Teacher's Pet

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  Scout blinks his eyes slowly. He has a lot of painkillers in his system. Can he understand what I’m saying?

  “I’ll map it out for you,” I continue. “Step one, you make it through surgery. Step two, you recover. Step three, you go back to work. Don’t give up.”

  “Hnnnn, hnnnn,” Scout whines.

  I stroke his head. “Shhh, shhh... ,” I say.

  I glance over at the heart monitor. His other vital signs are a littler weaker, but his heart is beating steadily.

  “How’s he doing?” Dr. Gabe asks as he prepares the anesthesia machine.

  I try to smile, but I can’t. “We have to save him,” I say.

  Dr. Gabe nods. He knows how serious this is.

  He secures a face mask over Scout’s muzzle and starts the anesthetic. It mixes with oxygen and flows through a clear tube to the mask. Scout takes a breath of the mixture and closes his eyes. The anesthetic puts him in a special kind of sleep so that the docs can operate on him without causing any pain. Before they start, Dr. Gabe will put a plastic tube into Scout’s windpipe to deliver the oxygen and anesthetic.

  Gran walks over. “Are you going to watch, Maggie?”

  “I want to,” I say. Some kids would have a hard time watching surgery, but I grew up with it. Still, Gran always asks, just in case I’m not up for it, especially if I know the patient really well.

  “OK,” Gran says. “You know what to do.”

  I give Scout a quick kiss on the top of his head, then hurry over to the sink. While Dr. Gabe shaves the fur off Scout’s belly and washes the skin with antiseptic, I pull scrubs on over my clothes, wash every single germ off my hands, and pull on a pair of latex gloves. There can’t be any germs around during an operation.

  When I walk back to the table, Scout is mostly covered by blue-green surgical sheets. There is one opening in the sheets, a little frame around his belly where Gran is going to operate. She is busy swabbing the area with orange antiseptic.

  “Maggie, wipe this sweat off my forehead, will you?” she asks. “It’s mighty warm in here.”

  I grab a gauze pad from the cart and sponge off Gran’s face.

  “Thanks.” She reaches for a scalpel and stops. “Did you hear the bell?”

  “Yeah,” Dr. Gabe says. “That’s odd. We don’t have any appointments on the book.”

  There’s a knock on the operating-room door.

  “Get that,” Gran tells me. “It better not be somebody trying to sell us magazines.”

  I open the door a crack. “Yes?”

  “How is he? Can I see him?”

  “Mr. Carlson!”

  My science teacher is standing outside the operating-room door. He has a bandage on his forehead, and his left arm is in a sling. In his right hand, he’s carrying a long white stick, the kind of cane blind people use to help them walk safely. He looks very pale and seems to be in a little bit of pain.

  “Are you OK?” I gasp as I step into the hall and close the door to the operating room. “Oh my gosh, you should be at the hospital. Look at you, your arm, your head!”

  “I’m fine,” he says in a hoarse voice. “They let me go. I have a sprained elbow and a bump on my forehead. Scout was the one who took the blow. Tell me, please, is he... ? Did you... ?”

  “Mr. Carlson, he’s alive. Gran is operating on him right now.”

  My teacher exhales deeply and leans against the wall. “Thank heavens,” he says. “How is he? Can I see him?”

  I don’t know what to say. Gran is always totally honest about her patients’ chances. She says it’s important for people to know the truth.

  “Hang on for one minute,” I tell Mr. Carlson.

  I slip back into the operating room and hurry over to Gran.

  “Mr. Carlson is here,” I say. “He came straight from the hospital. He wants to come in.”

  “We don’t let family members of patients observe surgery,” Gran says.

  “It’s all right,” Mr. Carlson calls from the doorway. “It’s not like I can see what you’re doing.”

  Gran and Dr. Gabe exchange glances over their surgical masks. They shake their heads simultaneously. They need to concentrate on what they are doing.

  “That won’t work,” I say. “The docs need to be alone.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Carlson murmurs.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen,” I suggest. “Follow me.”

  We walk down the hall to the waiting room.

  “This door connects the clinic to the house,” I explain. Mr. Carlson sweeps his cane in front of him to feel where the door is. He steps into the kitchen. I describe the room to him.

  “This is the oldest part of the house. Gran had a wall knocked down to make it huge. You can sit at the kitchen table or on the couch. I vote for the couch. It’s to your left.”

  Mr. Carlson finds the couch and gingerly lowers himself to sit. He must be awfully sore.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Just a glass of water.”

  I bring the water and set it on the table in front of him. I sit down in the recliner. Mr. Carlson doesn’t touch the water. He stares in the direction of the fireplace.

  “His chances are ... ,” I start, fumbling for the right words. “Gran and Dr. Gabe, they are great vets ... Scout is strong.”

  “It’s OK, Maggie,” Mr. Carlson says. “I know it’s bad. Your grandmother will do her best.”

  Toenails click across the kitchen floor as Sherlock Holmes waddles toward us. He looks at me, looks at Mr. Carlson, then heaves himself up onto the couch.

  “Sorry,” I say, getting up from the chair. “That’s my dog, Sherlock Holmes. I’ll shoo him away.”

  Sherlock scowls at me and half-crawls into Mr. Carlson’s lap.

  Mr. Carlson reaches out and pets Sherlock’s head. “Can he stay? I like having him here.”

  “Sure,” I say. “If you want.”

  Zoe’s dog, Sneakers, dashes into the room and leaps onto the couch. He settles in on the other side of my teacher.

  “That’s Sneakers,” I say.

  “He can stay, too.”

  Socrates, Gran’s majestic tabby cat, saunters in last. He does not jump onto the couch. He settles next to the empty hearth, where he can watch everything. Then he closes his eyes and purrs.

  “You’ve made some friends,” I say.

  “Are they always like this?” Mr. Carlson asks. He has one hand on each dog.

  “Only with the people they like,” I say. “I think they can tell when someone is hurting. And you might think this is silly, but I think they can make you feel better, too.”

  “That’s not silly at all,” Mr. Carlson says. “In fact, it makes sense.”

  He scratches Sherlock’s floppy ears. “A strange thing happened to me, right after we were hit. It shocked me, actually. My first thoughts were about Scout—was he alive, was he hurt, how could I help him...”

  “That’s not shocking,” I say. “That’s normal.”

  “Not for me, not until now. I had been thinking of Scout as another tool, like a replacement for this cane or my computer. That’s not what they taught us at the guide-dog school, but I couldn’t help it.”

  His cheeks redden. “Maybe that was the real reason I was thinking about returning him. I didn’t feel connected to him.”

  “The accident changed that?” I ask.

  He takes a sip of water and sets the glass back on the table. “I realized how much he means to me. He’s not a tool. He’s my companion.”

  Mr. Carlson’s voice cracks a bit, and he stops to clear his throat.

  “He’s my friend. In the ambulance, and then in the emergency room, I kept reaching for him. Not so much because I wanted him to guide me—they wouldn’t let me walk anywhere until they took some X-rays—but to feel him near me. I wanted to know he was OK. I need him. I think he needs me, too.”

  I can’t say anything. What will Mr. Carlson do if Scout dies?

  “He’s waking up,” Gra
n says from the doorway.

  “How is he?” Mr. Carlson asks.

  Gran hesitates. “He lost a lot of blood, and there was internal damage. We’re having a hard time getting him to wake up. I’m afraid he might be slipping into a coma.”

  “Come on,” I say, tugging Mr. Carlson’s hand. I’ve seen animals in this situation before. I think I know what to do.

  I lead my teacher down the hall to the recovery room. Scout is lying on a heated pad on the floor, covered with a thin blanket. He still has an I.V. bag connected to his catheter and is hooked up to the machines that monitor his heart and lungs.

  I guide Mr. Carlson to his dog. He kneels down and gently strokes Scout’s head. He bends close to the dog’s ears and whispers so softly that I can’t hear him.

  In the background, Gran and Dr. Gabe talk quietly. They have done everything they can with surgery and medicine.

  I can see only my teacher and his dog. Mr. Carlson smooths Scout’s face, his soft ears, the dark fur that sweeps away from the corners of his eyes.

  Mr. Carlson talks a little louder. “Come on, Scout, fight it, come back to me. We’re a team. I can’t let you go.”

  I glance at the monitor. The heart rate is slower. Scout is nearly motionless, his chest barely rising and falling. Dr. Gabe steps out of the room. Gran studies the floor. The heart rate slows a bit more. We’re losing him.

  I remember Mr. Carlson’s diagram of the chambers of the heart. I think all four of my chambers are breaking.

  “Scout, come back,” Mr. Carlson pleads. “We’ve got things to do, places to go. I need you, buddy.”

  I can’t stand it. I look away to where the tip of Scout’s bushy tail pokes out from under the blanket. I’m waiting for the heart monitor to stop beeping, the silence that means the end.

  The tail swishes an inch.

  It swishes again, a little more.

  I blink. I rub my eyes.

  “I’m right here, Scout,” Mr. Carlson murmurs. “I’m not leaving you.”

  The tail swishes back and forth. I glance at the machine. Scout’s heart rate is up, and his blood pressure is rising.

  “Look! I shout.

  Gran crosses the room. Scout opens his eyes, sees Mr. Carlson, and tries to lift his head.

  “He’s back! I shout.

  Gran fights a smile, trying to stay professional. “Don’t scream in the recovery room, Maggie. It disturbs the patients.”

  Once Scout’s condition is stabilized, we creep outside to give Scout and Mr. Carlson some privacy. Dr. Gabe wanders off to write up the surgery report, whistling happily. We walk to the kitchen, where Gran starts to make a pot of coffee. She pours in the water, measures out the coffee into the basket, and turns on the coffeemaker.

  “He’s going to pull through, isn’t he?” I ask.

  Gran shakes her head in amazement and chuckles softly. “Yes, Maggie, I think he is.”

  “Will he be able to guide again?”

  “I’d say the chances are pretty good. It will take a month or two for him to recover. I hope James will be able to get by with his cane.”

  I hop up on the counter. “He can do that easily. But he’ll miss Scout.”

  “I’ll call the guide-dog school and let them know what happened,” Gran says. “Once Scout’s injuries have healed, they’ll probably give him a little retraining. Scout has a very strong personality, and he really adores your teacher. They’re going to be a team for a long time.”

  I swing my legs. Everything has happened so fast. I need the world to slow down for a few minutes so that I can figure it all out.

  “Something wrong, Maggie?”

  “I thought he was dying, Gran. I know he was. I saw the monitors.”

  She glances at the coffeemaker to make sure it is turned on, then turns to face me.

  “Scout heard his companion’s voice and decided to fight. Love is the strongest thing in the universe. It makes us do things we never thought possible.”

  She stops. Gran doesn’t talk like this very much. “Stupid machine,” she mutters, bending down to look at the coffeemaker again. “It’s slower than molasses in January going uphill backwards.”

  “Mr. Carlson realized that he loves Scout, too. He said he had been thinking of his guide dog as a tool, like his cane. The accident made him see things differently.”

  “That makes sense,” Gran says.

  “YES!” Dr. Gabe bursts through the kitchen door holding up something gleaming and gold in his hand. His other hand holds a leash attached to our friend Shelby, who looks mighty proud.

  “Mrs. Donovan’s wedding ring,” Gabe announces.

  “It’s about time,” Gran says, giving Shelby a quick pat. “Gabe, why don’t you give Mrs. Donovan the call she’s been waiting for.”

  Gabe and Shelby leave, and Gran turns back to the coffeemaker. “Oh!” She smacks her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Talk about seeing things differently—it’s unplugged!”

  She shakes her head and reaches over to plug in the coffeemaker’s electrical cord. “Get down from the counter,” she scolds mildly. “Why don’t you make us some sandwiches. Then I’ll drive you back to school.”

  I open my mouth to whine and plead for the rest of the day off—but I stop.

  I think about the promise I made to Mr. Carlson that day in the classroom. And I remember what John from the guide-dog school said: “Big changes are easier to handle if you know people love you.” I have Gran, Sherlock, my friends, even Zoe, plus Mr. Carlson and the other folks at school.

  I look at Gran and simply say, “OK.”

  Puppy Raising

  By J.J. MACKENZIE, D.V.M.

  Wild World News—Guide dogs are loyal and dependable, but they start out as frisky, unpredictable pups. So the guide-dog schools rely on puppy raisers. These special families volunteer to take a puppy into their household and give her basic training, love, and care until she is old enough to learn the skills she needs to become a guide dog.

  Special delivery. Most guide-dog schools breed puppies for their programs—usually German shepherds, Labrador retrievers, or golden retrievers. When a new litter of guide-dog puppies is born, the school contacts a family from its list of puppy raisers and places the pups in a home. Then it’s up to the raisers to turn the eight- to twelve-week-old pups into mature, well-behaved dogs ready for guide-dog school.

  Raise with praise. Puppy raisers teach their dogs basic commands and good manners. A guide-dog puppy must be trained with love and affection. Praise, not punishment, is the way to a dog’s heart. Her raisers always praise her with hugs and kisses. They don’t reward her with food. A guide dog’s favorite reward is making her companion happy. When she goes back to school, her instructors will focus on what she does right, not what she does wrong.

  On the town. The most important part of puppy raising is socializing the dog. That means exposing her to as many people and situations as possible. She needs to be comfortable wherever she goes. Her raisers walk her down busy sidewalks, past noisy construction sites, on city or school buses, up and down escalators, and through airports. Guide-dog puppies wear special vests to let people know they are in training. They are usually allowed to go places that other dogs can’t. Some guide-dog puppies even accompany their raisers to school or work.

  Check up. The guide-dog school will have someone check on the puppy’s progress every month or so to make sure she’s on track. And puppy raisers are required to take their pups to the vet for frequent exams. Puppy raisers may also attend “puppy club” meetings to learn tips and talk to other raisers.

  Saying good-bye. This is the hard part. After a year of love and play, the raisers must return the dog to the guide-dog school. It is time to let her go. She’s old enough now to learn the skills she needs for her job. On the turn-in day, the raisers drive back to the school and hand her over.

  It can be very hard for raisers to give up the dog they love. She has become part of the family. But knowing that the dog will
change a blind person’s life by giving him independence and dignity helps ease the pain of good-bye.

  Back to school. At the school, the young dog goes through a number of medical tests. She’ll also be tested to see if she can follow basic commands. If she passes her medical exam and obedience test, it’s time to start special training to be a guide dog.

  She’ll spend four months learning how to guide a blind person safely through streets and buildings. At the end of the four months, she will be paired with her blind companion. They will spend another month at the school learning how to work together. Then they’ll go home to start their new life.

  Career change. Not all trained puppies become guide dogs. The demands on a guide dog are heavy, and not all dogs can cope with them. Some dogs are trained for other kinds of work, such as drug detection for police departments or therapy visits to the elderly. If the school decides that the dog isn’t right for any kind of work, she is adopted by a loving family. Her puppy-raising family is given the first chance to adopt her.

  Retirement. Guide dogs work with their blind companions for an average of ten years. They retire when they start to slow down and show signs of age. Sometimes the blind companion keeps his old dog as a pet. If not, the dog goes back to the school. There are long lists of families eager to share their homes with retired guide dogs.

  DO YOU HAVE PUPPY-RAISER POTENTIAL?

  Answer these questions with your family.

  1. Can someone stay home with the pup all day?

  2. Can someone walk and socialize the pup every day?

  3. Will the pup have time to sleep during the day?

  4. Will the pup be allowed to spend time inside?

  5. Will someone be able to take the pup to training classes and to the vet on a regular basis?