"I'm sure there's one somewhere, but I wouldn't bet the farm on it."
"Where's the bathroom?"
"There's one out the darkroom door. It's shared by the barber shop."
"You mean there's another door in that black hole somewhere? I sure didn't notice it."
"Yeah, there's a maze back there you wouldn't believe, with a set of stairs going to an apartment and another doorway into a storage room and the restroom."
"I can imagine how restful that room is, if it's anything like the rest of this dump."
Returning to the darkroom, I reached the far wall and groped about until I finally felt a doorknob. Fumbling with one rickety door after the other, I picked my way to the back room.
"Oh man, Gordon, has the fire inspector ever been invited into this pit?"
"I wouldn't be trying to rent it to you if he had been."
The portion of the building that we now entered was obviously a lean-to that had been added on. I cautiously entered the room, stooping further with each step.
"This place certainly wasn't designed with someone of your height in mind."
"Hardly," I groaned.
Reaching to the bulb over his head, Gordon pulled a chain and turned on the light.
"Maybe that's why I was having so much trouble finding a light switch in the other room. There's probably a string dangling from the ceiling somewhere."
The room was of two-by-four construction and no attempt had been made to insulate it or in any way cover the bare boards that lined the outside walls.
"I thought you said there was a bathroom back here."
"There is." Gordon pointed to the far end of the lean-to where the ceiling was barely four feet from the floor.
"You have to be kidding! How am I supposed to get through that door?"
"I'm not really sure. But when you decide to try it, let me know. I can think of a few people who would want to buy tickets for that performance."
Ducking my head still further, I pushed the door inward and turned the light on by pulling the string.
"I'd have to drop my drawers out here to be able to get onto this throne. Even then, that fool lightbulb would whack me on the head."
We returned to the front in silence, closing each rickety door behind us. I had been down in the dumps before we got here. Everything seemed to be taking so long, and I was constantly nagged by worries about the image I was portraying to my clientele. Moving into this place would do nothing to improve my image, and the last few minutes had done little to lift my spirits.
"You really think that people would come to visit someone in a dive like this and not be afraid to leave their pet behind?"
"Someone, maybe not. You, yes. For some reason, you seem to have a lot of people thinking you're all right. You keep people happy and stay busy enough, and you won't have to be in this building for long. Besides, you'd be surprised what a bit of paint and some wallpaper could do to fix it up."
"I'm afraid it'll take more than wallpaper and paint to make me happy with this dump."
"What're you going to do for a receptionist?" Gordon asked, as we pulled into the parking lot behind Veitch Realty.
"Hadn't given it too much thought really. I've been delaying the inevitable as long as possible. It's one thing to keep from starving to death when I'm just worrying about myself. It'll be a different story if I have to earn enough to pay staff as well."
"Once you become more visible and people can get to you without having to call all over town, you're going to have more to do than you can handle. You'll need someone good to organize you, someone who isn't afraid of work and who'll keep busy without being asked."
"You sound as if you have someone in mind. Are you in the personnel business as well?"
"Not really." That sneaky smile crept onto his face. "But I do."
"Who?"
"Her name's Doris Currie. Her husband died a few months ago. He was on a kidney machine for years and she ran it—she's not the least bit scared of blood."
"How do you know she wants to work?"
"I chatted with her the other day, and she said she was going to have to find a job. I think you should talk to her right away before she gets one somewhere else."
"I don't know. I'm not sure I'm ready for an employee yet."
"I'm not trying to knock what you're doing right now. You've got to admit though, when you're doing everything, you're not working efficiently. With a good employee like Doris and an office in town, you'll get twice as much accomplished and not feel so pressed for time."
"You may be right... You may be right."
"So do you want to meet her tonight? I'll take you over and introduce you to her if you want."
"Let me think on it. Things are moving just a little too fast for me at the moment."
"Well, you let me know. You could sure do a lot worse than hiring Doris; and if you rent that spot for even six months, it'll get you started."
I was in a pensive mood when I called in for messages. Maybe it was time to move on. The Kemles were certain to tire of fielding my calls—after all, they were just clients trying to help out. There was no question that I needed an assistant off and on, and I was sick of going home at the end of a long day with the prospect of sterilizing instruments for the morning. Gordon was right. Something had to give!
"Werner Beier has a cat with a broken leg. He sounded quite upset and was hoping to have it looked at right away. He just barely hung up the phone. He's waiting in his office for your call."
"Thanks, Donna."
I soon had a very worried Mr. Beier on the phone.
"Sorry to be so worked up, but I've never seen anything quite this gross before! His leg's just hanging there, and the bone's poking out and all covered with dirt."
"Does the wound look fresh, or has it been like that for a while?"
"It's been like that for a while; it's a mess! Something has to be done."
After taking directions on how to find the Beiers' farm, I called Gordon.
"Why don't you set up a time to meet with this lady tonight? It's obvious that I'm going to need someone I can depend on to help me with cases. You may as well phone Norman Husband and tell him I'll rent his building, too."
"Okay, I'll see what I can do."
Werner's instructions had been good, and I had no problem whatsoever finding his poultry farm. I turned off the Erickson back road onto Beier's lane. A pungent odour invaded the car as I proceeded down the drive. Pulling into the yard, I was met by a tall, slender, blond man in his early twenties. Planted near the entrance to the barn, he stood as rigid as a statue. I could hardly see the kitten he clutched tightly to his chest.
"I'm Werner Beier. This is Albert."
I was more than a little surprised that this man was actually Mr. Beier himself. Until he introduced himself, I assumed that he was, in fact, a hired hand—he was no older than I was.
"Hello Werner, I'm Dave Perrin."
"This happened yesterday." Werner gazed at the rumpled ball of black fur that he cuddled in his arms. "Albert's such an affectionate little guy—he follows me around everywhere. I was working out in the yard with the one-ton, and he was sitting on the frame. I chased him away and got back into the truck to lower the box. Albert must have jumped right back up on the frame. The box came down on his leg... I heard him screech and lifted it right away. He took off...I just found him again a few minutes ago."
"How old is he?"
I gently stroked his head with my finger. Albert opened one eye just a slit, shot a disinterested glance in my direction, then immediately closed it.
"He's four months. This is not like him at all—he's usually a perpetual motion machine."
"Have you seen him move his back end at all?"
"Yeah, he crawled out from under one of the big fan units."
The kitten lay motionless while I examined him. From the vibration of his head and chest, I could tell that he was managing to carry on with a feeble purr. There was a sizabl
e gash over the base of his tail and, for a moment, I wondered if the spine might be fractured. I squeezed his tail and could feel him shift his body to avoid the discomfort.
His good foreleg was uppermost and, with the exception of a few broken claws and the skin missing from his outer pad, it seemed to be intact. The leg flexed smoothly without causing him pain, and a firm pinch to his good toes revealed a normal withdrawal reflex. Manipulation of his hind end didn't seem to distress him.
"Let's shift him around so I can get a better look at the bad leg."
Carefully turning him over in his arms, Werner gave him an anxious look, then focused his gaze on the horizon. Albert's right front leg was an entanglement of jagged bone and sinew. The leg had been broken in several locations and almost completely stripped of skin to an area well above the foreleg. The elbow was dislocated, leaving the foot dangling by tissue that was stiff and dried out. The humerus was broken and sticking through near his shoulder. As the kitten shifted his weight to get more comfortable, the end of the bone slashed through the air, then buried itself again beneath the muscles of his upper leg. Feathers and fragments of grain clung randomly to the exposed flesh.
"Do you think you can save him?"
"I think we can save him, but that leg's definitely beyond hope."
"I figured that. Would it be cruel to let him live with just three legs? I can baby him a bit, but there are other cats here, and he'll have to fend for himself."
"Cats are capable of doing very well with one leg missing."
I rolled back his lip to check his colour; although his gums were pale, they still had a pinkish hue. Grabbing the skin at the scruff of his neck, I pulled upward, then released it. It maintained a peak, only very slowly flattening at the margins.
"He's dehydrated. We'll have to get some fluids into him before doing surgery."
Werner hesitated. "I like this critter, but he is a barn cat. If you think this is going to be really expensive, I may have you put him to sleep."
"I'll keep that in mind. Do you have a counter or desk where we can work on him? He has a small vein, so you're going to have to hold him very still."
"I have a desk in my office."
I gathered the necessary materials from the car, then followed Werner into the little alcove that functioned as his office. Albert lay quietly in Werner's hands as I clipped the hair from the paw to the elbow. I was nervous about trying to start an intravenous on such a small kitten.
Grasping the cat above the elbow, I aggressively rubbed down the foreleg with an alcohol swab. The small but firm blue string that materialized meandered from the inside of the foreleg to disappear beneath my finger at the elbow. Closing my eyes, I pictured the apparatus installed and the drip running at a slow, steady pace. Nothing to it—just a bit of simple plumbing.
I drove the catheter through the skin and advanced it. It looked good; I was certain I was in! I removed the metal stilette and blood crept up the catheter. "Hallelujah!"
Werner cuddled the kitten to his chest as I injected him with antibiotics. He watched apprehensively as I settled him in a cat carrier in the back of my car.
It was after six by the time I finished my last helping of Chinese food at the Club Cafe. I had made arrangements to meet Gordon at his home in Erickson at six-thirty and was already feeling nervous about meeting this woman. What would I say if I didn't think she was suitable for the job? A litany of one-liners flashed to mind. "I'm sorry, you're definitely not the person I want to hire." "Not a chance!" "I'm not really ready to hire someone yet, but I'll give you a ring when I am." Or maybe, "I have several interviews set up with other people, and I'll let you know after I've met with them."
I got back to the car and took a quick look at Albert. He was curled up on his blanket, his mutilated leg under him, his head tucked inside the crook of his hind leg. It always amazed me that animals so frequently lie with their injured limb under them. Was it to portray to the world: I'm fine! Nothing wrong with me. Find a meal somewhere else? Or was there something about lying on an injury that suppressed the pain?
Whatever the reason, I couldn't imagine my wanting to lie on that tangled mass of flesh. He was looking much brighter now. I stroked his head and he opened his eyes to give a pitiful meow. He purred and pressed his head into my palm as if asking for more. When I lifted a pinch of skin on the scruff of his neck and released it, it returned to its normal position.
"That's what we want to see, Albert. You're feeling better too, aren't you?"
I pulled into Veitch's driveway, still rehearsing what I was going to say to this lady if I didn't like her. I was certainly not going to put myself in this situation again! From now on, any interviews would be on my own turf. Gordon was nowhere to be seen, so I knocked on the door. I was met by Ruth, who had been busy in the kitchen.
"Come on in and have some dessert. Gord's in the living room watching the news."
I found Gordon stretched out like a walrus, his expansive belly on the carpeted floor, a great stuffed cushion under his chest. On the floor before him was a huge bowl of trifle cake smothered in whipped cream.
"Ah, Doctauri's here! You're just in time for supper."
"No thanks, I'm stuffed. I just had Chinese food at Mae's, and I couldn't eat another thing."
"Well, you certainly have room for dessert," Ruth insisted, handing me a bowl of cake and whipped cream that was piled every bit as high as Gordon's. The focus of the news was the same as every other night. They just couldn't get enough of Nixon and Watergate! They had him by the throat and weren't about to let go.
"Are you sure that this lady's going to work out all right?" I asked, as we jumped into his car.
"Madame C? Oh yeah, don't worry about her. She's a real trooper! She's exactly what you need."
I felt like an expectant groom at an arranged marriage waiting to see the woman he would spend the rest of his life with.
I was more than a little nervous by the time Gordon pointed to the house a half mile up the road from his and chirped, "That's Madame C's right there. The one with the white siding."
I followed him up the walk, feeling somewhat like the proverbial schoolboy. He rang the buzzer; I stood nervously behind him staring at my feet.
We were met by a tall, grey-haired, very proper-looking woman in her mid-fifties. She was immaculately dressed; her hair looked as if she had just left the beauty parlour.
My God, what had I gotten myself into? This woman looked like she could pass for a matron in a reform school. Maybe I could see her as a receptionist in an accounting firm, but I couldn't imagine her wrestling a dog in a veterinary clinic.
"Come on in," she invited cordially.
"Doris, this is Dr. Dave Perrin, the new veterinarian in town. Dave, this is my friend, Doris Currie."
"Glad to meet you, Dr. Perrin." Doris was nervous. She extended her hand, and I was surprised by the firmness of her grip.
"Good to meet you too, Doris." I was lying. All I wanted to do was get out of there!
"Come on in and sit down," she invited, showing us into a living room that was as orderly and well groomed as she was.
"Would you like something to eat—coffee perhaps?"
"No, thank you," I responded. "I just stuffed myself on a huge piece of Ruth's trifle cake."
"Speak for yourself, Dr. Perrin," Gordon groused. "I'd love a coffee."
Doris returned with coffee for Gordon. She carried his cup on a serving tray next to a cream pitcher, a sugar bowl, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies.
Gordon smiled. Holding the coffee cup in his right hand, he grabbed a few cookies with his left. "Just set the cookies over here," he smirked. "Dr. Perrin's obviously not interested in them!"
We all chuckled nervously, then the room fell silent and Doris and Gordon looked at me expectantly.
"How long have you lived in Creston, Doris?"
"My parents moved here from Woodstock, Ontario, when I was only a year and a half. I've lived here ever since."
<
br /> "Have you worked on the farm all of that time? Or have you had any other job experience?"
Doris smiled and there was reverence to her tone when she continued. "I went to school with Stu; we got married in 1941. We lived in a little house up the road a bit, and when they upped the rent to ten dollars a month we built here. Stu bought this farm from his dad after he was discharged from the airforce in 1945. He was wounded in the war and treated with sulfonamides. That landed him with chronic nephritis, and he lived with it for twenty-odd years before he finally went on dialysis."
Doris stopped and tears welled up. She took a deep breath, then continued with resolve. "I guess I've been pretty much a housewife, a farmer, and a mother for my three children. In the later years, I spent my time looking after Stu. At first we went back and forth to Trail for dialysis. When they came up with the home units, I took training as a renal technician, and we started doing it here."
She stopped for a moment to stare out the window. "Stu died in March."
Listening to her talk, I began to lose my reservations about hiring her. She had not had an easy life and had stuck with caring for a family and operating this farm. Maybe she'd be just as loyal and hard-working an employee as she had been a wife and mother.
"So when do you think you'd be able to start?" I asked, breaking an uneasy silence.
"Well, I don't have anything keeping me from starting right away." There was a hint of surprise and excitement in her voice. "I
think it's time to get on with my life and quit moping around this
house."
"Good, would you like to start tonight or tomorrow morning?"
"Pardon me?"
"I know this is Saturday night, but it just so happens that I have a surgery that has to be done fairly soon. It's a kitten that got his front leg badly mutilated, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to amputate it."
"Oh." Doris gave Gordon a nervous look. "Well, I'm planning to go to church in the morning, but I guess we could do it tonight."
"Okay, we'll give it a try." I slowly rose from the sofa. "If this surgery doesn't bother you and we don't have to scrape you off the floor, it's not likely any of the others will either. I'm not sure how busy we're going to be at the start—it may be just part-time. If it gets slow, you can always bring your knitting."
Don't Turn Your Back in the Barn (Adventures of a Country Vet) Page 7