He buckles on the harness. Scout is back on the job.
“I’ d like to meet with your grandmother and your guidance counselor,” he says. “You should be there, too. Together we can put together a map for you. We’ll do whatever it takes—arrange for extra help during study hall, help you with study skills, test your reading skills. You aren’t stupid, Maggie. You just need a guide.”
Scout wags his tail, brushing it against my leg. This is making sense.
“Let me ask you a question,” Mr. Carlson says as he stands. “What happened the day you dangled from the branch of the oak tree?”
I ball up the tissues in my hand. “Gran heard me. She ran out into the backyard and got there just as I let go of the branch. I wound up crashing into her instead of the ground.”
“She caught you?”
“She caught me,” I agree.
“We’re here to catch you, Maggie. Your grandmother, me, Scout, your other teachers, your friends—we won’t let you fall, or fail. But it’s up to you, too. You have to make an effort. You can’t quit.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. I toss the tissue ball at the wastebasket. It goes in. A good start.
“OK. I promise, I’ll try.”
Chapter Eleven
I am sleepy when Gran drives me to school the next morning. Sleepy, but proud. I had a busy day yesterday.
Einstein, Galileo, and the rest of Carlson’s Critters are stowed in a carrying crate in the back of the van. On my lap rests a poster board covered with a maze of toothpicks, a tactile map of the middle school. Zoe helped me with it after school yesterday. And hiding in my backpack are my notes about the circulatory system. Gran helped me write them up last night.
Gran slows the van to a crawl as we enter the fifteen-miles-per-hour zone in front of the middle school. A beige Mercedes passes illegally, then cuts in front of us. The driver is yapping into a cell phone and studying a notepad on his steering wheel.
“Look at that idiot! ” Gran exclaims. She blows her horn. “He’s going to cause an accident! ”
The traffic light in front of the school turns yellow, then red. The Mercedes driver slams on his brakes and screeches to a halt. Gran stops behind him and honks her horn again. She rolls down the window and leans out. “Hang up the phone! she yells.
The bad driver glares at her in his rearview mirror. Gran glares back. The man looks away, but he keeps talking on the phone.
“I’ll call the chief of police,” Gran mutters, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “He owes me a favor.” She turns to me. “We saved his toy poodle, remember?”
Gran doesn’t mind pulling strings to stop bad things from happening.
“Hey,” I say, pointing to the corner. “There’s Mr. Carlson and Scout.”
After stepping down from the bus idling on the other side of the intersection, Mr. Carlson and Scout pause at the crosswalk. Scout checks to make sure that all the cars are stopped, and Mr. Carlson listens carefully. The road is clear.
I glance at the clock on the dashboard. “They’re early today,” I say. “I’ll have time to show Mr. Carlson the map.”
They step off the curb.
“I’ll come in with you,” Gran says. “You can’t carry the box of animals and the map. I’ll set up the meeting with your guidance counselor, too.”
“Sure,” I agree. We had a long talk last night about my quiz grade and my middle-school problems. Gran agreed with Mr. Carlson, which was good. I’m going to have a whole team pulling for me.
The guy in the Mercedes dials his cell phone again and props it between his ear and shoulder. Mr. Carlson and Scout are crossing in front of his car. The driver glances down at the notepad on his steering wheel. He must think the light has changed—he’s not looking. The car moves forward.
He’s running the light—he doesn’t see them!
“Look out! I scream.
Gran leans on her horn. “Dear God!” she gasps.
I cover my eyes. There’s a thud, a shout, a yelp of pain, and then ...
Silence.
Gran pulls the van over to the side of the road and is out the door before I dare look. When I do, I see her kneeling over Mr. Carlson and Scout, who are lying in the middle of the road. The driver of the Mercedes stands next to his car, staring at what his stupidity just caused. He is still holding his cell phone.
The noise starts up. Horns honk, people shout, car doors slam. People come from all directions to help.
I run over, too, my heart pounding.
Are they... ?
My teacher and his dog are sprawled in the middle of the crosswalk. There is a little blood on Mr. Carlson’s forehead, but Scout looks fine. Except his eyes are closed and he’s not moving. Gran puts her fingers on Mr. Carlson’s wrist to check his pulse. His eyes flutter and open.
“What happened?” he asks weakly.
“Don’t move,” Gran warns. “You were in an accident. I’m Dr. MacKenzie, your vet. You were crossing the street in front of the school, and you were hit.” She glances angrily in the direction of the Mercedes. “Lie still. Help is coming.”
“Scout? Where’s Scout?” Mr. Carlson says.
“He’s right next to you,” Gran says. “I’ll take care of him.”
The principal and school nurse sprint toward us from the school. An ambulance siren wails in the distance. Word spreads fast.
“Maggie, get me the big red equipment box and the small orange one in the back of the van. And I’ll need two blankets.”
I dash back to the van, opening the sliding door, and gather what Gran needs. By the time I return, the school nurse is talking quietly to Mr. Carlson while she checks his vital signs. He seems dazed.
“Here,” I say as I set the supplies next to Gran. She is studying Scout but hasn’t touched him yet. “Can I help?”
“Hang on,” Gran says. “I need to muzzle Scout before we do anything else. She flips open the large medical kit and takes out a bandage roll. She quickly loops some bandage around Scout’s long nose.
“He won’t bite you!” I protest.
Gran ties the bandage in a knot behind Scout’s head. “Any dog can bite if he’s in pain or frightened, Maggie. You know that.”
The ambulance pulls up, and a police car parks behind it. Two medics start to examine and talk to Mr. Carlson. The police officer walks over to the driver of the Mercedes, whose cell phone has mysteriously disappeared.
“Take down Scout’s vitals,” Gran instructs as she tosses me a pad of paper and pen. She feels for the dog’s pulse under his hind leg.
“Heart rate, one-forty.”
She uses a stethoscope to listen to his lungs. “Respiratory rate, forty-five.”
The numbers aren’t great, but he’s alive.
Gran peeks at Scout’s gums, pressing them with her fingertip and seeing how long it takes for the blood to refill. She feels the bones in his legs, his ribs, and his spine.
“We have to get him to the clinic, stat,” Gran says. “I don’t think he’s broken anything, but there might be internal bleeding.”
Internal bleeding is bad. If we can’t find the source and fix it, he could bleed to death.
Gran spreads one of the blankets on the street next to Scout. “When I say three, help me move him.”
I put my hands under Scout’s hips.
“One, two, three! ”
Gran and I lift at the same time and move Scout to the blanket. Gran quickly covers him with the second blanket. His body temperature is dropping because shock is setting in. When an animal goes into shock, his blood pressure drops. If the shock is severe, like after being hit by a car, it can kill.
The ambulance attendants are fitting a big collar around Mr. Carlson’s neck. He tells them he’s fine and that he doesn’t want to go to the hospital, but they think he needs to be checked out.
“But, Scout,” he protests. “I can’t leave him.”
“It’s OK, Mr. Carlson,” I say over my shoulde
r. “It’s Maggie. Gran is going to take him back to the clinic. She needs to check him out, too, just like you.”
The attendants help my teacher sit up, then stand. He looks very pale, and there is a giant lump on his forehead. As the medics help him into the ambulance, Gran gets two men who are standing on the sidewalk to help carry Scout to the van. They lay the dog on the floor between the seats. “Can I sit with him?” I ask Gran as I get into the van.
“Buckle your seat belt, and don’t touch that muzzle,” she says. She gets in the driver’s seat and turns the key in the ignition. “And pray we don’t hit any red lights.”
Chapter Twelve
It takes only ten minutes to get to the clinic, but it feels like forever. Scout’s condition is getting worse. He’s breathing in short, shallow pants. Gran said not to touch him, so I don’t know what his pulse rate is. It could be racing or dropping. I’m trying to stay positive—he’s awake, he’s alive. We’ll save him. We’ve got to save him.
Finally, we’re home.
Gran turns into the driveway of the clinic, the wheels of the van squealing. She blares the horn to alert Dr. Gabe, who comes running. I slide the side door open as Gran cuts the engine. She dashes around the side of the van.
“He’s still breathing,” I say.
Gran quickly takes his pulse. “His heartbeat is fast and thready. Let’s get him inside.”
Dr. Gabe peers into the van. “What do we have here?” he asks.
Gran climbs into the van and grabs one end of the blanket on which Scout is lying. “Get the other end,” she instructs. “I’ll fill you in while we carry him.”
Yikes! I’ve never seen Gran in such a hurry with a patient.
Dr. Gabe grips the other end of the blanket. “One, two, three!” he says. Gran shuffles forward, bent over, and Dr. Gabe steps backward. They carefully maneuver Scout out of the van and carry him across the parking lot.
“Two-year-old healthy male shepherd, hit by a car,” Gran says. “Shocky, probable internal bleeding. The car wasn’t moving too fast, but it threw him to the ground. Possible head injuries.”
I run ahead and hold the door open as the two vets rush their patient into the clinic. When a dog is hit by a car, every second counts.
They carry Scout through the door and straight back to the operating room. As they lay him on the table, Scout’s eyes open, then close.
No!
Gran listens to his chest with her stethoscope. “Heart is getting weaker.”
Dr. Gabe peels back Scout’s upper lip to look at his gums.
“Very pale,” he says grimly. He presses a finger against the gum, then releases the pressure. “Capillary refill time is slow,” Dr. Gabe reports. “He probably has internal bleeding. I’ll tap his belly with a needle and see if we get any blood.”
“Hang on!” Gran rubs her fingers on Scout’s ears and touches the bottom of his foot pad. “His extremities are cool. We’ll start with fluids and oxygen to stabilize him.”
“Right,” Dr. Gabe says. He pulls the equipment cart over and snaps on a pair of latex gloves.
Gran looks over her glasses at me. “Maggie, I need I.V. bags. Get me one sodium chloride and one Ringer’s.”
“On my way,” I say.
As Gran wheels over the oxygen canister, I grab the bags out of a cupboard at the end of the room. The sodium chloride and Ringer’s solution will help Scout’s body fight off the effects of the shock and bring up his blood pressure. You have to treat the shock before you can deal with anything else.
I run the I.V. bags over to the table. An oxygen mask has been looped over Scout’s snout. Dr. Gabe has the electric clippers going. He shaves the fur off Scout’s foreleg, swabs the bare skin with antiseptic, and quickly inserts a catheter that he connects to the I.V. bag. The fluids are flowing instantly.
“Pulse?” he asks.
“Still one hundred and forty—very weak,” Gran says. She opens Scout’s eyelid and flashes a small light. “Pupils are normal. That’s one good sign. Let’s get a blood-pressure reading.”
Dr. Gabe has already shaved the fur off the other foreleg. He hooks the monitor onto the skin and watches the green screen.
“That’s way too low,” he says.
Gran’s eyes dart over to me. I know this is bad.
I grip the edge of the table as hard as I can. Come on, Scout! Fight!
“Dopamine,” Gran says. Gabe runs to the medical cupboard and pulls out a small vial of medicine. “Maggie, I need his temp. Can you do that?”
I nod. The thermometer is on the equipment cart. I pick it up, lift Scout’s tail, and insert the thermometer. I watch the second hand on the clock over the door.
Dr. Gabe hands the bottle of dopamine to Gran. She sticks the needle of a syringe into the rubber top of the bottle and carefully measures out the dose. She sets the bottle on the table and injects the medicine into the catheter.
“That should bring up his blood pressure,” Gran explains. “What is his temperature?”
I pull out the thermometer. “Ninety-eight degrees.” That’s low. It should be one hundred and one. The shock causes body temperature to go down, too.
“Blankets, Maggie,” Gran says.
I quickly yank some blankets out of a cupboard and cover Scout.
Dr. Gabe has been monitoring Scout’s vital signs. “Heart rate and blood pressure are getting better.”
You can do it, Scout! Come on!
Gran checks Scout’s gums again. “The oxygen is helping,” she says. “Capillary refill time is faster.”
I walk around the side of the table. I hold Scout’s paw in my hand. This is the paw that Mr. Carlson accidentally stepped on. There is no bandage on it today. The cut has healed.
My heart feels like something is squeezing it. I stroke the paw gently, hoping that makes Scout feel a little better.
Wait a minute.
“Gran, feel this,” I say. “His paw is warming up.”
Gran touches his foot pads and ears.
“B.P. is much better,” Dr. Gabe says happily.
Scout blinks his eyes and tries to lift his head.
“Shh, shh, take it easy,” Gran says as she soothes him. “Welcome back, Scout.”
His tail thumps once. I swallow hard. He’s over the first hurdle—we’ve stabilized him. Will he make the next?
Gran gently feels along Scout’s body while Dr. Gabe monitors his vital signs. Scout whimpers, and Gran grimaces. She hates to cause any animal pain, but she has to know where he hurts. She feels along all his bones and tests to make sure he has feeling in his legs. Next she uses her stethoscope to check Scout’s heart and lungs again and to listen for bowel sounds along his belly. She feels his belly with her fingertips several times. When she stands up and drapes the stethoscope around her neck, her face is grim.
“Time to zap some rads?” Dr. Gabe asks. He’s great at taking X-rays.
Gran nods. “I want to see if there are any fractured ribs. I think there’s a diaphragmatic hernia, too, but we’ll know better once we see the pictures. Let’s give him an analgesic before we start.”
Dr. Gabe injects Scout with the painkiller. It starts to work in seconds, and Scout relaxes a little. Gran turns off the flow of oxygen and removes the mask. Then they pick up the blanket that Scout’s lying on and walk back toward the X-ray room.
“Can I watch?” I ask.
“No, Maggie,” Gran says over her shoulder. “Fetch those little critters out of the van. They should be in the house.”
The critters! I can’t believe I forgot about them. And it’s hot out there today.
I hurry through the clinic and out the front door. Whew! We left the windows and the sliding door open. That’s good. If they had been closed, the van would have heated up quickly. I don’t want to think about what could have happened. I’m already shaken up enough by what happened to Scout.
By the time I get the critters stowed away in an empty exam room, Gran and Dr. Gabe are looking at X-
rays on the light box on the operating-room wall. Scout is resting on the operating table.
“He’s still stable,” Dr. Gabe assures me. “His blood pressure and pulse oxygenation are good, considering what happened.”
I look at the X-rays. “How bad is it?” I ask quietly.
“Ugly,” Gran says. She points to an X-ray with her pen. “Three fractured ribs. I’m pretty sure there is internal bleeding. That could mean a ruptured spleen or liver. We have to deal with that right away. He’s also got a tear in the diaphragm. I don’t think you’ve ever seen one of those before.”
I shake my head.
Gran uses herself as a model, placing her hand below her ribs. “Between the chest and the abdomen, we have a layer of muscle.”
I feel my own belly and nod my head.
“Those muscles protect all the soft organs inside—the intestines, the liver, and the spleen, among others. When the car hit Scout, the force tore open the muscles. Some of the stuff that should be nicely tucked in Scout’s abdomen is now up in his chest. He can’t expand his lungs properly to breathe. We have to get in there, repair any organ damage, stop the bleeding, and put everything back where it belongs.”
“That sounds like a lot. Is he up for surgery right now?”
Gran turns and studies her patient. “His heart wasn’t damaged, and neither was his head—both good things. His left lung is a little beat-up from the force of the impact, but it’s not punctured or collecting fluid. And he is young and very strong, which helps his case.”
“It sounds like you’re going to say ‘But,”’ I say.
“But there’s a chance he won’t make it. You’ve seen this before, Maggie. When a car hits a dog, the dog often loses. We’re going to operate and hope for the best.
Hope for the best?
I blink back the tears. Scout has to make it!
Chapter Thirteen
While Gran and Dr. Gabe scrub up for surgery, I lean over the operating table and quietly talk to Scout.
“OK, Scout, this is going to be hard, but I know you can do it,” I whisper. “Mr. Carlson is counting on you.”
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