“Just keep Gingerbread healthy. And don’t forget to check your fences for gaps. No more great escapes!” Gran smiles. “Here’s Dr. Haverford’s number.” Gran hands Roselyn a card, then pulls a bottle from her lab coat pocket. “Give Gingerbread a tablespoon a day of this mineral supplement to strengthen her bones.”
“Thanks again.” Roselyn wraps her scarf tightly and cracks open the door. Gingerbread scrambles outside, eagerly prodding her snout into snowdrifts.
“I’ll help them out, Gran.” I step into my boots and help Roselyn carry Gingerbread’s blanket and toys. “Um, may I talk to you a minute?” I ask as Roselyn climbs into her truck.
“Sure. Hop in.” She leans over to open the passenger door.
Gingerbread snuffs my shoulder as I begin. “My grandmother’s giving a talk in Connecticut, not far from Bridgeport.”
“Oh?” Roselyn seems surprised.
“Yes, and I’m hoping to go with her so I can visit the track, see the dogs—and try to talk your brother into opening a greyhound adoption booth.”
Roselyn gets that nervous look again. “I don’t think—”
I cut in. “Can you give me advice on how to talk to your brother? What do you think?”Don’t tell me I shouldn’t.
“Are you sure you want to confront Manny? He can be a little rough, and he won’t take kindly to criticism.” By the worried expression on her face I can tell she’s underplaying her concern.
“I’m sure.”
“You’re braver than I am, kiddo.” Roselyn shakes her head. “I’d say your best bet is to appeal to his business side—how will it make the track look good. A bit of moralizing never hurts, either. He likes to think he’s playing the good guy.” She grabs a pen from her handbag and a notepad from the glove compartment. She scribbles a map to Speedway, explains the route, and folds the paper into my hand. She holds it there for a moment. “Good luck, and keep me posted.”
“Thanks, Roselyn.” Gingerbread’s curled up in a ball next to Roselyn. She must feel at home already. “Bye-bye, Ginger.”
I won’t let you down.
Brrring! The clinic bell jangles again, just as I’m on my way to feed and water the boarding animals. Taryn can get it. If she needs me, she can buzz me on the intercom. But suddenly a familiar voice in the waiting room stops me. The tone is high, alarmed. Where have I heard that voice before? I dash back down the hall and peer into the waiting room.
She has nerve to set foot in here!
Darla’s face is all puffy and she’s blubbering to Taryn. “Hoops has eaten something. He’s gagging and really hyper. He needs help—quick!” Her shoulders shake as she holds Hoops in her arms.
I trudge over, feeling mad, confused, totally weird. Darla sniffs back tears and stumbles over her words. “My regular vet’s on vacation. Please help me!”
Gran steps in. “What have we here?” She quickly takes in the scene and directs Darla into the Dolittle Room.
Darla’s still my enemy, but this dog needs help, and fast. I help her lift Hoops onto the examining table. He’s hard to steady because his feet are scratching at the metal surface in a wild scramble to jump off.
“What’s wrong with him, Dr. MacKenzie? What’s wrong?” Darla’s almost hysterical. Hoops’s black-and-white-spotted body begins to spasm violently, and his eyes roll back. We struggle to keep him from falling.
“We’ll soon see.” Gran pulls out her stethoscope.
“Can I help, too?” Taryn pleads. She gazes at Hoops, her brown eyes looking a little panicked.
A fifth-grader fumbling over a life-and-death matter is the last thing we need.
“You bet,” Gran replies. “Bring me a new chart.” Taryn rushes back to the desk.
Gran has her stethoscope on Hoops’s chest. “Heartbeat’s up through the roof. You say he ate something out of the norm? What was it?”
Darla has a hard time talking between sniffles. “He ate some leftover chocolates from our New Year’s party.”
“How many?” Gran asks.
Darla hesitates. “The whole box. About thirty pieces. I found it all torn apart on the rug,” she mumbles.
“That’s quite a large dose,” Gran explains. “Dogs cannot metabolize theobromine, a potent chemical in chocolate.” Taryn records the information on Hoops’s chart.
“What can you do, Dr. MacKenzie?” Darla cries. It’s so weird to see her weak and defeated like this.
“First, we need to stop Hoops from having more convulsions and slow down his heart rate. Then we’ll need to get that chocolate out, before his body absorbs any more. But we need to act fast.” Gran administers a shot with a mild sedative.
Hoops’s muscles continue to twitch, but not as powerfully.
I grip him firmly. “Calm, boy, it’s OK,” I murmur.
Darla’s eyes brim over as she strokes Hoops’s paws.
“Maggie, why don’t you show Darla out,” Gran says. “Darla, I assure you that your dog is in good hands, but in an emergency we usually work without the pet’s owner present,” she explains gently.
I lead Darla to a seat in the waiting room. She slumps down in a chair.
Say something, I think to myself. But what? There’s an awkward silence, then I leave without a word, closing the door to the Dolittle Room.
Taryn loads supplies onto a rolling cart as Gran rattles off a list: “We’ll need the activated charcoal and gloves. They should be on the bottom shelf. The funnel and stomach tube should be there, too. The stomach tube is a clear, four-foot piece of tube.”
“Got it,” Taryn says.
“Maggie, clip a lead on Hoops and follow me.” Gran leads us toward the bathroom in the grooming area.
“Once we get Hoops in the tub we’ll give him an emetic,” I tell Taryn.
“Emetic?” Taryn’s confused.
“Something to make him barf up the chocolates,” I explain.
“Barf. Oh.” Taryn nods, all serious.
“It shouldn’t take too long. You’ll see why we do this in the tub,” Gran advises.
Taryn looks like she’s bracing for the worst as I hand her the leash. “Steady, Hoops,” I say, gripping his torso firmly as Gran administers eyedrops.
“Is there something wrong with his eyes?” Taryn asks.
“These drops will make him nauseated,” Gran explains. “Taryn, keep a tight grip on his leash.” After the drops settle in, it happens quickly. Hoops’s stomach goes in, out, in under his ribs as he vomits pile after pile of chocolate.
“It’s almost over, Hoops,” I whisper.
“Taryn, do you want to help with the next procedure?” Gran asks. “It can be quite messy.”
“No problem, Dr. Mac,” she replies.
I have to admit, if Taryn’s trying to prove herself, she’s certainly convincing me!
Gran hands Taryn a bottle. “This is activated charcoal. Even emetics don’t remove all stomach contents, so this will soak up any remaining chocolate in Hoops’s tummy.”
Hoops seems to have finished the last round of vomiting. He pants, exhausted. I stroke his back. “Hard work, isn’t it, boy? You’ll feel much better soon.”
Gran smiles at me, then hands the funnel to Taryn. “You sure?”
Taryn nods. The activated charcoal looks like thick, black buttermilk.
“Taryn, I’m going to hold open Hoops’s jaws and insert this tube into his stomach.”
“He won’t like that, will he?” Taryn asks nervously, handing me back his lead.
“No, he won’t, but he’ll be very happy when all is said and done,” Gran replies.
“Ready,” Taryn announces, her feet braced wide.
I grasp Hoops firmly while Gran opens his jaws. She slides the long stomach tube down his throat and slips a roll of tape around his upper muzzle so that he can’t bite down and break the tube.
Gran turns to Taryn. “Now, once I attach the funnel to the end of the tube and hold it above his head, I want you to slowly pour in the activated charcoal.�
�
Taryn pours, and Hoops chokes, splutters, and swallows. When the bottle is empty, Gran says, “Good work. I think he’s had his fill. We’ll have to repeat this in four hours and keep monitoring his theobromine levels until we’re sure Hoops is out of the woods.”
Gran eases the tube out of Hoops’s throat. Hoops shakes his head, sneezes, and licks Taryn on the arm. I have to admit, she’s been a total trouper.
Gran prepares for the next procedure. “Maggie, a bag of Ringer’s, please.”
I hook the electrolyte solution onto an I.V. pole. Gran shaves a patch of fur on Hoops’s foreleg, wipes it with antiseptic, and inserts an I.V. catheter.
“What’s that for?” Taryn asks, wide-eyed.
“Fluids,” I explain. “Hoops has lost lots of fluid from barfing. It would be dangerous for him to get even more dehydrated. By the way, Taryn—”
She turns to me. “Yes?”
“You have a strong stomach. You really hung in there.”
“I tried.” Taryn laughs.
Gran smiles at us. “Maggie, let’s go debrief Darla. Taryn, you can take Hoops to recovery.”
In the waiting room, Darla starts out of her chair, avoiding my gaze. “Is he OK, Dr. MacKenzie?”
Gran begins the report. I pick it up in the middle. Darla finally glances at me as I finish: “We think he’ll pull through, though we’ll need to monitor his heart and give him one more charcoal treatment.”
Darla seems completely tongue-tied but manages to mutter a quick thanks. Taryn ushers her to the front desk to get patient information while I go to the recovery room.
“You’re one lucky boy,” I tell Hoops. “You got here just in time.” He gazes at me, panting. He’s really cute, with a black spot around each eye like sunglasses. “Does Darla treat you well? I hope she treats you better than she treats other people.” His long snout seems to smile. I leave him when he stretches out on his mat and begins to snore.
“Well, hello, Maggie.” Taryn’s mom, Mrs. Barbosa, greets me as she enters the clinic. Her curly black hair is pulled into a bun, and her quilted coat swishes as she shakes my hand.
“Hi. Taryn’s finishing her chores,” I say.
Mrs. Barbosa nods and leans an arm on one of the clinic’s cluttered shelves. “You know, Maggie, Taryn thinks the world of you. She’s inspired by you—your talent with the animals.”
“Really?” I feel as tongue-tied as Darla was.
Mrs. Barbosa continues as Gran walks in. “You’re definitely one of her role models.”
This is so embarrassing. I don’t deserve it. I’ve been pretty crummy to Taryn.
Taryn rounds the corner. “Ready, Mom. Wait until I tell you what we did today!” She zips up her pink parka. “Bye, Dr. Mac. Bye, Maggie.” Taryn and Mrs. Barbosa make their way out of the clinic.
“Come sit, Maggie.” Gran leads me into her office and offers me a chair.
What now?
“You were so decent, I think you scared Darla!” Gran chuckles, then gets serious. “I’m proud of you, Maggie. You acted like a true MacKenzie today. Your mom and dad would have been proud, too.”
If Gran only knew my true thoughts. “I don’t think I deserve any compliments, Gran.”
“Yes, you do. You were able to put your bad feelings about Darla on hold to care for her dog,” she says. “And you worked as a true team with Taryn.” Gran unbuttons her lab coat and removes her glasses, letting them hang on her beaded chain. She sighs, and her shoulders relax. “On another matter, I’ve made a few phone calls and checked whether it’s OK to take kids to Speedway. I was told that families do go to watch the dogs race. Maybe I was being overprotective.” She smiles. “So, I’ve decided to take you with me to Connecticut.”
“You mean that?” Suddenly, I’m full of energy.
“On one condition.”
Uh-oh.
“Taryn’s mom has to visit her ailing mother in Washington, D.C., this weekend and she’d rather not take her daughter along. Mrs. Barbosa asked if Taryn could volunteer all day Saturday while she’s gone, but I told her I’d be in Connecticut,” Gran continues. “So I discussed the possibility of taking both of you girls with me—to my lecture and maybe afterward to the track.”
“Really?” I shift impatiently in my chair.
“Taryn’s mom thinks it’s a wonderful idea.” She glances at me for my reaction.
“She does?” I’m almost bouncing up and down like a little kid.
“She says Taryn’s been talking nonstop about the greyhounds, your greyhound research, and your idea to open an adoption booth.” Gran pauses dramatically. “Therefore, the offer stands if you’re prepared to chaperone Taryn, since I’ll be quite busy at the conference.”
“Yes!” I jump up and give Gran an extra-tight bear hug. “YES!”
Chapter Eleven
That speech was awesome, Dr. MacKenzie! You must be famous for inventing those veterinary tools. Comments, please?” Taryn’s project for social studies is to interview people of different ages and lifestyles. She holds up the mike to her mini tape recorder, reporter-style, as Gran exits the stage after her “New Tools” keynote speech.
“Well, uh…” Gran is used to being admired and quoted, but not idolized by a fifth-grade groupie! She seems flustered, which has me giggling. “It’s true that I developed a few devices, but my colleagues deserve credit, too.” Gran introduces us to several veterinarians making their way down the aisle and describes their contributions to the field, which Taryn records. Gran also brags to her colleagues about us volunteering at the clinic.
When Gran goes to chat with another presenter, Taryn aims the mike at me. “Maggie MacKenzie, your thoughts on the lecture?”
My thoughts? Well, now that you ask…“I’ve heard Gran’s speeches before, but this one was definitely the best. Her diagrams made the devices understandable, and the discussion was interesting.” Studying hard in school might even be worth it, if that’s what it takes to be a vet.
Taryn hands me the mike so I can interview her. “So, Taryn, what’s the best thing about volunteering at Dr. Mac’s Place?”
Taryn’s eyes light up. “Helping sick animals, like Hoops. It was hard putting that activated charcoal down his throat, but he felt so much better afterward that it made me feel good, too.”
“What were your favorite aspects of the presentation this morning?” I ask.
“It was cool to hear about the inventions, like Dr. Mac’s tiny rodent toothbrush that you can set at different angles.”
Gran returns. “Sorry I took so long.” She directs us out of the convention center. “Ready for a bite to eat?”
“Sure,” I agree, even though I’d rather skip the food and go right to Speedway. There’s no doubt that Gran can read minds, because she says, “Let’s just grab pizza to go, so we don’t miss the afternoon races.”
“So, we’re going to watch a race or two and then talk to Manny, right, Gran?”
“You got it,” Gran says. “Onward to pizza and Drescher’s. Girls, are you ready?”
Taryn nods enthusiastically.
Am I ever!
Drescher’s Speedway is intimidating: it’s a huge indoor stadium with two restaurants, five tiers of seats, and many concession stands. The walls are lined with photos of champion greyhounds and races from earlier years.
We spot a few scattered protesters with signs that read, “Write Your Congressman to End Greyhound Racing” and “Greyhound Racing Is a Crime, Not a Spectator Sport.” I’m glad to see other people are concerned about greyhounds, too.
Crowds of people fill the halls to buy refreshments and to wait in long lines trailing from a bank of windows.
“What are they waiting for?” asks Taryn.
“To place their bets,” Gran says in a tight voice. I glance at the faces—a few families and tourists, and a lot of men smoking cigars. Some look worried as they examine their programs. Some are arguing.
Yuck. Cigarette and cigar smoke makes me coug
h. I’m not used to being in public areas that allow smoking. I feel sorry for the greyhounds, having to breathe in all that smoke while they run.
Gran quickly guides us away from the betting area. “I’ve never placed a bet in my life and I never will.”
For all Taryn’s bravado, she sticks close to Gran. She and I have gone over our plan to scout around between races, but it looks like she’s thinking of chickening out. Taryn’s hand rests on her tape recorder, safely nestled in the pocket of her jacket.
“Here we are, Gran.” We inch along the second tier of seats, staring below at a sandy track with six cage-like glass rooms at one end. That must be the starting gate. Behind that is a row of old-fashioned scales, like the kind you weigh meat on.
“Where are the greyhounds?” Taryn asks.
“Here they come!” I point to an area behind the glass enclosures. “See the guys lifting them onto those big scales? They’re weighing them.”
“But why?” Taryn asks, watching as the men write the weights on a blackboard.
“All dogs in a particular race have to be the same general weight, like wrestlers,” Gran explains. “Thinner dogs go faster.”
“If a handler’s caught using laxatives on a dog, the handler is fined,” I tell Taryn. “Laxatives make the dogs lose fluids and appear lighter than they really are.” She nods.
“They’re putting the dogs in the starting boxes!” Taryn exclaims.
“Wow, the handlers sure push them into their boxes roughly,” I add.
“I’ll say,” Gran says.
“The dogs are muzzled, too,” Taryn notes.
Still, the greyhounds look eager. Maybe they actually like to race? In spite of myself, I feel an unexpected eagerness to see them run.
I examine my program, trying to match the greyhounds to their names, but something’s not right. “Look at your programs, guys. These dogs have such awful names! Whiskey ’n’ Water, Just a Bum, Bad Girl. What kind of owners would give their pets names like that?”
“The kind of owners who think of their dogs as a business commodity, not as pets,” Gran replies stiffly.
End of the Race #12 Page 6
