Rescue at Lake Wild

by Terry Lynn Johnson

  The kits’ back feet have even longer nails, with dark webbing between their toes. They both have small round tails. The larger kit is a darker brown than Phrag. He’s shaped like a rectangle.

  “That one looks like a furry lunch cooler,” Aaron says.

  “Good name,” I say.

  Cooler also grabs my hand and noses it, perhaps looking for warmth. They’re both shivering. I bring them closer to my neck and they nuzzle me.

  “What are we going to do with them?” Aaron asks. “We can’t take them to the clubhouse like usual.”

  Aaron has a point. After that tomcat, Mom will be suspicious of what I do now. Where can I keep them? I just wanted to rescue the kits—I didn’t think everything through.

  “I have an idea.” I set them down so I can climb into the boat. Grabbing my backpack, I dig out my cell phone, push a button, and then put it on speaker.

  “Willow Grove Veterinary Clinic,” answers a crisp voice.

  “You have the vet on speed dial?” Jack says.

  I motion for him to shut up. “Hi. I’m calling to ask if you take in beaver kits that’ve been tragically orphaned.”

  “Beavers? Well, no, we can’t do that. How old are they?”

  “Oh, I’m just asking a hypothetical question. I don’t actually have any. But if someone had rescued a beaver kit, about the size . . . of a squash, how old do you think it would be?”

  “Hard to say. They’re usually born in the spring, but not always. I don’t know much about beavers. Except that they require a lot of time and socializing. Like a puppy. What’ve you gotten into this time, Madison?”

  “What? No. No one here by that name. Anyway . . . gotta go.” I hang up.

  “Smooth,” Aaron says. “You forgot about caller ID?”

  “I panicked. No one can know we have them. What are we going to do with them?”

  I don’t know much about beavers either, besides watching the loglike bodies of adults swim along the surface. It’s a mystery what happens in a lodge. This is an excellent opportunity to learn more about them. Besides that, these guys need help.

  “If you see something, do something,” I whisper. My motto.

  “We should take care of the kits,” I say, stepping out of the boat. “We just need to find a place to keep them.”

  Jack perks up. “I can bring them home. There’s lots of room and we’ve got the lake for them to swim. It’s sort of perfect—having them there could help us solve the case, too.”

  Jack has wanted to be a game warden since he discovered Game Warden TV. He’s always looking for poaching cases to solve, and he’s even been training Lid, with our help, to be his detector dog.

  Aaron makes a strangled noise, and points behind me.

  I turn just in time to see Lid stuffing Phrag into his mouth.

  4

  “No!”

  All three of us lunge toward the dog. Lid immediately spits out his victim. I scoop up the little fur ball to check for damage. Phrag’s covered in dog goober but seems unharmed. Lid has the decency to look sheepish when I glare at him.

  “He wasn’t going to hurt the kit,” Jack says. “He was just trying to play.”

  Here’s a story about Lid. When Jack and his family brought him home from the pound, the first thing the dog did was dive into the garbage can. They put a swinging cover on their can to keep him out. Lid got his name from being caught too many times wearing the plastic lid around his neck. That dog has an eating problem. Food, rotten food, socks, toy soldiers, earbuds, crayons, dirty diapers, and now beaver kits.

  “Right,” I say. “I guess that answers the question of whether we should take the kits to your house.”

  I turn to Aaron. He starts shaking his head. “No way. Uh-uh. We live in town. Where we going to keep two beavers?”

  “They’re small.”

  “My mom will kill me.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like you want to go to a gala. What can she do to you? Besides, you lost rock-paper-scissors. It’s only fair. And you just have to keep them till I get back from Stratton.”

  I scoop up Cooler along with Phragmites and climb in the boat, shooting another dirty look at Lid. He gives me a confused expression as though he’s forgotten about the time he tried to hork down a whole beaver kit.

  “You want to go to your place and get the ATV?” Jack says, untying the bow line. His long black bangs fall into his eyes with a gust of wind.

  I nod. It’s the fastest way to get to Aaron’s. “But it’s in the garage. We’ll have to go full stealth with the kits past the window if my parents are home.”

  I’m allowed to drive the all-terrain vehicle, or ATV, as long as we wear helmets, stay on our property, and don’t go past third gear. Luckily our property stretches from Lake Wild all the way over to Birch Street and backs onto the ravine behind Aaron’s.

  First, we have to get home with the boat. I give the kits to Aaron for safekeeping while I start the motor. The beaver lodge sits in the center of a channel that flows from my lake, which is Lake Wild, to Jack’s lake, which is Little Hawk. But Jack doesn’t have an ATV or a clubhouse. I steer the boat to the right, and follow the channel into Lake Wild.

  When we make it to my dock, I stuff Phragmites inside my shirt and Aaron hides Cooler.

  “Clubhouse first,” I whisper. I need supplies for the beavers.

  We sprint across the backyard toward the shed that used to be for my mom’s gardening things, but since she’s been promoted at her legal firm, she’s had no time for weeding. Besides being a good place to hold our meetings, it’s also where I hide my animal rescues.

  We swing open the door and pile in. I breathe a sigh of relief and look around. My workbench along the back wall has my stash: eyedroppers, baby bottles, gloves, cotton balls, wood chips, water and feeding pans, some old stuffed bears of mine, cleaning supplies, and other tools of the trade I’d saved from Nana’s. Two dog kennels stack in the corner along with some cardboard boxes, and there’s a table with three chairs near the door.

  I pull Phrag out to gently blow in his face so he’ll get used to my smell, something I read in a rehabber magazine. I’m not sure if it’s true or not. His dark, earnest eyes watch me back. He has a pleasant smell, not as musky as his lodge. Then I pick up one of the cardboard boxes and carefully place him inside. The beaver sits there looking a bit shell-shocked.

  “Here.” I wave to Aaron. “This’ll be safer to carry them on the ATV.”

  When Cooler’s lowered in, the kits cling to each other. Both of them immediately start up a wail. I hastily shut the lid, but the noise carries.

  “It needs a blanket or something to protect them from bouncing,” I say, “and to muffle the noise.”

  I have to risk going into the house. At least that way I’ll see if anyone’s home before we sneak past the window carrying a suspicious box.

  Jack finds the clubhouse logbook and sits at the table, where Lid’s already underneath checking for crumbs. “I’ll start planning the investigation.” Jack likes to make lists. Not surprisingly, he starts a column titled Evidence.

  Aaron peers into the box and makes cooing noises. He complains a lot about my rescues, but I know he thinks it’s fascinating.

  I make my way to the side door of the house, hoping hard that my parents aren’t around to ask questions. Mom can’t suspect anything. Even though Dad grew up with a rehabber as his mom, he doesn’t seem to know much about it. Only that he agrees with Mom about me not bringing home more strays.

  The door opens soundlessly. I shuck off my wet sandals and tiptoe down the hall. I have to pass the kitchen, the place most likely to hold adults. I peek around the corner. No one there. Nice.

  Scurrying past, I rummage in the hall closet until I find a towel the same brown as the beavers. It looks old, so maybe no one will miss it.

  I grab it along with a hot water bottle. And then throw them in the air when a voice behind me says, “Madi, you’re bleeding all over the floor.”


  5

  I spin around to find my sister, Marley, standing in the kitchen drinking out of the milk carton.

  “You didn’t use a glass,” I say. “At least I can wipe up the blood. You can’t wipe your germs off the carton.”

  Marley shrugs, replaces the milk, and closes the fridge with a hip.

  “Where’s the rest of your crew? What are you gremlins up to?” She points at me. “Why are you all wet and bleeding? And why do you have muck in your hair?”

  I pat at my hair to discover it is indeed full of muck. Nice that no one bothered to mention it until now. “Will you drive us to Aaron’s?”

  “Of course not.”

  My sister is predictable, so my question works like I’d planned. She sticks her earbuds back in and wanders away. At sixteen and a half, Marley is the perfect sitter. Since Mom and Dad are usually working, Marley’s supposed to watch me. But as long as I stay out of her way, she leaves me alone. That works for both of us.

  I start the kettle for the hot water bottle, something I use with baby animals. The first important thing is to keep them warm and dry. While I’m waiting for the water, I find a Band-Aid to stop my blood from making a trail through the house.

  I’ll use one of my old teddy bears to cover the hot water bottle. If you give orphans a pretend mother, they’re less stressed. Nana told me this, so I know it’s not just me presuming that orphans miss their moms.

  One of the trickiest things about being an animal whisperer is to make sure you aren’t imagining your own emotions onto the animal. I think of the beaver kits and wonder, will they really trust me, or do I just hope that?

  My mind goes to the first few birds I’d tried to feed on my own. I didn’t know enough to save them.

  Some people might say they were just birds. That birds don’t have feelings or emotions. That they can’t think like smarter animals such as monkeys. Not true! Birds are amazing. I read about scientists doing a study on crows, where the crows figured out how to drop rocks into a column of water to make the food in a connected tube rise. And then there are tailorbirds—they use the ropy stuff from plants to sew leaves together for a nest. I can’t even sew patches onto my backpack.

  The whole animal kingdom has fascinated me since the day Nana showed me a photo of chimpanzees with their lips stretched out, talking to Jane Goodall. The more I learn about each kind of animal, the more I want to help them.

  I never imagined I’d one day be taking care of beaver kits, holding them in my hands, feeling how their fur is coarse and fuzzy. Seeing how they look at me with wet eyes and make noises like human babies.

  After filling the bottle, I gather everything we’ll need and head back to the clubhouse.

  Once everyone’s in the garage, Aaron climbs onto the ATV in his usual place on the queen seat at the back. I pass him the box of beavers to hold on his lap.

  “Where am I going to sit now?” Jack says. The box takes up more space than I thought, and Jack’s the biggest of the three of us.

  “There’s room behind me if you squish.”

  “How ’bout I drive and you squish?”

  Aaron and I both make the same protesting snort, remembering the last time Jack drove. In answer I tighten my helmet and swing into the driver’s seat. Jack grumbles but squeezes in behind me. Lid knows to follow along beside us.

  “We’ll take the trail then go up Birch Street,” I say. It’s the only way to get to Aaron’s on the ATV. Otherwise we’d have to park the ATV on the trail, cross the ravine on foot, balance along the log, and then hike up the hill that leads to Aaron’s backyard. I imagine crossing the log and accidentally dropping the box.

  “We’re not allowed to go on the road,” Aaron reminds me.

  “Only a few minutes. No one’s going to see,” I say. “We’ll be quick and quiet.”

  But when we arrive at the road and then turn toward the bridge, I stop the ATV dead.

  “Uh,” Jack says.

  The bridge and a section of the road are flooded out. But that isn’t the worst part. There are people everywhere. Cars are parked along the shoulder with the Township maintenance truck. A police cruiser has its lights blinking red and blue. Men in coveralls and hip waders are holding poles, and police are setting up traffic cones to block the road. With the noise of the ATV engine, everyone stops what they’re doing and turns to look at us.

  “So not as quiet as I thought,” I say.

  “I told you not to go on the road!” Aaron sounds like a clucking hen when he’s right.

  One of the officers heads toward us.

  “Go, go, go!” Jack screeches, prodding me in the back.

  I whip us around, throwing up loose gravel, and take the first trail I see. It’s lumpy and bushed in.

  “Hurry!” Jack yells in my ear. “They’re gonna catch us!”

  The engine roars a complaint. We’re going too fast for third gear. My toe itches to kick the shifter into fourth, but I’m in enough trouble with being on the road. And if I get caught with the box, how will I explain it?

  I don’t know where this trail goes. Luckily, I don’t have time to worry about it while struggling to keep us from ditching. I wrestle the handlebars over some rocks. We bounce around a clump of striped maple. The large leaves cling to my face, momentarily blinding me. I swat them away, but then have to grab the handlebars again as we ride over a punky log lying across the trail.

  “Are they following?” I yell over my shoulder. “Are we being chased?”

  “We’re all going to jail!” Aaron yells back.

  The ATV dives down a steep embankment. I grip the brakes, making us skid out to the side like a sail filling with wind. I’ve just gained control again when we suddenly emerge into a giant swamp.

  “Floor it!” Jack yells.

  I speed up to get through, the mud spraying behind us. The engine begins to bog down, sounding like a dying cow. And then we lurch to a stop, stuck up to the axel.

  6

  “Run!”

  Jack dives off the ATV, falling into the mud. “Spread out. They won’t be able to chase us all!”

  Aaron freezes, eyes wide, clutching the box.

  When I slide off the ATV my feet sink to my shins. Each step makes sucking noises and smells like something Lid would eat. I take the box from Aaron. “Are they still following us?”

  Aaron and I both listen, but there’s no sound of pursuit. All I hear is Jack crashing through the bushes, followed by his delighted dog.

  Aaron perches on the back of the ATV and lines himself up to jump. He leaps for solid ground but falls short, landing on his knees with a dull splat. His arms sink past his elbows.

  “Maybe they gave up the chase.” He eyes his muddy hands with distaste. “Do you have a winch?”

  “No idea.” I wade around the tires to get a better look at how stuck we are. Very.

  Resting the box on the seat, I open the top and peek in. The kits are huddled and listless, mewing softly instead of bawling like they’d been doing. As if they didn’t even have the strength to cry.

  A sharp panic spears me. What am I doing running around with helpless animals? Have I learned nothing from my early, failed attempts at rescues? The kits need to be kept secure and quiet, not bouncing around in a box. What kind of animal whisperer forgets that?

  I look around at our situation, thinking frantically. With Birch Street washed out, we’re not going to make it to Aaron’s. But someone needs to take care of the kits.

  “Don’t worry, guys.” I close the lid and place the box on dry ground. “I’m going to bring you home now.”

  I’ll have to hide them in the clubhouse like all the other animals I’ve saved. Maybe I’ll get lucky and no one will notice. But first, we have to get out of here.

  Aaron has given up trying to stay out of the mud. He studies the front grill of the ATV, flips a lever, and pulls out a metal hook attached to a cable.

  “How . . . you knew that was there this whole time?” I ask.

&
nbsp; Aaron ignores me. The cable unrolls as he schlucks his way to a tree. He wraps it around the trunk. “There should be a button to pull in the cable,” he says, pointing.

  “How do you know this?” I push it and the winch tightens. I’m used to Aaron knowing things—he belongs to the Junior Engineers club at school—but he doesn’t even own an ATV.

  “It’s just logical,” Aaron says. “And physics. Keep pushing it.”

  Slowly, the winch motor pulls the ATV about a foot and a half ahead, which is enough to get us unstuck.

  Aaron retrieves the cable and then climbs on the ATV. “I’ll reverse it. You push in case we get stuck again.”

  “I’d rather do the reversing,” I say, but he’s already revving the gas.

  The tires grab clumps of mud in their knobby tread. As I push, the mud flings out, slapping me in a cold, wet line up the front of my tank. It smells like loon poop. But the ATV makes it to solid ground. We’re back in business.

  “Yay!” We bump fists.

  That’s when Jack decides it’s safe to come out of hiding.

  He takes a moment to look at me. “You’ve got a little something right here,” he says with a grin, indicating his entire torso and face.

  I flick a glob of mud at him.

  7

  At the clubhouse, I can tell right away that my troubles with the beaver kits have just begun.

  “You should give them milk,” Jack says. “All babies like milk. I don’t blame him for not wanting that fake stuff from a pail.”

  “Cow’s milk is very bad for baby wildlife,” I explain, trying not to roll my eyes. I learned this basic rehabber rule from Nana when I was six.

  I struggle to get Cooler to accept the bottle. It contains the usual formula: one part powder and two parts water. I’d been lucky to find the right kind for beavers from the various formulas that I’d salvaged from Nana’s. Different animals have different needs for what food they should eat. But even though this is the right kind, Cooler pushes the bottle away peevishly.

  I wipe the mess off Cooler and try again with Phrag, who’s reaching over his brother for the bottle. I’m careful to keep him upright, not on his back. Bottle feeding is tricky. I know from experience about aspiration pneumonia. My guts clench. I don’t want that to happen again. So many things can go wrong. The nipple has to be the right size or they’ll get too much. You have to go slow and be patient, never force it. The kits could suck formula into their lungs and die—all because I’m trying to help.