly, Gran gives the propofol injection to relax the dog. Gingerbread’s muscles go limp. I stroke her to help calm her down.

  Wait a minute. This dog is way more than relaxed—her chest isn’t moving at all! “Gran—she’s not breathing!” My stomach twists. I can’t catch my breath, either.

  Gran quickly checks the color of Gingerbread’s gums. “Sunita, bring the anesthetic machine and an endotracheal tube. Hurry.” Sunita. runs back with the tube, and Gran slides it down the dog’s windpipe. She connects it to the anesthetic machine and gives Gingerbread several breaths of oxygen.

  I watch Gingerbread’s chest. “She’s breathing, Gran, but just barely.” Tears prick my eyes. Hang in there, Gingerbread. I listen again. “The breaths are coming faster.”

  Gran exhales and shakes her head in relief. “She’s pulling out of it, but this girl’s too close to the edge for general anesthesia. I’ll just give her a local anesthetic to numb the area around the injuries instead of completely knocking her out. Otherwise, she may not come back. Maggie, keep an eye on her vitals and inform me of any change.” Gran quickly injects lidocaine near the lacerations so that she can cut and scrub without the dog feeling it.

  I keep my ear close to the dog’s diaphragm. Keep breathing, Gingerbread. “So far, so good, Gran.”

  “Bandage, please, Sunita,” Gran requests.

  Sunita offers a roll of cotton and a roll of gauze. “What about the broken bones, Dr. Mac?” she asks.

  “Good question. We’ll put what’s called a Robert Jones bandage on her leg. It’s a big, padded cotton bandage that will support the bones while we treat the wounds every day. When the infection is gone we can put on a splint or even surgically stabilize the bones.” Gran wraps many layers of cotton around the greyhound’s foreleg and uses the gauze to secure it in place. She listens once more to Gingerbread’s heartbeat, then straightens up. “I think she’s going to pull out of it, but we’ll have to keep a close eye on her. Don’t remove the tube until she tries to cough it out.” Gran sighs deeply. “You kids are really becoming pros!” She removes her glasses, which hang on a beaded chain. “Sunita, will you help me clean up? Maggie, you can wheel the patient to the recovery room.”

  Before I wheel Gingerbread to recovery, I can’t resist stroking her head one more time. Her ears are like velvet. One ear has a blue tattoo on the inside. I frown. Sometimes purebred dogs get a tattoo, but this one looks different, bigger. “Hey, what’s this blue tattoo inside her ear, Gran? It’s got some numbers and the letter B.”

  Gran puts her glasses back on and peers at the tattoo. “Hmmm. That’s the kind of mark a racing dog gets, with her racing number, line of parentage, and age. The handlers use it to keep track of the dogs. Take her to recovery, and then let’s go talk to Roselyn.”

  As we enter the waiting room, Roselyn looks up anxiously. “Is Gingerbread OK?” she asks. Her tired green eyes have bags under them.

  “To tell the truth, it was close, but it looks like Gingerbread will pull through,” replies Gran.

  “What’s her diagnosis?” Roselyn asks.

  “Stress fractures,” Gran says quietly. “They can occur if a dog is running very fast, then stumbles.” Gran pauses. “Does this dog race?”

  Roselyn’s smile fades. “Race? I don’t know anything about any racing.” Is it my imagination, or does she look scared?

  “Then you wouldn’t know anything about a large tattoo in her ear, either?”

  Gran’s blue eyes can be piercing.

  “The kind racing owners use to identify their dogs?” I add.

  The color drains from Roselyn’s pink cheeks. “No, I told you. I’d never seen that dog before last week, when some jerk pulled up in a van and dumped her right in front of my house.”

  Gran doesn’t reply. Instead, she turns to me. “Maggie, would you please write up Roselyn’s bill? I need to clean up and start my evening rounds. Don’t forget homework later.” I nod.

  “Nice work holding down the fort,” Gran says to Taryn on her way past the reception desk. “Maybe next time you can help with an animal procedure.” Gran turns to me. “Oh, have you been introduced? Taryn’s our new volunteer.”

  “We met,” I answer. You mean this is permanent?

  “I’d sure love to help with an animal next time, Dr. Mac!” Taryn looks radiant.

  Taryn’s much too young to be handling animals. Brenna, hurry back from Costa Rica!

  As I write up the bill, I glance
at the greyhound’s chart. When Taryn took Roselyn’s information, she wrote down the dog’s name—Gingerbread—but forgot to write down Roselyn’s last name or address. I’ll have to mention it to Gran. After my dreaded homework’s done.

  Chapter Three

  There, I think everything fits,” Sunita says, pushing dog-food bags and cleaning items aside to make room for the heat lamps in the supply closet.

  David shoves in the last heat lamp and shuts the door before the clutter has a chance to tumble out. The heat finally came back on just as the last patient was leaving. We walk back together to the empty waiting room. David snaps his down jacket and pulls up his hood. “I’m off into the sunset on my trusty stallion.”

  “Make that off into knee-deep snow,” I say, opening the front door. Sunita and I laugh as David’s boots sink into the drifts.

  Gran picks up a stack of patient charts and groans. “I forgot about these.”

  “I’ll file those for you,” Taryn offers. “My mom’s not picking me up for another ten minutes.”

  “Thank you, Taryn. You’re a big help,” Gran says.

  Why does Taryn’s offer annoy me so much? “Oh, Taryn,” I say, picking up Gingerbread’s chart and pointing to the blank lines. “Next time you need to get the owner’s full name and address.”

  “Roselyn said she’d rather not give her last name and address.” Taryn shrugs.

  “That’s odd,” Gran remarks, then turns to me. “Maggie? Homework time.” She looks at her watch. “But dinner first! There’s lasagna in the fridge.”

  “Going right in, Gran.” I turn to Sunita, wrinkling my nose. “Homework, what a time-hog.”

  “Don’t feel bad, Maggie,” Sunita sighs. “I’ve got a huge report on the American legislative system due in a week. I won’t be able to volunteer at the clinic until the House meets the Senate on twenty pages of binder paper.”

  “You have to write a twenty-page essay? Yikes!” Shaking my head, I wander toward the door leading to the kitchen with my basset hound, Sherlock, at my heels.

  “See ya, Maggie. It’s cool getting to work with you. I saw one of your practice games last week. You were awesome on center,” Taryn calls.

  “Thanks,” I answer halfheartedly. I don’t need a cheerleader—especially not a wannabe from fifth grade.

  My school books are spread out on the coffee table. I have a sudden urge to pick up the remote and zap on the TV to news, a silly game show, even a babyish cartoon… anything to avoid homework. But my old science teacher, Mr. Carlson, helped me set up a study guide last year, with firm rules: hardest subject first, keep moving, easier subject next, fun one last—that would be thinking up basketball strategy for tomorrow’s game. Double duh!

  The hardest is reading for English, so I pick up A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. After I spend five minutes staring at page one, with the words floating like snowflakes, the snowflake-words start to sift down into lines, and the lines settle into hardpack sentences. The girl’s story actually begins to grab me, and before I know it, I’m done with chapter one and on to my second-hardest subject: history. More reading. At least I don’t have the same teacher as Sunita does, so I’m not staring a twenty-page essay in the face.

  Just when I’m getting to the fun stuff (pivot-turn around my opposing point guard, bounce-pass the ball over her left knee, leaving her confused and dazed. A pass to Lucy, her pass back, ball’s in my grip, pivot-turn and…BASKET!), Gran breaks my concentration.

  “How’s the homework coming along, Maggie?” Gran asks as she pours herself a glass of milk.

  “You won’t believe this, but I’m done.”

  “Good girl. That was fast,” Gran says as she cuts herself a piece of lasagna.

  I consider trying to convince Gran that my basketball practice won’t prevent me from doing all my clinic chores, but I don’t want to wreck this happy moment. Besides, I’m not completely sure that practice won’t interfere. Instead, I ask, “Isn’t Taryn a bit too new to be handling the phone?”

  “We’ll have to see,” Gran says. “But she cleaned the kennels so fast, I didn’t have anything else for her to do at that moment, and she’s good on the phone. I told her to page me if she gets anything other than a routine call for an appointment.” Gran’s face turns serious. “That greyhound is in worse shape than I thought.”

  “Is she going to make it?” I stuff books back into my pack.

  “If she’s strong. But I may have to amputate that infected leg.”

  I wince at the thought. “I think I’ll check on her.”

  “Not a bad idea. Page me if she’s in trouble.”

  “OK, Gran.” I enter the clinic and hurry down the hall. What’s that noise? Is Gingerbread coughing? Maybe her lungs are collecting fluid. I open the door and turn up the light dimmers just enough to see but not enough to wake the greyhound. A patient in recovery needs her sleep. Gingerbread is hooked up to a jumble of tubes and monitors. I put my ear close to her ribs and listen to her breaths—rapid, but even. She’s not coughing. The electrocardiograph shows a steady heartbeat. Gingerbread’s so pretty, with her red coat and graceful torso. I hate to think of her leg coming off.

  Muffled coughing sounds echo again in the hall. I approach the kennels. The cough is louder as I follow the sound to the left-hand bank of cages. It’s Fletcher, the old spaniel. “Hold on, Fletcher. Easy, boy.” I open his cage. He stumbles out, sneezing as I leash him. Fletcher’s nose is runny and his eyes look filmy. “Let’s see what we can do for you, boy.” I lead him downstairs into the Dolittle Room and press the pager. “Gran, we’ve got a patient, but it’s not Gingerbread.”

  I pull out the thermometer. “His temp is slightly elevated, Gran. It’s one hundred three and a half.”

  “Low-grade fever.” Gran examines Fletcher’s floppy ears with an otoscope and listens to his lungs. “Congestion in the bronchial tubes. Read me his history, Maggie.”

  I open the chart. “Male cocker spaniel. Eight years old. Sinusitis at four years, acute bronchitis at six years. Bronchitis at eight years.”

  “Has he had all his vaccinations? Are they up to date? Be sure to check for the ones that protect against kennel cough.” Gran presses up and down Fletcher’s neck, but that doesn’t seem to make him cough.

  I scan down the list of vaccinations. “Yes, up to date. He even got the nose drops.”

  “Very good. We don’t want kennel cough spreading like wildfire through the clinic.” While I hold Fletcher, Gran swabs some mucus from his mouth and places it on a slide for viewing under the microscope. “Still, better find out what exactly is causing this cough. We’ll need a chest X-ray and some blood work. Let me see that chart.”

  I wipe Fletcher’s runny nose as Gran reads the chart.

  “With this fever and congestion, Fletcher may be working on pneumonia. He’s an older dog, and he may have become chilled when the heat was off. Sorry about that, Fletcher.” She rubs between his ears, which sends him into doggy euphoria, a foot circling, copying the motion of her hand. “Antibiotics and a stint in the steam room will do you wonders,” Gran announces. She gives him a shot of the antibiotic so fast he barely whimpers.

  “What steam room, Gran?” We have a great facility here, but since when did she install that?

  “The old-fashioned kind—a steamy shower with the vaporizer on full blast!” Gran smiles. “Will you do the honors, Maggie? Get Fletcher’s blanket and show him in, while I get the vaporizer.”

  I install Fletcher in his temporary quarters in the bathroom, on the floor near the shower stall, with the water on hot and the shower door blocked so he can’t get burned. Gran puts the vaporizer up on the table so Fletcher can’t burn himself on that, either. His wheezing slowly eases. He sighs and rests his head on his paws.

  Once Fletcher is sleeping peacefully, I pop down the hall to take one more quick peek at Gingerbread. Her body will have to work hard to beat that nasty infection. I wonder if she’ll show signs of improvement by morning. Twenty-four
hours on antibiotics can make a big difference. As I turn off the lights and walk back down the hall to the kitchen door, I think about tomorrow—and my mind wanders back to basketball. Tomorrow’s game against Fort Washington is an important one for our team. Will I be struggling like Gingerbread? With a rush of adrenaline, I realize that my biggest worry isn’t Fort Washington, it’s Darla. Somehow, I have to stand strong against Darla’s efforts to upset me on the court.

  Chapter Four

  This morning I woke up worrying about Gingerbread. Gran said not to disturb the dog, but how can I concentrate on schoolwork, not knowing if she’ll pull through? I peeked just for a sec. Gingerbread was sleeping fitfully, twisting this way and that. At least she was still alive. All through history and math I was distracted. The English class discussion of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn interested me, but when the last bell rang and it was time to rush into the locker room for my basketball gear, my heart started pounding, partly for Gingerbread and partly for me, getting ready to face Darla.

  Now it’s game time and I must force myself to focus on basketball.

  “Darla on center. Maggie on power forward,” Coach Williams bellows. Darla smirks triumphantly. “Lucy on small forward. Chelsea on point guard.” Coach rattles on down the list, clipboard in hand, as I run to position. So Darla’s back on center.

  Oh, brother, is Coach Williams trying to torture me by switching us back and forth? Impossible. He’s much too nice.

  Fort Washington, the only team to defeat Ambler last season, nabs the ball off the jump. Their forward speeds downcourt and attempts a pass. Darla intercepts it and races to Fort Washington’s basket. She leaps up and sinks a 3-point shot. Ambler cheers rise. The scoreboard clicks to Fort Washington 0, Ambler 3. Hands slap Darla high-five as she runs back to position.

  “Got to be tall to sink it, Shorty!” she hisses as she passes. Maybe Darla’s right. Now that I’m older and on junior varsity, everyone’s sprouting up closer to that basket except me. My measly five-foot, four-inch height is starting to be a real handicap.