The sheriff took a breath. Rodriguez, his name tag said. “We really should have the vet put him down. One quick injection and he wouldn’t feel any more pain.”
She kept her expression noncommittal as she nodded. “He’s made it this far,” she said. “So I think not. Can you grab one end of the tarp while I pull him out?”
He sighed and nodded. Together they used the tarp as a stretcher. She glanced up as they carried the dog to the house. A man had come to the front door when they’d parked. He held the screen door open for them. As they approached, she caught a glimpse of a weathered face under an equally weathered cowboy hat. He was older than the sheriff by at least ten years. The sprinkle of hair showing underneath the cowboy hat was white.
The man said to Rodriguez, “Kitchen table.”
The sheriff blew out a breath and nodded. They went into the house, through a living room filled with large, worn furniture and piled with books, down a short hallway into a kitchen that was stocked with a couple of old refrigerators, white-painted cabinets, scarred Formica countertops and a worn linoleum floor. The floor felt uneven under her footsteps. She glanced down. There was a metal drain in the floor near the back door. The kitchen had a pervasive odor of disinfectant. It was probably perfectly clean, as the scent suggested, but she still wouldn’t be comfortable accepting an invitation to eat a meal in it.
The kitchen table was metal and bordered by picnic-style benches with a chair at each end. They eased the dog onto the table. The man in the cowboy hat pushed past them. She watched his battered profile grow intent. He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of a drawer and said, “Move the benches and chairs into the hall, John.”
“You got it.”
She stepped into a corner as the sheriff pulled furniture out of the way.
She kept an eye on the sheriff as she said to Cowboy Hat, “This is my dog. I’m paying his vet bill, and I want you to do everything you can to save him.”
Rodriguez paused. His stillness lasted only a heartbeat. She would have missed it if she hadn’t been watching him.
She turned back to Cowboy Hat. He had raised bushy, white eyebrows.
Rodriguez moved the last bench aside as he said, “This is Doc Dan Jackson. He’s the only vet within sixty miles.”
“People kept knocking on my door with their injured pets,” said Johnson. “Gave up trying to retire seven years ago.”
“Dan, this is Claudia Hunter. Says she found the dog on I-80.”
It was her turn to raise her eyebrows. Rodriguez didn’t have to pull out her driver’s license in order to introduce her by name. Showed he was paying attention. The vet unlocked the cabinet and withdrew vials of clear liquid and a syringe.
She moved. When the vet turned, she was standing between him and the dog on the table. She met the sharp inquiry in his eyes with her own clear gaze. “Doesn’t matter if I haven’t had him long. He is my dog now.” She looked down at the vials he held in his gnarled hands. She repeated, “I want you to do everything you can to save him.”
Jackson opened his hands to show her what he held, turning the vials so she could read the labels. He said, “Your new dog needs to be anesthetized so I can work on him. I’m going to sedate him with a combination of Valium and ketamine so that I can insert an endotracheal tube and administer Isoflurane, which is a gas anesthetic. Then I’m going to try to save his life. That okay by you?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then get the hell out of my way,” he said.
She stepped back, watching closely as he administered the injections. Maybe it was her imagination, but it seemed the dog eased and began breathing easier almost immediately. The vet gave her a scowling look. “Get the hell out of my kitchen too.”
“I want to help,” she said.
Jackson moved quickly to insert a tube down the dog’s throat. “You a vet tech?”
“Nope,” she said.
“An EMT? Human nurse? Any goddamn thing that might be useful?”
“My unit got shot up a couple times in Afghanistan,” she said. “Once we had to deal with the aftermath of a roadside bomb. I’ve triaged more than my share of wounds and sometimes they were ugly. I didn’t bandage animals, and I wasn’t a medic. But if you need an extra pair of steady hands from someone who won’t faint at the sight of blood, I can provide it.”
Jackson snorted without looking up from his work, but after a moment he said, “Grab a pair of gloves. Top drawer on your left.”
She opened the drawer, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and yanked them on.
Rodriguez folded his arms as he watched the exchange. His original friendly expression had morphed into a scowl. He said, “Isn’t that against the law, Dan? You could lose your license.”