What we could do was lose the trail, and we did a lot of that, thrashing through brush, slipping down steep slopes, and stumbling over buried rocks. We also did a lot of just plain getting cold, though nothing as bad as the day before. Before leaving, I built a fire and did my best to dry out her cotton sweats—though I was in a hurry, so “singed” might be a better word. Then I made her wear my rain pants and parka, so she'd not get wet all over again. It wasn't great, but it kept us both alive.
By mid-afternoon, we were down to my first campsite, by the creek. It was a lot warmer down there, but it was also starting to thaw, so the warmth was a mixed blessing because she got wet again, despite the pants and parka. I had to pitch the tent and put her in the sleeping bag while I found about forty ways not to build a fire in wet snow, but eventually I succeeded by drowning a bunch of twigs in stove fuel. By the time her sweats were dry again, it was getting late, but neither of us wanted another night in the tent, even if the palm and I agreed that there wasn't much risk of more snow. Besides, the rest of the way was easy because we were back on the troad and there was only six inches of snow. By the time we got to my car, just about dusk, there were only three.
So that's the story. Mick didn't make it. A couple years later some hunters found his body about two miles beyond where I'd turned back. I came awfully close to being up there with him. And, in case you're wondering, there's nobody to sue if the ‘cast is wrong. It's one of those weird areas of the law: you can sue for a badly designed watch, but not for an inaccurate forecast. Someone tried that once, and the court pulled out an old rule protecting weathermen like me. It also decided that self-correcting computer models are “autonomous entities” for which nobody is responsible. I'm sure the same rule would apply if your screamer screwed up.
Who says it can't screw up? What if the battery dies? I don't care if it uses piezoelectric whatevers to recharge from your arm movements. That just means there's some mechanism in there that can break. You might at least think about learning the symptoms of a heart attack. Or a stroke.
I can tell you're not convinced. Sanda's now an emergency-services planner down in Phoenix, and she complains that half her EMTs don't bother to learn things like that, either, because they're sure they can always get them by uplink.
Yes, we've kept in touch. I knew you'd ask. That's the cool part of the story, though not in the way you're thinking. As soon as we got to the trailhead, I used the car computer to call the cops, then let Sanda call her family. The closest was an aunt, up in Idaho. Turned out her name was Ruth Anne. Not all ironies are bad.
So, think about what I was saying. I don't usually tell this story to strangers, but maybe this is another of those ironies. Way back, you thought I was joking. But maybe I just saved your life.
Copyright (c) 2007 Richard A. Lovett
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* * *
A TIME FOR LAWSUITS
by AMY BECHTEL
It's hard to figure out patterns from very small samples....
On Wednesday I made my weekly trip to the dump.
I had a much bigger load than usual, so I'd hitched the two-wheel flatbed trailer to my truck. This was the busy time of year for my veterinary clinic: springtime, which was calving season. Although I was seeing more and more small animals every year, I still loved my large-animal work best, and in spite of the hideous hours involved, calving season was my favorite time of year. I never got over the sheer delight of delivering a newborn calf and then watching it stagger to its feet for the very first time.
Of course there was a downside to the season, as evidenced by the load of dead calves and calf parts on my trailer. Some of my clients hadn't called me until things had already turned disastrous, and I had delivered several dead calves and done several fetotomies this week, neither of which had been at all enjoyable. Cutting up a dead calf inside the cow's uterus, and delivering it in pieces, is always a particularly gruesome procedure.
I swung around a corner onto the main street of town, mentally planning out the rest of my day. If I was quick at the dump, I'd have a few minutes left to eat lunch before the afternoon appointments began to arrive. Perhaps I'd get out of work on time this evening, and I could ask my assistant, Tegan, out for a proper sit-down restaurant dinner.
Someone was honking a horn, over and over again, and I lost all track of my plans. I looked around, wondering what all the commotion was about. A green car in the opposite lane swerved all the way to the curb while the driver waved a hand frantically in my direction. What the hell was going on? I looked out the left window and saw the trailer.
It was my trailer, the two-wheel flatbed loaded with dead calves, cruising serenely past me. I watched it in fascination. I had obviously not fastened the hitch properly, but by God I had balanced the load well. Even with only two wheels the trailer cruised along at a good clip, coming closer and closer to Donald Miller's new truck lot. I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn't look away. The road sloped downhill just before the truck lot, and the trailer picked up an astonishing amount of speed before it passed cleanly between two parked cars, leaped the curb, and crashed into a brand-new red pickup. The contents of the trailer, conserving their momentum, flew off the flatbed and splattered over several more new trucks. For a few moments the sounds of rending metal and thudding bodies echoed in my ears.
Now I closed my eyes. Perhaps if I casually drove off, as if I had had nothing to do with this, no one would notice. “Calves?” I could say, if anyone happened to ask. “What calves?” Of course it would be hard to explain why the incriminating trailer was imprinted with the words DESERT SPRINGS ANIMAL HOSPITAL, MICHAEL CLAYTON DVM.
As the sounds died away, I slowly opened my eyes again. People were emerging from the truck lot's salesroom, milling about like ants from a disturbed hill. I recognized Donald Miller himself, clad in an expensive-looking business suit with a stiff collar and tie. He looked in disbelief at the wreckage of his lot, and then purposefully began to stride toward me.
* * * *
I finally made it back to the clinic two hours later, only to find the waiting room crammed with irritated clients who had been kept waiting for much too long. Without stopping to breathe I grabbed the top file, opened it, and read the presenting complaint.
Dying, my receptionist Kami had written.
Oh, wonderful. Here I was, hours late to attend a dying pet. Hastily I scanned the chart. The owner's name was Mrs. Collins; the dog, a three-year-old Great Dane, had the fanciful name of Althea. I steeled myself and called them into the exam room, hastily shutting the door on the waiting room full of angry glowering faces.
Althea bounded up to me, dragging Mrs. Collins by the leash, and leaped up to put her paws on my shoulders and lick my face. Mrs. Collins’ tugs on the leash were unproductive, but I finally managed to get Althea off my neck and onto all fours. She panted up at me, her eager tail pounding her owner's legs.
She didn't exactly look like she was dying. Apparently Kami had gotten a couple of the files mixed up—she was not the brightest receptionist in the world, and such things had happened before. I wondered which of the remaining patients really was dying, and how I could ensure that I would see that one next.
I cleared my throat and said, “So, Mrs. Collins, what is the problem with Althea?"
I was startled to see her burst into tears. “She's dying, Dr. Clayton. She's dying."
I glanced back at Althea, who was now sitting at her owner's feet. I had not often seen a healthier dog. Puzzled, I gave her a quick examination, and found everything to be utterly normal. Althea licked my face several more times before I escaped to the other side of the room.
“Can you help her?” Mrs. Collins looked at me mournfully. “Please tell me you can help her."
“Well, you see, I'm not quite clear on what the problem is. Her physical exam is quite normal. What have you seen happening that makes you think she's ill?"
“She's not just ill. She's dying."
/> “But—what makes you think she's dying?"
Mrs. Collins stared at me. “I read about it,” she said, “in a book on Great Danes. I can't believe you don't know about it."
Just what had she been reading about? There were certainly many diseases and syndromes specific to the giant breeds, but Althea wasn't showing signs of anything at all.
“Seven or eight years old, the book said,” Mrs. Collins went on. “Great Danes only live to be seven or eight years old."
“Well yes, that's often true with the giant breeds,” I said cautiously. “Compared to other dogs, they do have shorter life spans, although I've seen cases in which—"
“Althea is three, doctor. She only has four years left. You've got to cure her."
I stood there helplessly, looking from Mrs. Collins to Althea. I certainly could not cure Althea of being a Great Dane. I picked up a box of tissues, led Mrs. Collins to a chair, and sat beside her. I must have spent a good twenty minutes explaining why I could do nothing to help Althea, but it was hard to tell if I ever got through to her. “Dogs simply don't live as long as we do,” I said. “And the giant breeds have even shorter lives. But look at Althea. She's enjoying her life to the fullest, and you should do the same. Don't worry about what may happen in the future. Enjoy being with your dog today."
When Mrs. Collins finally exited the room, I recoiled at the even more hostile glares from the waiting room. Sweating, I hurried out to get the next file from the alarmingly tall stack that was waiting for me. It was easier said than done, this business of not worrying about the future. I was already stressing over every single one of the impatient clients in the clinic.
As I picked up the next file, my assistant Tegan whispered, “Did you really splatter calf parts all over Donald Miller's truck lot?"
“Yes.” I sighed and opened the next file. The owner was Mrs. Gallegos; her dog, Fluffy, was a nineteen-year-old toy poodle with heart disease. I'd seen her regularly over the last few years, and Fluffy had been doing well on medications. But now the present complaint was entered not as a recheck or a medication refill, but as dying.
“Isn't Donald Miller the one who brought that dying cat in last month?” Tegan went on. “The one with pyothorax?"
“Yes.” I remembered the incident vividly. Mr. Miller had brought in an emaciated cat in severe respiratory distress that had obviously been critically ill for some time. It had died on the table while I was examining it, and Mr. Miller had accused me of murdering his pet. It hadn't been a happy experience.
“Oh my,” Tegan said. “This will be interesting.” She was trying to look sympathetic, but her eyes were bright with mirth. In spite of everything this cheered me, because Tegan had been sunk in gloom ever since she had returned from a recent leave of absence. It was good to see her smile.
I called Mrs. Gallegos and Fluffy into the exam room. Mrs. Gallegos held the little poodle close while I listened to Fluffy's heart and lungs. Fluffy's long-standing heart murmur had worsened, and there was increased fluid in her lungs. My pleasure with Tegan's mood evaporated. This time, Kami had been right.
I pulled the stethoscope away from my ears and stroked Fluffy's head. “Well, Mrs. Gallegos, she is getting worse."
“Then does she need a stronger medication, doctor?"
I looked back at the chart, assessing the treatment she was already on. If I increased the dose of theophylline, there might possibly be some improvement, but there wasn't much else I could do.
“Yes, we can increase the dose and she might feel a bit better, but you've got to realize, Fluffy doesn't have much time left. She's nineteen years old, after all. She can't go on forever."
I remembered, all too clearly, the day I had diagnosed Fluffy's heart condition. Mrs. Gallegos had stared at me blankly for a time, and had then said, “You have to save her, Dr. Clayton. She can't die. She's all the love I have in the world.” I had glanced involuntarily at her gold wedding band, and she'd said, “Yes, I'm married. But Fluffy's all the love I have in the world."
I had not known what to say then, and I didn't know what to say now. I could have made some fumbling comment about marriage counseling or perhaps a new puppy, but these phrases seemed utterly inadequate in the face of what Mrs. Gallegos was about to lose. I did finally suggest grief counseling, but she only looked at me silently, and held Fluffy tighter. I was twitching by the time I sent Fluffy and her mistress home, and when I picked up the next file and saw that the presenting complaint was dying, I nearly screamed.
By the time I had seen all the afternoon appointments it was almost nine o'clock at night. I had seen two more pets that really were dying, and euthanized one of them, and all I wanted to do was go home and collapse. But even as I headed for the front door, to finally lock it for the night, Ernest Davenport's battered old car pulled into the parking lot. The driver's door flew open and Ernest scrambled out of the car, clutching a small dog in his arms.
Ernest Davenport was one of my more peculiar clients. He lived somewhere out in the desert, where he was frequently visited by aliens and giant talking birds, and he kept a herd of dogs, all of which seemed to be dachshund crosses of one sort or another. The dogs ran wild, coming into contact regularly with rattlesnakes, cacti, and coyotes, but their numbers never diminished as there were always new puppies being born. And Ernest Davenport was absolutely, totally devoted to each and every dog.
“Oh, Dr. Clayton! I'm so glad you're still here! It's Judy; she's been snake bit."
He put the little dog on the exam table, where she lay utterly still. Judy had very short legs and a wiry brown coat, and her face was enormously swollen. A pair of classic fang marks on her nose oozed bloody serum, confirming Ernest's diagnosis. I had to struggle to find a heartbeat, which was faint and very, very slow.
“Can you save her, doc?” Ernest whispered.
“I don't know,” I said. “I'm afraid she's very far gone. I can try to treat her, but she'll probably still die, and you know how much the antivenin costs."
“Oh, you must try,” he said. “Cost is no object."
With many of my clients this phrase means, “Cost is no object because I don't plan to pay you anyway,” but Ernest always paid. His car was ancient, his clothes were shabby, and he was very far past retirement age, but he always paid his vet bill.
“When did this happen?” I asked, as I hunted for the cephalic vein. Dachshund crosses don't tend to have good veins at any time, and Judy's were terrible.
“I don't know,” Ernest said, hanging his head. “Oh, why didn't I go home earlier? I was away all day, looking for aliens, and when I got home I found her like this. She could have been lying there for hours."
I clipped the fur on Judy's leg, doused the site with alcohol, and tightened the tourniquet. Was that faint blue shadow a vein? Tegan came in with the antivenin, and I motioned her to hold the dog's leg at a better angle. Miraculously the catheter slipped into the miniscule vein, and I quickly taped it in place. Tegan handed me the antivenin, mixed and ready to administer, and Kami entered the room with Ernest's thick file in her hand.
“Mr. Davenport?” she said. “We don't have a file on Judy, so I need some information. How old is she?"
“Well let me think,” Ernest said, watching as I slowly injected the antivenin. “Her great-grandmother was Sapphire. You remember Sapphire, of course. She wasn't raised in a healthy environment, you know; I didn't get her till she was five. All those years around computers and fluorescent lights, with no magnets at all ... no wonder she died so young.” He shook his head darkly, looking up at my fluorescent lights with a disapproving frown.
“But, how old is Judy?"
“Sapphire had her litters, of course, and Diamond was the very best of her pups, born on my place and healthy till the day she died; oh such a tragedy, the day those coyotes came down from the hills."
I was concentrating on the task before me, only half listening. Poor Kami was never going to find out anything about Judy, but today it wasn'
t going to matter. Judy's pulse was fading away. I picked up my stethoscope and checked for her heartbeat. It was so faint I could barely find it, and even as I listened it stopped. It had all been too late, as I'd thought, though I'd gladly have been wrong this time.
I put down the stethoscope and looked at Ernest, who stared back with tearful eyes. “Thank you for trying, doc,” he said hoarsely. “Thank you.” He put a hand in his pocket, extracted some crumpled twenty-dollar bills, and put them on the table. He picked up Judy, holding her tight against his chest, and walked slowly out to his car.
I couldn't help contrasting this ragged and somewhat psychotic man with the truck dealer Donald Miller, who had brought me a cat in similar condition and accused me of murder when it had died on the table.
Not that I wanted to think about Mr. Miller. In the press of the afternoon's events I'd almost forgotten about my little accident. Now it all came back to me with awful clarity, the splatter of calf bodies and calf parts in what seemed to be Technicolor and surround-sound, with Mr. Miller at the front shouting lawsuit at the top of his lungs.
I locked the front door and went back to the exam room to help Tegan clean up. There was always something particularly depressing about putting things away after a death, disposing of antivenin bottles, needles, and catheters, all of which had proved to be useless. Tegan was very quiet. Watching her, I realized how much I missed her bright cheerfulness, the way she had once hummed or whistled as she worked. I even missed the vivid magenta spikes of her old hairstyle.
We worked side by side until the chaos of the emergency was cleared away. Then Tegan sat down on a chair, leaned back, and closed her eyes. She was so beautiful. She looked like an angel, even though she wore loose jeans, sturdy boots, and an iodine-stained smock. She had been letting her hair grow out, and soft black waves now fell nearly to her shoulders. She was thinner than she'd once been, and had dark circles beneath her eyes. I realized anew how much I loved her. What had happened while she'd been gone on her leave of absence? I had asked before, but she'd said she wasn't ready to talk about it, so I'd let it drop. I wondered if it was time to ask again. Probably not. Instead, I asked about her dog.
Analog SFF, July-August 2007 Page 13
