Left Behind Read online

  After a few minutes of fireworks, we hear some dogs barking in the kennel between the explosions.

  “Do you think we should go in and see if Dr. Mac needs help with them?” I ask.

  “Nah, she’ll flash the back-porch lights if she needs us. That’s what she does when Zoe and I are out back and she needs help.”

  Just as Maggie finishes saying that, we see the lights flash, and we hurry in to see what’s going on. Dr. Mac tells us that Bendo, a large black lab mix that is boarding for the weekend, turned out to be a huge fireworks freak-out. Apparently, he was trying to dig his way out and managed to bend the edge of the kennel door, getting his paw caught and injuring it in the process. Dr. Mac is pretty sure that the injury isn’t serious, but she needs us to help keep Bendo and the other animals calm while she calls Bendo’s owners for permission to sedate him so she can get him out of the cage safely.

  We go into the kennels, and Brenna—who is no stranger to seeing animals caught and scared—heads right over to Bendo and starts talking to him softly. Maggie spots a smaller dog who seems a bit agitated and gives it some attention, while I head to the far end, where Dr. Mac has put the two cats we are boarding at the moment. One of them is sleeping quietly, but the other one is alert. She seems okay, but I unlatch the door and open it slightly so I can reach in and scratch her. I want her to know that she’s not in any danger, despite the noise that the dogs are making.

  “Poor pups,” Brenna says. “I wish they could understand us. We could invite them all outside to watch this beautiful light show. We could let them know the fireworks aren’t going to hurt them, and ask them to tell us which ones they like best.”

  “That’d be great,” I say. “And they could tell us exactly where it hurts, what happened to them, and if they preferred the dry kibble from the orange bag or if they like the food from the green bag better.”

  Maggie and Brenna laugh. It would be great if animals really could understand and communicate with us. A vet’s job would be so much easier. And pet owners would be less stressed if they knew exactly how to help.

  Before we can say any more, Dr. Mac comes into the kennel area. She’s holding a tray with a syringe and a few alcohol wipes. “I spoke to Bendo’s owner, and he’s given me the okay to treat him. Maggie and Brenna, I need you to stay here to help with Bendo while I give him this injection. And Sunita, please go get the Herriot Room ready so I can examine him.”

  I know that Dr. Mac wouldn’t ask Maggie and Brenna to help with Bendo if she thought they might get hurt, but I’m still relieved to have been given the task that doesn’t involve a large, agitated dog. I turn on the lights in the Herriot Room, put a clean towel down on the table, and set up a tray with the things Dr. Mac will need to clean up Bendo’s injury—a pair of gloves, a bottle of antiseptic solution, and a small stack of gauze pads. I’m just finishing up when Dr. Mac and Maggie come in and place the large dog—now docile from the sedative—on the table. Brenna follows closely behind.

  It doesn’t take too long for Dr. Mac to clean and bandage Bendo’s paw. As she suspected, it was a minor injury—just a torn toenail. Then Dr. Mac and Maggie carry Bendo back to the kennel, and Brenna and I clean and sterilize the exam room.

  By the time we’re done, the fireworks display is over. And on top of that, it’s started to rain. So we decide to skip the camping out for tonight. Another wave of relief washes over me.

  We grab our stuff from outside and head up to Maggie’s room to get settled. I think about suggesting that we watch the documentary I brought, but before I have a chance to say anything, Brenna says, “I heard some news from my parents.”

  “What’s up?” Maggie asks Brenna.

  Brenna plops down on Maggie’s bed. “Well, my parents didn’t exactly tell me this. But I overheard them talking last week.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Dr. Foster is closing his vet practice. He has to.”

  Maggie sits down on the floor, and I join her. “Why would he have to?” she asks. “He’s not very old. Is he retiring?”

  “I heard my dad say Dr. Foster is in trouble with the government. Tax evasion,” Brenna whispers.

  “What does that mean? Tax evasion?” Maggie asks.

  “It means he didn’t pay his taxes. I think it’s kind of like stealing from the government. Not paying your fair share. I heard Mom say something like he’d been fighting it for years and he finally ran out of time.”

  “Will he go to jail?” Maggie asks.

  “I don’t know,” Brenna says. “But I do know this leaves Ambler down one veterinarian. I think your grandmother is going to get even busier. Dr. Gabe, too.”

  “Wow, I wonder if Gran knows,” Maggie says.

  “We probably shouldn’t say anything,” Brenna says quickly.

  “Okay,” Maggie says. “But I hope she finds out soon. She hates being the last to know about things.”

  “You, too, Sunita,” Brenna says. “Promise you won’t say anything.”

  “I won’t,” I say, though it makes me feel weird. I hate hearing secrets and having to keep them. It always feels like I’ve been bullied into something.

  “So . . . Sunita and I went out to Van Hoven’s with Dr. Gabe today,” Maggie says. I want to tell Brenna about Sylvester, but Maggie just keeps talking, not giving me a chance. “Really, Brenna, you should have seen this poor lamb,” she says. Maggie has calmed down a little, but she is still annoyed.

  “Sylvester is well cared for,” I say. “Dr. Gabe said so. Come on, Maggie, you know it’s true.”

  “I’m just surprised, is all. She’s an animal person. How did she let that happen?” Maggie asks.

  I don’t want Maggie to get all riled up again, so I say, “I think she was just trying to be nice. Mrs. Van Hoven took the lamb without thinking about what she should really do with him.”

  “All alone in the last stall,” Maggie says to Brenna.

  “Yeah, that doesn’t sound smart,” Brenna replies.

  “But what about the rider? I think this is more the rider’s fault than it is Mrs. Van Hoven’s,” I suggest.

  “That doesn’t excuse her!” Maggie says. So much for not letting her get riled up. Now she seems mad at me, too. I can feel my face getting red. I’m also getting a bit angry. But not at Mrs. Van Hoven. I’m ticked off at Maggie. This was supposed to be a fun night. A night spent watching the documentary. A night spent talking about the new kitten I’m going to get and making a list of perfect kitten names. Now it just feels ruined.

  “Well, what’s done is done. Now we need to do something about fixing things,” Brenna says.

  “Dr. Gabe is going to get Mrs. Van Hoven some names of people who might sell her another lamb,” Maggie says. “If he can.” Then Maggie lets out a big yawn.

  Brenna matches her yawn and moves down to where her sleeping bag is rolled out on the floor. “Maybe we can go for a training run tomorrow morning and brainstorm sheep solutions as we go,” she says as she flops down.

  Maggie giggles and climbs up onto her bed.

  Brenna adds, “You, too, Sunita.”

  I don’t say yes or no. Because even though I know Brenna likes me, I’m pretty sure she didn’t intend to invite me.

  Chapter Five

  The rain wakes us. It’s not a hard rain, but even indoors we can tell it’s a cold one, especially for July. I wonder if Brenna and Maggie will want to go for a run in this weather. Dr. Mac is up and dressed and already at work in the kennel.

  “Oh good, girls, let me know when you’re ready to help with the animals,” she says.

  We’re still in our pajamas, but we get right to work opening kennel-run doors and cleaning up messes in some of the crates. Even though it’s raining, most of the dogs dash out to do their business. When we’ve cleaned and sanitized everything, then it’s time to feed everyone. Each dog has a chart that says which food they get and
how much. Some of the dogs are on special diets, and their owners have provided it in their own containers. Some of the owners feed their animals food that Dr. Mac does not approve of.

  “Oh dear,” she says, prying open the container of food we’re supposed to feed TipTop, a shih tzu. “Girls, take a look at this food. What can you tell just by looking at it?”

  “It’s bright,” I say. The kibble is nearly crayon-colored—aqua, yellow, and orange.

  “Indeed it is, Sunita. That is for our benefit. The manufacturer thinks we want to feed our animals vivid food. What else?”

  “It’s very—I don’t know what to call it—flecked?” Brenna asks.

  “Good eye,” Dr. Mac says. “Those flecks are grain dust. They’re like wood shavings or sawdust. Some grain in dog food is fine. But this is full of grain fragments. They’re fillers. Anything else pretty obvious? Maggie?”

  Maggie runs her hand through the kibble, “Well, I don’t see anything else, but it smells kind of funny. A little like perfume.”

  “Exactly,” Dr. Mac says. “Fragrance. Again, for us. Dogs know the smell of food without the added fragrance. I know from experience what brand this is. It has too much sweetener and not nearly enough protein. I’ve talked to Mr. Torres about this before. But I’ll talk to him again. Maybe one day this will sink in. TipTop could stand to be a little healthier and a bit less, well, rounded.”

  We all continue with our assigned dogs. My next dog to feed is a German shepherd, Baron. He’s a regular patient, and he boards here whenever his owners are out of town. I know he’s a good dog, but he is so very big. I scoop his food and try to get it into his dish without his brushing up against me. But Baron wants to thank me, it seems. He jumps up and puts his front paws on my pajama top. I can’t help it, I yelp. Baron is big and heavy.

  “Are you okay, Sunita?” Dr. Mac rushes over. “Did you get scratched?”

  “I’m okay,” I say. “Baron is just, uh, large.”

  “Want me to take over?” Maggie calls from across the kennel.

  “I’m fine,” I shout back. I push Baron off me and finally get the food in his dish.

  Dr. Mac looks at me funny and doesn’t move. I know Maggie is trying to be nice, I do. But I feel a little embarrassed. I’ve got to figure out how to get over this. But not now. I have one more dog to feed. Thankfully, it’s a little wiener dog, a dachshund. Gretel is a quite the barker. But once she has her kibble, she gets right to work, and the only sound I hear is her tail hitting her kennel wall in happiness. Fwap, fwap, fwap. But as I reach down to give her head a quick pat, I think I hear another sound from far away. In fact, it sounds like the door of the clinic.

  “Dr. Mac, were you expecting anyone?” I ask.

  Dr. looks at her wristwatch and shakes her head. “Not yet. Must be an emergency. Can you check, Sunita?”

  I head into the reception area and see one of our regulars, my friend Mrs. Clark, with her very old, diabetic Siamese cat, Lucy. Lucy is one of my all-time-favorite cats, and I catsit for her whenever Mrs. Clark goes out of town. Even though she’s partially covered by Mrs. Clark’s raincoat, I can tell Lucy looks terrible. She looks floppy in Mrs. Clark’s arms.

  “I know you prefer I use a carrier, but I don’t think I could even get her into it,” Mrs. Clark says apologetically. “She’s so listless. I just wanted to get her here as quickly and easily as possible.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Mrs. Clark? I’ll go get Dr. Mac.” I know that I should give her the forms that we have all patients fill out when they visit, but I think we can make an exception in this case.

  I rush into the back and tell Dr. Mac the situation. She listens, nodding her head when I tell her about skipping the forms. “Did Lucy feel warm?” she asks.

  “I didn’t touch her, but she looked pale, and her eyes were kind of dull,” I tell Dr. Mac. Then I add, “Poor Mrs. Clark.”

  Dr. Mac goes out to get them, and we all head into the Herriot Room. Mrs. Clark looks at me as if I have answers for her. Dr. Mac runs her hands over Lucy’s body and then checks her gums. They’re so pale they’re nearly white when they should be a bright, healthy pink.

  “When did she eat last?” Dr. Mac asks.

  “Last night. All day yesterday she ate right on schedule. But this morning . . . this morning, she looked like this. So I brought her right over,” Mrs. Clark says, patting Lucy as Dr. Mac continues to examine her. Like most diabetic cats, Lucy has a very strict eating schedule so her blood sugar doesn’t fluctuate too much.

  “You did the right thing, Esther. What about her insulin?” Dr. Mac asks as she draws blood from Lucy’s neck. Lucy doesn’t flinch at all. In fact, she seems even quieter now than when she came in, if that’s possible.

  “I gave Lucy her shot right on time last night. She was eating and drinking just fine yesterday. Well, mostly just fine. She’s been slower to get up and get around lately, but who isn’t?” Mrs. Clark tries to give a little chuckle, but then she is crying, very softly. She keeps patting old Lucy’s back leg.

  Dr. Mac places Lucy’s blood sample in the centrifuge. It separates the red and white blood cells from the serum. Dr. Mac will test the serum to determine Lucy’s glucose level, and check her white blood cell count to see if she has an infection. As the centrifuge does its work, Dr. Mac listens for Lucy’s heart beat and her respiration. I can tell just by watching that Lucy’s respiration—her breathing—is very slow and shallow.

  “A couple of warm towels please, Brenna.” Dr. Mac says. Brenna leaves the exam room to get them from the heater in the recovery room. Then Dr. Mac says, “Esther, since Lucy knows you and Sunita best, let’s have you both keep your hands on her while Brenna gets those towels. You can keep her warm and calm.”

  Lucy seems calm. In fact, she’s barely breathing, barely moving. I take a big breath and with one hand pat Lucy gently. With the other hand I pat Mrs. Clark’s shoulder. Dr. Mac turns to test the serum. I glance at Mrs. Clark. She sees what I see: Lucy is dying. Maybe not this instant, but soon. I hate this part of being a Vet Volunteer. Mrs. Clark shifts slightly and rests her head on my shoulder. I can feel her catch her breath and sigh.

  Brenna arrives with the warm towels, and Dr. Mac picks Lucy up and gently wraps her in them.

  “Rocking chair, Brenna,” Dr. Mac says softly. That’s when I lose it. I hurry out the door before Brenna. Whenever Dr. Mac or Dr. Gabe requests the rocking chair, it means they expect the patient has hours, maybe minutes left to live. Brenna goes to get the wooden rocking chair from Dr. Mac’s living room, and I try to control my tears.

  When Brenna returns with the rocker, she pauses by the door instead of going right in. “I’m sorry, Sunita,” she says softly. “I know you sometimes catsit Lucy. This must be really hard for you.”

  I don’t trust myself to speak yet, so I just nod and give her a small smile, thankful that she understands.

  “Do you want to take this in for Mrs. Clark?” she asks, pointing at the rocker.

  I don’t, but I do it anyway.

  Mrs. Clark is holding Lucy like a baby all wrapped up in the warm towels. Dr. Mac helps Mrs. Clark into the rocking chair and turns the lights low. She puts a cup of water and a box of tissues beside Mrs. Clark. Then she crouches beside her and gently asks, “Would you like Sunita or me to sit with you and Lucy? Or would you prefer to be alone? I don’t think it will be long. Take all the time you need.”

  Mrs. Clark looks up from Lucy and says something to Dr. Mac that I can’t quite hear. But she must have said “alone” because Dr. Mac stands and ushers me out.

  We walk across the hall to the Dolittle Room. Dr. Mac hands me a tissue and dabs her own eyes with another. Brenna steps in, followed by Maggie, who leans on the doorframe. Other than Dr. Mac, we’re all still in our pajamas.

  “Her diabetes?” Maggie asks.

  “Actually, not this time,” Dr. Ma
c replies. “It’s her advanced age. For a diabetic cat, her glucose level isn’t too bad. But her body is running down, her heart is slowing, and her breathing is shallow and labored. Mrs. Clark gave that cat many extra years because she was so diligent with her food and water and insulin. But the end is near.”

  Maggie and Brenna both look over at me.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I say. I’ve cried in front of my friends before—I think we all have when a special animal dies. But this morning I feel particularly raw, and I want to let my tears run in peace. Because other than my own cat, Mittens, there is no other cat I love as much as I love Mrs. Clark’s dear, sweet Lucy.

  Chapter Six

  After a good cry in the bathroom, I splash water on my face and go back into Dr. Mac’s house. Dr. Mac is in the kitchen sipping a cup of tea. She gives me a hug and tells me that Maggie and Brenna have gone upstairs to shower and get changed. “Go on up and join them,” she adds.

  By the time we come back downstairs, Dr. Mac has a selection of cereal and fruit out on the counter for us. In a soft voice, she tells us that Lucy is gone.

  Poor, sweet Lucy. Dr. Mac was right when she said it wouldn’t be long. Lucy was gone within fifteen minutes of our leaving the room. Mrs. Clark’s son came to pick her up. We were all glad that she chose not to drive home. Her car will be fine parked out front until they can come back to get it.

  The rest of the morning passes quickly. We treat a puppy that decided to try to eat a sock and admit a dog—a golden retriever–poodle mix known as a golden doodle—with a broken hind leg. She was one of the fireworks freak-outs from last night. But her owners didn’t realize she was really injured until this morning when she wouldn’t put any weight on one of her legs. And I am able to tackle some of the filing while it’s still raining.