by J. L. Salter
"I guess you want me to be the grabber."
I just gave Ryan my I'm the acting supervisor look. "Yeah, I'll fling the blanket."
His expression conveyed how little Ryan thought of my plan, but he didn't debate it. "Okay. I'll take the broom and herd 'em toward you. Then do your blanket trick and we'll see." Clearly a skeptic.
I unfolded the blanket. It was smaller than I'd hoped — just enough for that army cot use. Whatever. I waved it out like a bull-fighter's cape and prepared to utilize a low sweeping motion which should spread out neatly and completely cover each canine target.
Ryan's face dared to show the beginnings of a grin. If we hadn't been involved in a crusade to conquer three very annoying mutts, I might have whacked him. Of course, when he smiled like that he also looked so desirable that I might have kissed him instead.
I considered a few practice tosses, but didn't want to look like an amateur. "Okay, chase as many as you can over toward me and I'll blanket them."
Ryan's grin spread into a full smile. "Here goes nothing." With his long arms quickly waving that broom back and forth, he covered nearly fifteen feet of the twenty-four foot width between the left and right banks of cages. The cats, on the left bank, watched silently and feigned complete disinterest. On the right bank, the larger dogs barked so enthusiastically it seemed they possessed fantastic tickets to an exciting sports event.
I was in front of the middle bank of cages at the rear of the forty-foot-long compound. It ought to be simple: Ryan would chase them right toward me, I'd fling the blanket out in a perfect rectangle, and a yappy doglet would be deprived of its liberty.
Of course, it didn't work that way.
Ryan's broom action got all three moving quickly and at first they headed directly toward me. Then the Bichon skittered around Ryan's left when he feinted to his right. And the Yorkie ran through Ryan's legs, very nearly tripping him. That left the Shih Tzu backing toward me as it snarled and yapped at Ryan's broom. When the Shih Tzu got about three feet away I flung the blanket. But instead of spreading out in a four-by-eight rectangle, it fell in a clumped pile like a soggy beach towel. The dog yelped and jumped an additional three feet but was not even touched by my net.
Ryan laughed out loud. Had he realized how perfectly I'd envisioned that toss, he would have enjoyed my flop even more.
I was not amused. Frustrated, embarrassed, upset — yeah.
"You want to try that blanket toss again?" Still chuckling, but he managed to keep down the volume.
"In the movies, it spreads out." I studied the coarse wool. "This blanket's defective."
"Try rolling up one edge to make it stiffer." He acted like I should understand what he meant.
I didn't. I wasn't that experienced in stiffening things. Hmm. I'd revisit that image later. I sighed and groaned simultaneously. "Can you show me?"
He reached for the blanket. "I might have a better idea." Ryan unscrewed the wooden handle from the push broom and tossed the bristle portion to the side. Then he spread out the blanket on a cemented area which hadn't been pooped on yet.
From a short distance, all three yappy dogs sat and watched intently. They probably wanted to learn how to defeat our trapping maneuver.
I still wasn't sure what Ryan had in mind.
He laid the long handle at one edge of the blanket and rolled it tightly. "This will give you the stiffness you need."
Something about that word still sounded slightly naughty, but I began to catch on to Ryan's notion. Like the bullfighter image I'd previously considered, it was the sword holding out the cape. "Okay, I get it. But do I throw the whole thing?"
"Not sure yet. First, just try to sweep it over the dog. Maybe he gets trapped in the rest of the blanket."
I nodded. Then I made a practice sweep. Beautiful! Surely the stiffened net-blanket would capture anything in the animal kingdom except whales and elephants — and spiders, of course.
As Ryan walked toward the canine trio, he probably wondered whether they'd already given up after seeing our elaborate trap. Nope. They skittered in three directions barking animatedly. "Okay, I'll try to get one moving towards you. Ready?" He singled out the mostly-Yorkie. Sure enough, it scooted in my general direction, but veered away at the last second.
Next, Ryan went for the mostly-Bichon female. Inexplicably, the Bichon took a stand and began barking fiercely. As Ryan stepped forward, the dog stepped backward. After half a dozen such paces, the Bichon was within range and I swept my stiffened cape/blanket/net right over the back of the startled animal. She never knew what covered her.
Ryan hurried over and scooped up the animated bundle. The broom handle fell away and conked his shin as he tossed the entire armful into a nearby empty cage. Then he pulled out the blanket carefully. Fourteen mutts captured and two to go — a speedy Shih Tzu and a Yappy Yorkie.
I rolled the broom handle back into the blanket and braced for our next victory. It was about five-fifteen. We definitely needed to corral these last two before Edwards showed up.
Ryan assumed his position. "Ready?"
"Yeah. Herd one over."
He cut out the mostly-Shih Tzu bronco and chased it my way. The Shih Tzu male was a wily foe, but I captured it on the second sweep after partly tripping on the end of the blanket and dipping my knee into a fresh pile of stinky dog mess.
"Only one left." Ryan looked gratified, but slightly surprised. It was five-twenty so we still had some ten minutes before Edwards had said he'd return. But he'd been late every time thus far.
"Your stiffener works real good." I couldn't help smiling as I said it.
He seemed not to notice. "We need to discuss strategy." Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Ryan strode toward me across the smooth cement. He never even saw the slippery pile of poop with his name on it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
What occurred next surprised me possibly more than it did Ryan. Though I was too frightened as it happened, I later realized it was the kind of slip and fall that would have become a viral video clip if only someone nearby had a camera. I didn't.
Ryan's right heel never touched the cement slab — the fresh, warm pile of dung simply lubricated the precise spot he would have landed. Once that foot jerked forward, his hands flew out to the sides but didn't reach anything to restrain his fall. Ryan's butt landed flat on the impossibly rigid concrete. The look on his face was still total shock — it apparently took the intense pain a millisecond to catch up to his brain.
That's approximately how long before his head snapped backwards and he flipped over like a rocking chair with sawed-off rockers. As I reflected on it later, I couldn't recall which sounded more fatal: the anguish of his astonished groan or the dull whack of his skull on the unyielding slab. He was immediately unconscious.
Yappy Yorkie, the only dog still loose, came over with tail partly tucked and began licking Ryan's face. Had I not been terrified Ryan was dead, I could have nabbed the delinquent mutt.
Part of me wanted to scream but mostly I wanted to bawl. Fortunately, there was another ten per cent deep down inside which came up with an alternative, check for blood and brains.
Ryan's face was strangely composed, considering it was covered with sweat and grime, which must have included animal chow residue. His lower jaw was as loose as a busted nutcracker figure from several Christmases past.
I had crouched next to his lifeless body without realizing I'd even moved. "Oh, Ryan, Ryan." In emergencies, my brain shuts off blood flow to my normal verbal centers, so mostly what emerges are unimaginative curses or weak platitudes of reassurance. But all I managed was, "Oh, Ryan, Ryan."
I overcame enough fear to press my fingertips against his temple and rotate his head sufficiently to peer beneath it. But I had to make my eyes re-open enough to see what was there.
No blood. No spilled brains. Well, nothing that I recognized as brains, though the only real brains I'd ever seen were from a euthanized frog during high school biology. Those were tiny and sl
imy. Come to think of it, there was a tiny, slimy spot beneath Ryan's head, but that could have been anything from dog poop to ordinary scalp sweat. I peered closer. Nope, not brains. "Oh, Ryan, Ryan."
The word "concussion" sprang to my mind. Had I been less panicked, I might have taken pride in my astute guess. For some reason, I deduced that the proper first aid treatment for concussion was to place the victim's head in my lap. Had to be better than a cement slab. So I shifted from my crouch. With my buttocks fully on the floor, I scooted toward Ryan until my lap touched the top of his head. Hmm. Had I been thinking of such things — and had he been even partly conscious — I might have reflected on something else entirely. But I wasn't. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. "Oh, Ryan, Ryan."
I carefully clasped his head with both hands and raised it enough to scooch my lap farther beneath his noggin. His hair was dampened from sweat and I worried it was brain matter I hadn't previously detected. Ryan didn't make a sound, but his chest moved up and down slowly so I knew he was still alive. "Oh, Ryan, Ryan."
He looked funny upside down but I couldn't put my finger on precisely why. It wasn't ha-ha funny anyhow.
That same emergency ten percent of my being quickly realized I'd better call for medical attention. "Shoulda thought about my phone before I crammed my lap under your head, Ryan." The only entity which heard my comment was the Yorkie, which did not reply. The phone was in my purse, back on the bookshelf behind the desk in the office. "Teetering toad-frogs!" Well, no way to get to my phone now. "Ryan, where do you keep your phone?" I'd seen lots of men extract phones from their front pants pockets, so I should be excused for checking there first. "Oh, Ryan, Ryan."
I wasn't actually groping the unfortunate, unconscious, handsome man, but I did make a thorough search of each front pocket before I twisted his torso over sufficiently to reach into his rear compartments. He carried his wallet on his right, so the bulge in his left rear pocket must have held the phone. It was, as usual, the last place I looked.
Okay, time to call the professionals: 9-1-1.
"You've reached the Greene County Consolidated Emergency Dispatch Office. Please hold."
"Hold? I'm calling 9-1-1 and you want me to hold?"
There was indistinct noise on the other end. "You've reached…"
"Yeah, I know! I've got a guy here with a cracked head who slipped on some dog poop!"
"Please state the nature of your emergency."
"Dog dung… cracked head."
More indistinct background sounds interfered. The male voice began speaking to someone else. "Pick up, Gladys. This might be a drug situation."
My volume had increased by now. "No, not drugs. It was an accident. He slipped on some dog mess and fell on his tailbone, which is probably shattered, by the way, but I don't know how to check…"
"You sure it's not drugs?"
"No. Not drugs. Accident. Why do you assume it's drugs?"
"Usually the words 'crack head' are a giveaway." So the 9-1-1 station now employs comedians.
"No, he cracked his head. Fell on his butt and then he tipped back over and busted his skull on the concrete floor."
"Oh."
"Hey. Is this the right 9-1-1? I'm trying to get medical attention for an accident victim." I was probably shouting by that point.
A heavy sigh came from his end. "There's only one emergency dispatch in Greene County and we recently merged with Verdeville's office. So there's still some bugs."
"Well, I'd love to hear about your bugs sometime, but right now could you send an ambulance to the Animal Shelter on Highway 70, just west of town?"
"Hey, Gladys, is the dog pound open on Sundays?" Indistinct background conversation preceded his return to me, the desperate caller. "Lady, the pound isn't open today. You shouldn't even be there."
"Look, buddy. It's not my idea to be sitting here on a hard cement floor with dog doo splattered all over the place and this guy's greasy head in my lap…"
"Why is his head in your lap?"
I groaned. "It's not what you think." Not even. "Look. He cracked his head. Probably a concussion. I didn't have the foresight to carry a bunch of little pillows with me in case somebody busted his skull, so I'm cradling his cracked noggin in my lap. Understand? Now save the questions and just send the ambulance to the shelter on Highway 70."
More vague and unrecognizable sounds filtered over the connection. "Gladys, can we dispatch a unit to a place that's supposed to be closed?"
What is all that scraping and jostling noise? "This is Gladys. What happened, honey?"
I told Gladys the whole sordid tale and complained about the first dispatcher.
"He's new, honey." Then, in a slightly muffled voice, she added, "Somebody's nephew. We'll get the EMT right out there."
"What do I do in the meantime?"
"I don't know, honey. Elevate his feet, I guess. You know, in case of shock."
"Shock?" I wasn't prepared for that; medical triage wasn't really on my radar. "But I've already elevated his head. Is that wrong?"
"Honey, I'm a dispatcher, not a doctor. But on the TV shows they always raise the feet for some reason."
I decided it was medically sufficient to elevate something — no matter which end. "Well, tell them to hurry. This cement floor is getting cold." And I didn't have my jacket. Click — our connection ended. I looked down at his handsome face, surprisingly serene under the stressful circumstances. "Oh, Ryan, Ryan."
I thought about trying to elevate his feet also, but I liked the feel of Ryan's head cradled in my lap, so I just tried to relax and wait for the ambulance. I wished I had told the dispatcher we were back in the compound area, but I figured they'd find me if I yelled loud enough.
It took the EMT vehicle fourteen minutes to get there.
Mister Edwards arrived nearly the same time the ambulance guys lifted Ryan's head off my lap. Edwards didn't know anything about the incident. "What happened?" He didn't pause to learn my reply; he just waddled about the compound trying to avoid all the fresh dog feces on the slab. "What's wrong with him?" Edwards hustled back inside, where I closely followed the collapsible gurney.
"Ryan slipped on something and busted his skull. Probably his tailbone too."
"How could you let that happen?" Edwards narrowed his beady eyes at me.
"Hold on a minute!" His attack startled me. "It's not my fault he slipped on your premises. Maybe OSHA will have some questions for you about the proper texture for cement flooring in an area like that."
"OSHA?" He looked alarmed. The burden of negligence had shifted where it belonged.
"Yeah. Your faulty cage opener freed seventeen dogs!"
"What do you mean faulty?" Edwards hurried over to the three panels.
"I mean, the whole system glitched out on us. Maybe a satellite transmission tripped it. Or sunspots. The federal investigators will figure it out. In the meantime, some of your medium sized animals are in the wrong cages and a few of them have found lovers. Plus, most of their bowels are whacked from whatever bargain brand chow you've been feeding them." I remembered one more detail. "Oh, there's also an irritating Yorkie on the loose."
That sent Edwards out to the compound again and I caught up with the EMT guys. They were about to load Ryan and gurney into the back of their vehicle. "Has he come to yet?"
The one nearest me didn't reply but the driver shook his head.
"You're taking him to E.R. at County?"
The driver nodded again.
"Is he going to be okay?" I poked the nearest tech on the shoulder.
He cleared his throat. "You next of kin?"
"Uh, not really."
"HIPAA laws. I can't say nothin' about him."
Thanks for nothin'. I went over to the driver. "Is he going to be okay?"
"It's hard to say with head injuries and he's not responsive yet. His vitals are okay though. Come to the hospital and maybe they can tell you more."
"Thanks. So why's that other guy so snarly?"
/>
"He's just a few weeks out of training." Then the driver nodded like I was supposed to understand why that made the new tech rude and insensitive.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I followed them the short distance to the County Hospital on the west edge of Verdeville. I asked the duty nurse about Ryan but she couldn't tell me anything because the doctor hadn't even examined him at that point. I could feel this would be a long night.
As time crept by slowly, I dozed off in the waiting room. That's difficult to do with the TV blaring and all the patients and visitors coming in and out. It was after eight o'clock before a doctor emerged and called out for the Hazzard family. I decided it was time to deceive HIPAA so I momentarily adopted Ryan as family. "Yeah. Here."
He eyed me for a few seconds. "Okay, your…"
"Cousin."
"…has had a mild concussion and likely a bruised coccyx. Now where exactly did this accident occur?"
"Animal shelter." I pointed farther west.
"Isn't that closed on Sundays?"
"Community service." I shrugged. Being a convict made life difficult.
The doctor looked puzzled but didn't ask why two cousins had community service together at the shelter. "So what did he hit and how hard was the blow?" He poised his pen.
"He slipped on dog poop and went straight down on his butt. Then he kinda flipped back and that's when his head smacked. It's probably six or eight inches of solid concrete."
The doctor nodded. "Yeah. That's a lot of impact. Not much yield in a slab."
"So is Cousin Ryan going to be okay?" I was truly still worried since he'd been so out-of-it for all the time I'd seen him.
"Once he became responsive, he seemed okay. I was a little bothered that he was apparently out for so long. We mainly see disorientation with concussion. Does he have a history of blacking out?"
"I'll check with the other cousins, but I don't know of any." Good punt. "Does he have to stay or is he okay to go home?"
"Well, assuming you'll be watching him, we can release. But if he was going to be alone, we'd have to keep him."
