Fight for Life

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hello!

  Whether you have a pet, hope for one, or dream of becoming a vet volunteer—or a vet!—I know that you love animals.

  So do I.

  I’ve had many pets—dogs, cats, mice, even salamanders. My best dog was a German shepherd named Canute. I got him from a shelter when he was two years old, and he was my constant running companion. He helped me get in shape for a half-marathon. A few summers ago, he died in my arms. I keep his collar in my office for inspiration while I’m writing.

  The volunteers at Dr. Mac’s Place love animals, too. I hope you enjoy reading Fight for Life as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Laurie Halse Anderson

  THE VET VOLUNTEER BOOKS

  Fight for Life

  Homeless

  Manatee Blues

  Say Good-bye

  Storm Rescue

  Trickster

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Kimberly Michels, D.V.M., and

  Judith Tamas, D.V.M., for their consultation and

  review of veterinary procedures and practices.

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group Young Readers Group,

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  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,

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  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in the United States of America by Pleasant Company Publications, 2000

  Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2007

  Copyright © Laurie Halse Anderson, 2000, 2007

  All rights reserved CIP DATA IS AVAILABLE

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17666-5

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any

  responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To my daughters, Meredith and Stephanie.

  Thanks for your patience, encouragement, and

  good jokes. May you always be wild at heart.

  Chapter One

  Mitzy, sit!”

  Mitzy looks up at me and tilts her head to one side. She wags her tail, but she won’t sit.

  “Grrr,” I growl. Mitzy whimpers and lowers her tail.

  “Sorry, girl.” I kneel and give her a hug. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just frustrated. Teaching you to sit shouldn’t be this hard.”

  Mitzy is a full-grown Airedale terrier. Her short, wiry coat is mostly tan, with a big black patch over her back. She has a long nose, a stubby tail, small ears, and a confused look in her eyes. The confused look is unusual for an Airedale. Airedales are usually very smart dogs.

  “OK, let’s try again. Pay attention.” I stand in front of her. “Mitzy, sit.”

  Mitzy chases her tail and barks. This is impossible.

  When Mitzy’s owners brought her in, they warned me that she was a little “slow.” I promised them I could teach her the basic commands. “There is no such thing as a dumb dog,” I said. My grandmother, Dr. J.J. MacKenzie, taught me that.

  Gran owns an animal clinic, Dr. Mac’s Place. She says that all animals—even pets like cats, dogs, and guinea pigs—are wild at heart. Kids, too. I taught her that.

  My parents died when I was a baby, and Gran took me in. I don’t remember them, but Gran tells me I have my father’s freckles and my mom’s temper. Gran says taking care of animals prepared her for having me around. Very funny.

  Some kids at school think I’m the luckiest person in the world, living with all these animals. It is fun, I have to admit that. Gran lets me help out with her patients at the clinic, and I sometimes get jobs, like training Mitzy.

  Mitzy stops chasing her tail. I bet she’s dizzy.

  “Come on, now. We’re not here to play. Mitzy, sit.”

  Mitzy takes a step backward. “Rouff!” she barks.

  I pull up gently on her leash and use my other hand to push down her rear end. Once her tail hits the ground, she lies down and rolls on her back, begging me to rub her stomach. She thinks this is a game. If I rub her tummy, she’ll think she can do whatever she wants in a training session.

  “Come on, girl, stand up.”

  Mitzy rolls back over and stands up, giving herself a good shake.

  “Mitzy, sit.” I push down her rump. She stays in a sitting position for half a second.

  “Good girl!” I shout. I scratch between her ears and hug her. The best way to train dogs is to praise them for what they do right. “That’s enough for one day.” I unclip the leash from Mitzy’s collar and she takes off, running as fast as she can around the fenced yard.

  Mitzy is nothing like Sherlock Holmes, my old, slightly overweight basset hound who’s lazing in the shade by the oak tree right now. He’s my only pet. But our house is attached to Gran’s clinic, so I get to spend as much time as I want around dogs, cats, rabbits, hamsters, mice, lizards, snakes, birds, and the occasional horse or goat.

  “Maggie!” Gran calls out the back door. “You have homework to do. Let’s go.”

  Ugh. Homework. What a horrible word. It gives me the shivers. Don’t get me wrong, I can do lots of things: I can shoot a three-point shot (sometimes), scrub the skunk smell out of dog fur, and even catch escaped guinea pigs. But homework? School? No thank you.

  It’s not that I don’t try. I’ve been trying forever, it seems. But I always mess up. Gran has been getting serious about my grades. She keeps bugging me about asking for help when I get stuck and giving me the old “You’re almost in middle school” lecture. When that doesn’t work, she trots out the “You need good grades to get into veterinary school” lecture.

  I’m tired of being lectured.

  “I need to work with Mitzy a little more,” I tell Gran. “Half an hour. I only have a little math.”

  “I doubt that,” Gran answers. “I’ll give you five more minutes.”

  Five minutes of freedom left.

  As Gran closes the door, her cat, Socrates, squeezes out. Socrates is a big cat. He’s a feline football fullback, all rust-colored fur and muscle. Gran named him after a Greek philosopher. He sure does lie around and think a lot. Sometimes he acts like he’s guarding the clinic. Gran calls him a watchcat.

  Socrates stre
aks across the yard, leaps onto the trunk of the old oak tree, and quickly claws his way up to a thick branch. Then he slinks along the branch and lies down where he can see the whole yard, like a lion watching the savanna.

  “Show-off,” I say under my breath. “Come here, Sherlock,” I call. “Let’s show Mitzy how to do it.”

  Sherlock gets up from his spot of shade and lumbers over to me, his long ears swinging and his tail wagging. Basset hounds are built low to the ground and can pick up smells easily. That’s why I named him after a detective. Sherlock’s nose is twitching, but everything must smell normal, because he comes right to me. He lifts his droopy eyelids expectantly.

  “Sherlock, sit,” I say in a firm voice.

  Thump. His hindquarters hit the ground.

  “Sherlock, lie down.”

  He stretches out his forelegs until he is lying down. He waits for the next command. Mitzy is watching us. I hope she’s learning something.

  “Stay.” I jog to the far end of the yard. “Sherlock, come!”

  He leaps to his feet and sprints toward me. Mitzy runs beside him. I kneel down and pet Sherlock. “You are the best dog in the world, aren’t you? A genius, an absolute genius.”

  Mitzy puts her paw on my lap. When I reach for it, she rolls on her back.

  “OK. You’re a good dog, too, Mitz.” I scratch her chest and she closes her eyes in contentment. “You just have to pay attention. You should watch old Sherlock here. He’s a great teacher.”

  Suddenly both dogs prick up their ears and turn their heads toward the house. A car screeches into the parking lot next to the clinic.

  Looks like we have a patient.

  Chapter Two

  The dogs dash to the front edge of the fence, with me close behind. We peek around the house. A frantic woman gets out of her car holding a limp puppy. She runs into the clinic.

  “Sherlock! Mitzy! Come!” Sherlock comes right away. Mitzy plops her tail on the ground at the far end of the yard. Now she wants to sit.

  There’s only one thing to do. “Mitzy, lie down!” I command.

  Mitzy jumps up and runs to the door. Maybe she’s not stupid, after all. Maybe she’s just a little confused.

  When I herd the dogs inside, we’re greeted by friendly barks from the boarding kennels. This is where we keep dogs whose owners are out of town. I put Mitzy in her cage and make sure she has fresh water to drink. She slurps, splashing water all over the floor. I’ll have to remember to mop in here later.

  Sherlock ambles toward the door that connects the clinic to the house, sniffing along the ground in hopes of discovering a hidden snack. Since he lives here and is the sweetest dog in the entire universe, he gets to go wherever he wants.

  I walk to the front of the clinic, where there are two exam rooms—one on each side of the waiting room. Gran is talking to someone in the Dolittle Room. She named the exam rooms after veterinarians in her favorite books. I knock gently on the open door.

  “Come in,” Gran says.

  Gran is a big woman, no matter how you look at her. She’s taller than me—everyone’s taller than me—and her hands and arms are strong. She wears bright colors, even when she’s working in the clinic. Her hair is cut short enough that she can dry it with a towel, and I can’t remember the last time she wore makeup. She’s not a cookies-and-milk granny. She’s a doctor—smart, tough, and kind. I love her lots.

  “Take a look,” she says.

  I make notes to myself the way Gran taught me. Our patient is a black Labrador retriever. He looks like he’s only two months old. Puppies this age are supposed to have nice fat tummies. This little guy is way too thin. He should be moving around, exploring everything. Instead, he lies on the table. His dark eyes are sunk into his head. That means he’s dehydrated—he doesn’t have enough fluid in his body. His coat is a dull black, dusted with white flakes. He probably has some kind of skin condition, too.

  Gran works quickly. She uses a stethoscope to listen to his heart and lungs, then feels his abdomen with her hands. She tries to stand him up, but the little pup just collapses on the table. She peers into his mouth and eyes with a penlight. When she turns his head to examine one of his ears, he looks up at me with sad brown eyes. He’s in pretty bad shape. I get a lump in my throat, but swallow it quickly. As Gran says, getting upset won’t get the work done.

  “When did you notice something was wrong?” Gran asks the owner.

  The owner dabs a wet tissue at her eyes. “I’ve only had him two days. I bought him at the farmer’s market on Penn Street. His name is Shelby.”

  When she says his name, the tears start again. I hand her a box of tissues.

  “He was skinny and acted sleepy, but I thought he just needed some love. I went home an hour ago to check on him, and he was lying on the floor. He couldn’t even lift up his head.”

  “Shelby’s a sick pup, no question about that,” Gran says. “I need to get some fluids into him and run some blood tests.”

  “Is he going to be OK?” the owner asks while shredding another tissue.

  “He’s malmourished, and he probably has worms in his intestines. I suspect he hasn’t been vaccinated either. I’ll know more about what’s bothering him after I see the results of the tests.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Let’s take it one step at a time. He’ll have to spend the night here. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  The owner runs her hands over Shelby’s back. She bites her lip to hold back more tears.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, leading her out of the exam room. “Gran is the best vet around. She’ll do everything she can to save Shelby.”

  The woman nods, jots down her number, then leaves.

  As soon as the door closes behind Shelby’s owner, it bursts open again. A man rushes in holding a small cardboard box. Twin toddler boys clutch his pants, howling like someone stuck them with a pin.

  Two identical black Lab puppies lie on a blanket in the box, fighting to breathe. They look just like Shelby.

  “Please help us,” the father says. “Something is terribly wrong.”

  Chapter Three

  The father and his wailing twins follow me into the exam room. Gran lifts an eyebrow. She doesn’t mind loud animals, but she can’t stand it when kids cry.

  The father places the box on the table, and Gran looks in. “Take Shelby,” she says to me. “I don’t want him too close to these pups until we figure out what’s wrong with them.”

  I gently pick Shelby up and carry him to the far side of the room. I make a safe, soft bed out of clean towels for him to rest in.

  Gran squats in front of the crying twins. “Hi, guys. I’m Dr. Mac,” she says. “I’m going to try to help your puppies. You can stay in here if you’re quiet. If you need to cry, you have to wait in the other room. Fair?”

  The twins nod their heads solemnly and blink away their tears. Gran is a magician.

  After settling Shelby into his bed of towels, I wash my hands with antibacterial soap. I have the cleanest hands of any eleven-year-old I know. Gran is a fanatic about fighting germs.

  Gran quickly cleans the exam table with disinfectant and dries it off. Then she takes the two little Labs out of the box. It’s like Shelby all over again. The pups are scrawny. Their fur is matted and dull, and their eyes are crusty. The little one is breathing too fast, like he can’t get enough air. Gran asks questions as she checks the pups.

  “When were they born?”

  “I don’t know,” the father says. “I bought them at the farmer’s market last weekend. The boys saw them and fell in love. I didn’t have a choice. The guy who sold them said they were old enough to be weaned.”

  “Vaccinations?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Did you see the mother?”

  “No.”

  “Did you get any kind of health record?”

  The father looks down at his shoes. “No. It was kind of an impulse buy, I guess. They were cu
te.”

  Gran doesn’t answer. She’s weighing the puppies.

  “Did you get them at the Penn Street farmer’s market?” I ask.

  “Yes,” answers the father. “How did you know?”

  “That’s where the little dog in the corner came from. I bet these two were sold by the same guy.” I feel blood rushing to my face. I turn to Gran. “We should find out who he is. He shouldn’t be selling sick puppies. Who knows how many more helpless pups he’s got.”

  “Let’s take care of our patients first,” Gran answers calmly. “What are their names?” she asks the father.

  “Inky and Dinky. Dinky is the smaller one.”

  “Dinky is my puppy,” says one of the twins. His lower lip quivers, his face crumples, and he starts to cry again. His brother joins in.

  “Maggie—” Gran starts.

  “It’s all right,” the father interrupts. “I should take the boys home. Why don’t you call me, Dr. Mac? I’ll leave my name and number at the front desk.”

  He does not look hopeful.

  Once the twins and their father are gone, Gran asks me to gather the things she’ll need to start an I.V., an intravenous drip.

  “I need two bags of lactated Ringer’s solution. Inky and Dinky need more fluid in their systems.”

  As I get the bags of Ringer’s, Gran inserts a needle into a vein in each puppy’s right foreleg. A thin plastic tube, called a catheter, is attached to the end of the needle. She connects each catheter to the bag of Ringer’s solution. The solution looks like a bag of water, but it has special ingredients called electrolytes that the puppies need to help them get their energy back. Gran also gives them injections of antibiotics to help fight off infection.

  “Will they make it?” I ask, worried.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “It depends on how strong they are. Can you get me some charts, please? I need to write down my notes. I can’t find anything since Lois left.”