Harvest Moon (Virgin River #15)(87)

“Sh. Just pet him a little and let me listen a second.” The recording came on explaining the hours of operation, but after that there was a number for an emergency animal hospital, available twenty-four hours. Kelly scribbled down the number, placed the call and spoke to an operator or receptionist. “Hi. I have a five-month-old pup—Labrador or golden mix—and I’m not real sure what happened to him, but—”

“He chewed wires!” Courtney cried out with a sob in her voice.

Kelly looked at the dog. “Well, that explains it. He chewed on wires. I think he got a bad shock. He’s breathing but his mouth and tail are burned and he can’t stand up.”

“Is he gonna die?” Courtney cried.

“Sh,” Kelly said. Then into the phone she said, “Sure, where are you?” She scribbled on the back of Lief’s note. “Okay, we’ll be there. Thanks.”

She disconnected and looked at Courtney. “Get your jacket, kiddo. He needs to go to the hospital.”

“Is he gonna die?” she asked again, desperate.

“I have no idea, but he’s not dead yet. Let’s take him to the vet. Get your jacket. And maybe a special toy or blanket for Spike.”

“’Kay,” she said, running to do so.

And Kelly thought again, what the hell? Lief is out of town! They’re not supposed to be here.

She looked at the note and list of numbers—hers was there along with others. Not the Hawkinses’ number, however.

Courtney insisted on carrying Spike to the car, wrapped in his favorite filthy, demolished, threadbare and frayed blanket. Once they were under way, Kelly said, “Your dad told me he was flying to L.A. but that you would be at Amber’s house for the night…”

“I know,” she said with a sniff. “He’s going to be so pissed…”

“Well, what’s going on?”

“I wanted to prove to him that I could handle things. That I don’t need a babysitter! But I can’t! I might’ve killed Spike! Because I wasn’t watching!”

“Aw, Courtney,” Kelly said. “When you’re fourteen and as responsible as you are, it’s not a babysitter, it’s more like company. And an adult in case you need something, like a ride to the doggie doctor. And he’s not dead yet, so let’s not bury him. Okay?”

“What if I killed him?” she sobbed, laying her head on his fur.

“Well, first of all, you didn’t. Puppies, like small children, get into trouble sometimes. You have to be alert. But you didn’t feed him the live wires.”

“It’s my fault. I don’t like him to have to stay in the kennel. He’s getting big and it’s getting too small and I know he’s going to learn to stop doing bad things. He goes to the back door now! When he has to go outside! Every time!”

Kelly reached over and gave the dog a caress. “Don’t borrow trouble. He’ll probably be just fine.”

Dr. Santorelli was a silver-haired man in his sixties with a great sense of humor. He gave Courtney a little peace of mind. “Oh, he’s had a bad shock, that’s for sure. I think he’ll be all right. Don’t know about that tail, though. He might lose the end of it. That jolt went straight through him and blew out the end of his tail.”

“Oh, no,” Courtney sobbed.

“Easily fixed, really. He’ll have to stay the night, get some IV fluids and some antibiotic and a little oxygen. He’s stunned and hurt, but not terminal. I think your biggest worry is whether he’s brain damaged from the jolt.”

Courtney sniffed. “How will I know?”

Dr. Santorelli peered at her over the top of his glasses. “If he chews wires again, brain damaged.”

Kelly put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

“I have Labs,” Santorelli said. “I had to take rocks out of one’s stomach. Then I had one who ate one of those disposable plastic razors. My fault—I didn’t get the shower door closed and she got in there and ate an entire shaver. Had to watch for razor blades to pass….”

“Really?” Courtney asked.

“Oh, yes. I’ll never hear the end of that one. My fault and all. But it was my wife’s shaver. One of those scented ones. I think she should share responsibility, personally.”

“It didn’t kill her?” Courtney asked. “The dog, I mean?”

“Hey, I’m a veterinarian!” he teased. “Everything passed, clean as a whistle.” He leaned close to Courtney. “I get the shower door closed now.”

“When do they stop chewing everything in sight?” Kelly asked.

“Some never do. Most outgrow it in a couple of years. But some eat the wildest things, you’d almost wonder if they need to eat them. Like rocks, garbage, plastic, wood. The rule of thumb is, watch your dog and figure out what he does. If he’s a chewer, replace the bad thing with the good thing. Tell him ‘No!’ and give him the rawhide. That’s a good start.”

“He goes outside and not on the rug now,” Courtney said, proudly but tearfully.

Kelly instinctively put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, holding her, giving support and comfort.

“Listen, you have to watch them, but understand something—they get the best of all of us sometimes. They take off running, chase cars, eat valuable or dangerous stuff, get in fights with other animals, all kinds of things. They’re animals, young lady. We love ’em. We don’t necessarily trust ’em.”