The vet took her time checking Banjo over.
“No internal injuries that I can tell,” Dr. Clarke said. “Just the surface wound, which seems to be taking care of itself. Where’d you find this dog?”
“Out near Camp Sherman,” Meg said. “In the woods.”
“Have you gotten any calls about a lost dog, Doctor?” Mom asked.
Dr. Clarke shook her head. “What would you like me to do? Don’t know about his shots or anything, but otherwise he’s fine. Seems a little depressed, maybe.”
Meg glanced at Mom, who was chewing on her thumbnail.
Dr. Clarke lifted the tag. “Is this all there was? Banjo?”
“That’s all he had on him.”
“Maybe he’s chipped.”
“Chipped?”
“It’s an ID tag on a tiny microchip that’s injected just under the skin, usually between the shoulder blades. Let’s see if he has one. Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
Mom ran her hand through Meg’s hair. “You like Banjo, don’t you?”
“I really do.”
“He needs love, sweetie, and you’re about the best person I can think of to give it to him.”
Meg leaned into her shoulder.
Banjo lay on the table on his stomach, head up, panting lightly. He wasn’t afraid of being there, which told Meg he’d been to a vet before. So why would someone who cared enough to take his dog to the vet abandon it? Maybe he wasn’t dumped, and somehow got lost.
Dr. Clarke returned with a scanner. She flattened the fur on Banjo’s back and ran the scanner over it.
“Bingo.”