Fight for Life Read online

  His volunteers will take any healthy animals we find to the shelter. Then they’ll try to find good homes for them. The sheriff is here to make sure that everything is done legally.

  We park next to a two-story farmhouse. In front of us is a small barn missing some windows and desperate for a coat of paint. A wet cat darts past the van and hides under the front porch. I can hear a bunch of dogs barking. They are not happy barks. They are pained, sad barks.

  A man runs out of the house without a coat on. He must be the owner. Mrs. Nestor was right—he is skinny. Mean-tempered, too.

  “What do you people think you’re doing?” he screams as he bangs on my side of the van. “Get off my property. I don’t want you here!”

  “Do you think he has a gun?” Sunita whispers.

  “I don’t care,” says Brenna boldly.

  “I care,” David says. “I care a lot.”

  “David’s right,” says Gran as she turns off the engine. “You should care. Wait here, kids, until I make sure it’s safe for you to get out.”

  The sheriff and Gran talk briefly, then she knocks on my window.

  “You can come out if you want.”

  The puppy mill owner shakes his finger in the sheriff’s face as we all get out of the van.

  “Sheriff, I want these people arrested right now,” he demands, shaking with anger.

  The sheriff crosses his arms over his chest. Rain drips from the front of his hat and makes a puddle at his feet. “They made me get a warrent, Larry. It’s about your dogs. Bunch of people filed complaints. We need to take a look at them now. If they’re in bad shape, the doc here can take them away.”

  Larry, the puppy mill owner, looks behind him, toward the sound of barking, howling dogs. “I haven’t had a chance to clean ’em up today. The rain and all, you know,” he says. “Come back tomorrow.”

  The sheriff looks at Gran. “It would be nicer to do this in better weather,” he comments.

  “Then he’ll fix everything up,” I interrupt. “That’s not fair. We—I mean Gran—has to inspect the dogs now!”

  “She’s right,” Gran says.

  “I’m calling my lawyer!” Larry yells. He turns around and stomps toward the house.

  “Let’s get this over with,” says the sheriff.

  Captain Thompson and his volunteers walk toward the front of the barn. Gran heads the other way, around the back of it. Brenna and I follow Gran. Sunita, David, and Zoe follow Captain Thompson.

  From the sound of the barking, I figure there will be four dogs, maybe five, plus a few puppies. I am completely unprepared for what we see as we turn the corner.

  It looks like a jail, a horrible jail for dogs. Dogs are crammed into small wire kennels, two rows of them. I count ten kennels per row. Brenna and I walk down the middle of the aisle, speechless. This guy has been breeding chocolate and yellow Labs, collies, and a few terriers. There are so many animals that look hungry and dirty, I don’t know where we should start.

  The kennels are awful. There is nothing protecting the animals from the rain. The dogs are crowded into the wire cages and have to go to the bathroom right where they sit. The stench is horrifying. Their food bowls are disgusting. I see worms everywhere. A scrawny Lab is struggling to lap up water from a puddle.

  A few dogs bark wildly at us. The rest look too malnourished to make any noise. Some have open sores where their fur has been rubbed away, probably from rubbing up against the cages, trying to get out.

  I blink fast to get rid of the tears in my eyes. How could anyone treat animals this way?

  “I wonder how he’d feel if we locked him up in a cage,” Brenna growls.

  “He doesn’t have feelings,” Gran mutters.

  David runs around the corner of the barn. “We found puppies in the barn!” Sunita and Zoe follow, each cradling a terrier puppy in her jacket.

  “Oh, my gosh.” Zoe is stunned at the sight of the kennels.

  “Are those... ?” begins Sunita. She covers her mouth with her hand.

  David can’t say anything. He’s speechless.

  “The owner must keep puppies in the barn for a few days to clean them up and put some weight on them before he sells them,” Gran says.

  “Let’s get them out of here,” I say. “Let’s get them home.”

  It takes more than an hour for Captain Thompson’s volunteers to remove the dogs from the kennels. Gran does a quick examination and decides who is healthy enough to go to the shelter, and who needs to go to the clinic. They are all hungry. As the volunteers load up the shelter van, Gran tells Captain Thompson how to feed them properly. The shelter van has to make two trips.

  When Gran is ready to take the sick dogs and puppies back to the clinic, she starts up the van and turns the heat on full blast.

  “Get in out of the rain,” she tells us. “You are all going to have to be puppy incubators.” We jump in the van and she starts handing each of us three puppies bundled in a towel. “Hold them close. They need your body heat.”

  Sunita nudges me. I look out the window. The sheriff and the puppy mill owner are shaking hands. They are smiling at each other.

  “He looks awfully happy for a guy who was just arrested,” remarks Zoe.

  “Here, guys, help me,” I say. “Hold my puppies for a minute.” Brenna, David, and Sunita each take one of my puppies. I open the door and dash out into the storm. Lightning flashes. I count one, two, three, four, five. The thunder rumbles. That was close. I’m petrified, but I keep going.

  “Excuse me!” I say to the sheriff as I tap him on the back. “Aren’t you going to arrest him?”

  He turns to me. “That’s not necessary. The doc has the sick animals. Larry here, he tried his best.”

  “I lost my job,” Larry says.

  “He lost his job,” the sherifff repeats. “Then he hurt his back.”

  “I couldn’t take care of them,” Larry says. He shakes his head from side to side, as if he really cared about the dogs. What a fake! What a total fake!

  “I gave him a warning, and he promised to help out with your grandmother’s vet fees. You should get back in the van.”

  The thunder booms again.

  Now I’m shaking.

  I’m furious.

  I fumble in my pocket and pull out my notes from the library. “You have to charge him,” I tell the sheriff. I read slowly, “According to The Dog Purchaser Protection Act, Section 9.3, an amendment to the Unfair Trade Practices and Consumer Protection Law. He didn’t give customers a health record or a health certificate signed by a vet. Plus he isn’t taking care of the dogs out back. Half of them look . . .” My throat closes up.

  Don’t cry, I tell myself. Don’t cry yet. Use the facts. I stare Larry the Liar straight in the eye.

  “Half of them look like they’re ready to die. You should be charged with neglect, abuse, and cruelty.” I hand my notes to the sheriff.

  “Hang on,” says the sheriff. He uses his radio to contact his office and explain the situation. We wait a very long minute—the sheriff tapping his boot impatiently, me glaring at Larry, Larry trying to figure out if he should look sad, angry, or embarrassed.

  The radio crackles, and the sheriff listens closely to his dispatcher. Then he looks up.

  “The kid is right, Larry. I don’t have a choice. I have to charge you. Get in the car. We’ll do this down at the station.”

  Yes!

  I turn around. Gran is standing behind me. She must have been standing there the whole time in case something went wrong, but she let me do it on my own. Her hair is plastered to her head, and the rain has soaked her sweatshirt, but her eyes are warm and proud.

  “You did it!” she shouts over the thunder. She gives me quick hug. “That’s my girl!”

  I haven’t heard her say that in a really, really long time.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The clinic looks like a veterinarian’s version of 101 Dalmatians. Dogs, dogs, dogs everywhere, big and small, and they all nee
d a doctor. Thank goodness we have enough of those. Dr. Gabe put out the call for help while we were at the puppy mill. A couple of his friends from vet school are here to pitch in.

  Gran directs traffic. “I want each dog to have a number, an ID tag, and a chart. Gabe, you hand out the numbers. We need to keep them straight. Use both of the exam rooms, the O.R., and the recovery room. If we need extra space, move the lab equipment into the kitchen.”

  “Excuse me,” says a young vet with cornrows. She rushes past the five of us holding a panting terrier. “Where’s your X-ray machine?” she asks Gran. “I think this one has a punctured lung.”

  “Down the hall to your right,” Gran says.

  We’re in the way. David sits in a chair in the waiting room and puts his feet up so no one will trip over them. Zoe heads for the kitchen.

  “I guess I should go home,” says Sunita. “Can I use your phone?”

  “Yeah. Follow Zoe. Hang on, I’ll come with you.”

  I open the door to the kitchen.

  “Margaret MacKenzie, where are you going?” Gran shouts across the room.

  I turn around.

  “I need you in here,” Gran says.

  My heart starts to beat faster. “You do?”

  “Yes! I need all of you. Scrub up and get into the recovery room. We need all the hands and eyes we can get.”

  While Gran, Gabe, and the visiting vets do the doctor work, Brenna, Sunita, David, Zoe, and I are responsible for everything else. This time we know what we’re doing.

  David is in charge of transporting stabilized patients back to recovery. He isn’t joking around. Instead he’s quiet and fast. Sunita and Brenna move Shelby and Inky in with the collie pups and the mutt, then use the empty puppy pen as a nursery. Sunita turns on the heat lamp so her patients won’t catch a chill.

  “What can I do to help?” Zoe asks.

  “Stand by the oxygen cage,” Gran says, pointing. “Watch the patients inside. If any of them starts breathing fast, count the number of breaths per minute. If more than fifty, you let me know ASAP—as soon as possible.”

  I’m in charge of supplies. I drop off packages of clean instruments to each team and stock them with antibiotics and gloves. “We’re going to run out of Ringer’s solution,” I warn Gran.

  The veterinarian with cornrows tosses me a set of car keys. “The VW bug outside is mine. You’ll find two boxes of supplies on the backseat. I like to come prepared.”

  “A woman after my own heart,” says Gran. “Next!”

  I dash out into the rain and come back with the boxes. As I drop off the extra I.V. bags, I watch David. He’s carrying a pair of young terriers on a stretcher and is headed straight for an instrument cart.

  “Look out!”

  He’s already seen it. He holds the stretcher steady and eases by the cart. He didn’t drop anything. Amazing.

  The storm rolls around us, with plenty of lightning and window-rattling thunder. The dogs in the boarding kennels are terrified. They howl and scratch at their cage doors.

  “Will somebody please calm those dogs down,” orders Gran.

  “I’ll do it,” says Brenna. “Will you be all right alone?” she asks Sunita. Sunita nods, and Brenna jogs down the hall and around the corner.

  I do a quick check of the puppies in the pen. They’re all breathing steadily. So far, so good. There are more fleas here than I have ever seen at one time, but things are under control.

  Lightning strikes nearby. The lights flicker. The boarding dogs howl and moan again.

  “Oh, that’s just what we need,” says Gabe. “More excitement.”

  The lights stay on.

  “Don’t worry,” Gran says. “If the power goes out, I have an emergency generator. Working by candlelight doesn’t appeal to me.”

  “I don’t know,” Gabe shouts from the other room. “It could be kind of romantic.”

  Gran rolls her eyes and laughs. The tension is fading. The recovery-room cages are nearly full. The vets in the exam rooms are cleaning up. It looks like we’re almost finished.

  Suddenly Gran goes silent. The tiny yellow Lab in her hands is failing fast.

  “Help me, Maggie. Get me oxygen.”

  “One canister is empty, and Dr. Gabe is using the other,” I say.

  The puppy stops breathing.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Gran says. She bends down and blows into the pup’s nose, very gently so she doesn’t damage the lungs. After each puff, Gran listens to the heartbeat. Puff, listen, puff, listen.

  “Breathe, breathe ...” Gran urges the puppy.

  I run to the operating room. “Gran is doing artificial respiration on a Lab,” I tell Gabe. “She can’t do it all night, and you have the last canister of oxygen. What should we do?”

  “Time for a little trip,” Dr. Gabe tells the puppy on the table. “I’ll carry the dog, you bring the canister.” He picks up the pup and steadies the oxygen mask on its face. I roll the canister of oxygen close by so the pup in Dr. Gabe’s arms can keep using it.

  Dr. Gabe sets his puppy down next to Gran’s. “OK, fellas, it’s time to learn about sharing. My patient’s not in distress anymore,” he tells Gran. “Let’s try alternating the mask between the two of them.”

  Gran takes the small oxygen mask off Dr. Gabe’s puppy and puts it on the one she’s helping. I cross my fingers. Breathe, breathe. Gran puts her stethoscope on the puppy again. All of a sudden, the little Lab wrinkles her nose and coughs. She takes a deep breath. She’s going to make it.

  It’s past eleven o’clock when Gran drives the other kids home. They all left tired but satisfied knowing that they had helped save a lot of animals today. The puppies we rescued—all twenty-five of them—are asleep, but Zoe and I are too keyed up to go to bed.

  “Want some hot chocolate?” I ask.

  “Sure. But not that kind,” she says as I pull the packets of instant hot chocolate mix out of the pantry. “That stufff tastes like chemicals. We’ll make it from scratch. Ethel taught me how.”

  I put the instant away and get out the real cocoa.

  “I’m so psyched,” Zoe says. “Get out the sugar and the milk. It was just amazing. Well, not the puppy mill—that was disgusting. I thought I was going to vomit. But it was so cool how we went in there and saved all those dogs. Here, give that to me, you’re making a mess.”

  She pours the milk into a pan.

  “How can you do that without measuring?” I ask.

  “Practice.” She turns on the burner and adds the sugar and cocoa. “Here.” She hands me a wooden spoon. “Don’t stop stirring.”

  Sherlock trots into the room. He stops in his tracks, stunned by the sight of me cooking at the stove. “Give him a biscuit,” I say. “I don’t want him having a heart attack or anything.”

  Zoe reaches into the cookie jar and tosses Sherlock his treat. Now he’s really confused. I’m the only one who gives him biscuits. The whole world is upside down tonight.

  Zoe joins me at the stove and takes the spoon from me. “If you don’t stir it fast enough, you’ll scald it. And you don’t want it to boil.” She turns off the stove. “There, now taste this.”

  I hate to admit it, but she’s right. Hot chocolate from scratch tastes much better. I pour the hot chocolate into two mugs and hand one over to her.

  “Is it always like this around here?” she asks.

  “It’s not usually quite so hectic, but we have our moments.”

  “It reminded me of an emergency-room scene in my mom’s old show. There was an earthquake in the town and all these people kept rushing to the E.R. and my mom was trapped in a collapsed building.” She stops to blow on her hot chocolate. “But that was just pretend. This was real.”

  “Isn’t it about time for bed?” Gran asks as she walks in from the clinic.

  Zoe yawns. “I’m going to have terrible bags under my eyes in the morning.”

  “You can sleep in,” Gran promises.

  “Ciao!” Zoe says with a
little wave.

  “Good night,” Gran and I call.

  I wait until Zoe is out of earshot. “Bags under her eyes? Chow?”

  “Ciao means good-bye in Italian. Give her a break, Maggie.”

  “It would be easier if she talked like a normal kid. But she does make good hot chocolate.”

  Gran pours the rest of the hot chocolate into a mug and sits down across from me.

  “All our patients are doing great,” she reports.

  I grin. “The MacKenzie clan rescues the day.”

  “You were the one who got the whole ball rolling. You found the puppy mill and made sure the owner was arrested. You have a passion for helping animals, Maggie. You’re going to be a great vet someday.”

  I swish the last of my hot chocolate around in the bottom of my mug. “I’ll never be a veterinarian unless my grades come up—especially math. I think you’re right, Gran.” I swallow what’s left. “I need that tutor.” I tell her about Mitzy and how I switched the numbers.

  She takes a deep breath. “Well, I’m glad you told me. Just remember there’s nothing wrong with asking for help now and then. We could never have managed on our own tonight. I couldn’t have done it without the other vets, and your friends did a terrific job.”

  “We’re a good team,” I agree. “David kept everyone’s spirits up, Sunita was like a pool of calmness in the middle of the confusion, and those poor dogs in the boarding kennels would have been terrified without Brenna.”

  Gran gets up and carries our empty mugs to the sink. “Still, I made you a promise. As soon as things are back to normal, I’ll tell them that we don’t need their help anymore. I never thought I would say this, but I’m going to miss those kids.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The following Saturday, Gran and Zoe chase me out of the house right after breakfast.

  Something is up.

  I hop on my bike and ride down to my tutor’s. She’s a retired teacher named Mrs. Shea who has a house filled with birds and a brain filled with tricks to help kids with their schoolwork. This is my second tutoring session. So far, so good.

  “Tell me about the extra-credit report,” Mrs. Shea says, once we are settled in her living room.