The dogs arrive first. Maggie’s old hound, Sherlock, paddles in, followed by Zoe’s peppier, sweet mutt, Sneakers.
I hear Zoe before I see her.
“How will you ever know if you like parsley breakfast shakes if you never try them?” Zoe asks.
“I’m not drinking anything green,” Maggie says to Zoe before sitting down on a couch and waving to me. Zoe sits beside Maggie and shakes her head. I take a quick photo of them.
“I put pears in there, too, you know. And you like pears,” Zoe insists.
“Yeah and I like Pop-Tarts better.” Maggie’s tone seems to signal the end of the discussion.
“Good morning, everyone,” Dr. Mac greets us. Even though she is Maggie and Zoe’s grandmother, she sure doesn’t seem like a grandma. Dr. Mac doesn’t look or act old like a lot of grandmothers do. I’ve seen her lift heavy animals. I’ve seen her climb fences. And she can run fast when she has to. Dr. Mac is pretty cool. I hope I’m like that when I’m her age.
“Look at this, look at this! I’m practicing for a campout with my dad,” David says. He pulls a small flashlight from his pocket, turns it on, and pretends to lick it.
“What is that supposed to be?” I ask.
“Yes, what is that?” Sunita asks.
“I’m having a light snack! Get it?” David says. He laughs so hard he tips over.
We groan. Even Josh.
We hear a key in the door. Dr. Gabe walks in with a stack of files. Zoe is up in an instant and across the floor.
“Need help?” she asks. Zoe rests one hand on Dr. Gabe’s arm.
“Hi Zoe, no thanks. I’ve got it,” he replies. He smiles and nods in our direction. “Hi kids, Hey, J.J. I have a few cases to go over with you before I finish these files.”
J. J. MacKenzie is Dr. Mac’s real name.
She says, “I’ve just begun with our hardy volunteers. Should be about ten minutes. Then I can take a look.”
He nods and smiles at Dr. Mac. He smiles down at Zoe. Zoe smiles, pivots, and returns to her seat with a goofy expression on her face. I think Zoe imagines that Dr. Gabe treats her special. But actually, cute Dr. Gabe treats everyone like they’re special. Little kids, old folks, all of us, and of course, all the animals. Sometimes I get frustrated with people and the way they can be with animals. Dr. Gabe is patient and understanding. He shows people how to care for animals. I’m not sure that even if I wanted to be a vet I could be one. I get mad too fast. My parents are always trying to show me how to handle myself in these situations. And Dr. Mac has reminded me more than once to chill out. But how do you do that when things—people—need fixing?
Dr. Mac resumes our meeting. She makes checks on her clipboard as she talks. “So, gang, I have Maggie, Zoe, Brenna, Sunita, and Jules on cleaning crew for tomorrow. David and Josh have duties at the FFA horse-judging contest. Have a great time, you two. And tell us all about it next week. As for today, the exam rooms, surgery, and recovery rooms are cleaned and ready. We need only our usual quick clean of the waiting area. David and Zoe, could you water the plants? And Sunita, I could use you at the desk for about ten minutes. Josh and Jules, I have you down for glass cleaning. We have even more canine noseprints on the doors than usual. Brenna and Maggie, can you mop? We’ll all meet up in the recovery room for a duck exam. Brenna, do you or your parents have info to share with us about duckling health?”
I whip out my paper. “Got it right here.”
“Perfect,” Dr. Mac says. “I knew I could count on you.”
We all get to work. I take a few pictures of everyone at their tasks. At one point, Maggie stops mopping and stares at me with her hands on her hips. I get the picture. Too much camera work, not enough mop work. I press the lens cap back onto my camera and grab my mop. We really are done fast. Fifteen minutes later, all of us—including Dr. Gabe—are gathered around the duck boxes.
It is a terrible, sad sight. The little lone duckling is dead. It’s obvious even before Dr. Mac pulls out her stethoscope to check its vitals. The duckling is on its side. It’s still, legs curled up, webbed feet clawed. Her eyelids are half open. An animal that has died just looks like an empty place.
I feel my temples throb. I am more than just sad. I am so angry. Furious, really. This didn’t need to happen. I take a picture.
“What are you doing?” Sunita cries.
“I . . . I just wanted to document this,” I reply. Sunita’s eyes are wide and her mouth is open. She looks shocked, horrified. I horrified her.
“I just don’t think it is right,” she says. “What will you do with that picture?”
“Jeez, Brenna,” David says, “Not cool.”
“Well, I don’t know,” I say. I really don’t know. Why did I take that picture? I think I just reacted. But is it really such a terrible thing to do? To take a picture of an animal that is dead? Don’t we have to see and remember bad things, too?
My face is hot. I must be as red as the heat lamp. The rest of the Vet Volunteers look confused. It’s hard to read what Dr. Mac or Dr. Gabe thinks.
“Sorry?” I try.
Finally, Dr. Mac speaks. “I’m sure Brenna will be respectful, whatever she decides to do.”
It’s like the air has come back into the room. I look at Sunita. She does not look at me. She places a towel over the dead duckling. Is she keeping me from taking another picture . . . or just being respectful to the duckling?
The other ducklings are peeping loudly. Maggie and Josh put on gloves, and Jules picks up the ducklings chart. Dr. Mac demonstrates how she examines the ducks, and Maggie and Josh do the same. We are all supposed to follow along, even though we don’t each do an exam. Dr. Mac wants to teach us, but she never wants to overhandle a patient. We can learn by watching. I’m having a hard time paying attention. I wonder what everyone thinks of me. I’m still not sure that I did anything wrong. But other than disaster photos, like birds caught in oil slicks, I can’t remember seeing pictures of dead animals before. Not in a magazine. Not in a gallery show. Maybe I did do something wrong.
“Brenna?”
“Brenna?”
I realize that someone is talking to me.
“Sorry, yes?” I say.
“Did you want to share your duck research with us?” Dr. Mac smiles and nods.
I feel encouraged. Until I glance at Sunita. She still looks spooked. I try a little smile in Sunita’s direction. Her brow furrows. I better begin.
“I talked with my parents and I Googled a bunch of stuff. The most important thing to know about ducks is that they don’t have any saliva.” I see Dr. Gabe nod agreement. He must know a lot about ducks because of his farm calls.
I continue, “So they always need a water source. Food can get stuck in their mouths or throats, and they can choke and die if they go without water.”
Maggie jumps in. “So these ducklings would probably all have died if you hadn’t rescued them from the parking lot. There isn’t any water near the high school, is there?”
I shake my head no. There is no water there. Rescued. I think Maggie is trying to make me sound heroic in front of the others, especially Sunita. But of course, somebody else would have found them and probably taken them to Dr. Mac’s or to the rehab center. At least, I sure hope that would have happened. I don’t want to imagine it any other way.
“Other duckling facts: They are very messy. Ducks poop about every fifteen minutes.” I pause to see if David is going to make some kind of joke, but he’s serious for a change.
I flip my paper over and read: “It’s hard to tell the gender of ducks until about seven weeks—”
“Seven weeks?” Jules interrupts. “That seems like an awfully long time. How can you tell at seven weeks?” Jules looks at the ducklings as if she might be able to tell right now whether they’re boys or girls.
“At about seven weeks, the ducks are fu
lly feathered,” I begin. “The males have some tail feathers that curl back toward their heads. The girls do not. Oh, and also, girls quack and boys whine.”
“Boy ducks don’t quack?” Josh asks. “Are you sure?”
I shrug. “That’s what my parents and my research tell me.”
Dr. Gabe confirms this. “Right now these ducks are so young that they just peep. But we might be able to tell from their vocalizations before they’re fully feathered. Because, yes, only the girls quack.”
“What kind of whine do boys make?” David asks.
“A whispery whine,” Dr. Gabe says. “Like this.” Dr. Gabe makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a frog and a pouting toddler. We all laugh.
I continue with a few more duck facts. Yesterday, Dr. Mac, Zoe, and I talked about how ducklings weren’t water repellent. I share this information with the others. They need to know about the dangers of drowning for little ones like this.
Dr. Gabe points out that the ducklings are starting to form wings. There is a definite angle or elbow to them. I don’t remember seeing that yesterday.
Dr. Gabe leans on the table and looks closely at the birds. “They look pretty good, don’t you think, Dr. Mac?”
Dr. Mac says, “They do, indeed. They’ve made a fairly rapid recovery.”
Sunita shakes her head and asks, “Are we sure they’ll be okay? That whatever killed the one duckling won’t kill them?”
Dr. Mac looks at Sunita and then down at the ducklings. “We can’t be sure, yet. That’s why we’ll keep them here a little longer. But the one duckling was severely dehydrated. And of course we know it had ingested some plastic grass. The combination was just too much for one so young.”
Sunita nods.
Dr. Mac pats her shoulder and says, “It’s always hard to lose a patient, Sunita. We’ll be watching the other three carefully.”
Everyone is quiet for a moment. And then Dr. Mac hangs the ducklings’ chart up.
“Do either of you know what breed they are?” Dr. Mac looks first at me and then at Dr. Gabe.
I shrug my shoulders. I didn’t find out enough about ducks last night to figure that out.
“I’m just taking a guess here,” Dr. Gabe begins. “We won’t know definitely until they feather out. But I think they’re Pekins.”
“Perkins?” David says. “Like the pancake place?”
“Pe-kins,” Dr. Gabe enunciates. He straightens and leans back. “They’re non-native ducks. Naturally flightless. Often sold at feed stores and tractor-supply places. So it’s not like they’d be separated from their mothers. They would have hatched in a brooder and shipped. Of course, we can’t know for sure yet. But since Dr. Mac found the Easter grass in this one’s throat,” Dr. Gabe gestures to the covered duckling and continues, “I would guess somebody bought them for their kids without thinking about the care they would need.”
“And then decided they were too much work and dumped them!” I say, a bit too loudly. The German shepherd with the leg wound barks.
Maggie goes over to comfort the dog. She pets him and says, “Shh, shh, shh.”
Sunita slowly shakes her head. “The people who abandoned them most likely did not know what kind of work they were getting themselves into.”
“That’s no excuse,” I say. “They were careless to buy them. And then to dump them! They could have brought the ducklings here. Or the Ambler animal shelter. Or to us. My family would have cared for them. This one did not have to die!”
The shepherd barks again. Maggie sits down on the floor beside its cage and pets him. The ducklings stop peeping. I think I scared them, too.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Well, it’s about time to open. Josh, Jules, and Zoe, you’re on today. I’ll see some of you tomorrow and the rest of you during the week when you’re scheduled.”
“Do you want me to stay a little while and file?” Sunita asks Dr. Mac.
“Oh, could you? You wouldn’t mind?” Dr. Mac replies. I swear they go through this every week. Sunita offers, and Dr. Mac always accepts and thanks her over and over again. Dr. Mac hates the paperwork part of running a vet office. Sunita loves putting things in order. It all works out.
I take a picture of the remaining ducklings. I thought Sunita would have liked that. But instead, she looks at me curiously and walks out the door.
Dr. Gabe pats me on the shoulder. “I heard your folks agreed to take the ducklings. They look almost ready to go. Couple days, I’d say.”
“We’ll be ready,” I say.
“Hey,” Zoe says at the door, “I hear you’re doing another talk at the high school. I’ll come along and help. Just tell me when. I can hold things up like the game-show girls do.”
Zoe demonstrates by running her hand down the doorframe like it’s a prize. She smiles extra big and bats her eyelashes. She kicks her foot behind her and says, “Or I can pass things out, serve refreshments, whatever.” Zoe bounces out the door.
Maggie is petting the shepherd back to sleep. She shakes her head at her goofy cousin. With her pinky and her thumb, she forms a pretend phone and puts it to her ear, mouthing, Call me.
I nod. But I don’t really want to call Maggie when I get home. Because as much as I’d love to have her help me at the high school, I know Zoe will get on and want to talk about helping. And I don’t want to have to say one more I’m sorry today.
Chapter Four
At our rehab center, Mom and I prepare a duck enclosure in the critter barn. We haul out a stock tank. It’s a six-foot-long, flat-bottomed, oblong basin of galvanized steel. It’s about two feet high. This might seem like a lot of room for three little ducks, but they’ll need room to grow. We use stock tanks for baby chicks and young turkeys, too. We secure—as best we can—a screen of chicken wire on top to keep raccoons and other animals out.
Mom brushes back the hair from her face. “We’ll have to take the ducklings out of this tank a few times a day for exercise. We’ll walk them around the barn, but we’ll need to keep them clear of our little fox family. We wouldn’t want the foxes to frighten them. Oh, and we’ll need to steer clear of our raccoon, too.”
We set up a heat lamp but keep it turned off. We put plenty of wood shavings in the bottom of the tank. Mom sets a big flat stone in there as well.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“We’ll put their water jar on it. Setting it up higher will help keep the shavings out. A little. They are such messy birds.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I say. “They sure go to the bathroom a lot.”
“A whole lot, plus they’re energetic drinkers,” Mom says and laughs. “Come on, we’re done here. Let’s check on our other critters.”
I follow Mom around the critter barn, cleaning and feeding. We have five bunnies that are not from the wild. More abandoned Easter pets, I’m sure. They all showed up on different days this past week. At least people didn’t dump them in a parking lot. But still, what are people thinking? What’s wrong with giving your kid a fuzzy toy bunny instead of a live one that they aren’t ready to take care of?
We check water bottles and the tiny hayracks for the bunnies to be sure they’re filled. The bunnies are so cute. Mom and I pick up each one and handle it. Since they’re pet bunnies and won’t be released into the wild, it’s important that we keep them tame by petting them.
Mom nuzzles the little Polish bunny in her hands. It’s a soft gray bundle of fluff with tiny sticking-up ears. “Originally, I was going to take them to the animal shelter on Monday,” she says. “But the manager tells me they’re overrun with rabbits right now.”
Some years we’ve had as few as three after-Easter rabbits dropped off here. And the shelter has been able to take them. But other years—like this one—the shelter has too many of its own and can’t take ours. In the past, Dr. Mac has called some of her patien
t families to see if they wanted to adopt a bunny. I wonder what we’ll do this year.
When we’re finished with all the animals inside, we do a quick check on the outdoor animals. The fox family appears to be napping. The healing, tail-less raccoon on the far side of the rehab center is also sleeping. Everything and everyone seems A-OK.
We walk by my dad’s quiet workshop. He’s delivering and installing a whole kitchen’s worth of cherry cabinets. He’s been working on them for months, and everyone is glad his long hours have finally come to an end. The money will be nice, too. After all, Sage is in college, and college is expensive.
We continue on into the house—it’s really more of a cabin. It’s cozy and beautiful. I know that when I grow up and have a place of my own, I’ll want a cabin like ours.
My little brother, Jayvee, is lying on his belly in the middle of the kitchen floor, partially under a chair. He has a stack of small square papers and a half dozen or so origami dinosaurs strewn beneath the table and chairs. He is roaring so loudly for his dinosaurs that he doesn’t hear us come in. I swoop down and pick up the closest one and “Raaarrrrhhh!” at him.
Jayvee startles and bumps his head on the underside of the chair.
“Oh dear, sorry, buddy!” I say.
He stands, blinks quickly, and rubs his head. I think he’s trying not to cry.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I repeat. I start to hand him the dinosaur, until I notice that I’ve crushed it. I must have damaged it when he got hurt. I guess that startled me.
“Sorry. Let me fix it,” I say. I try to smooth and flatten the parts that look like they should be flat, and re-crease a couple other spots.
Treading Water Page 3