Harvey lies on a table on his stomach, silent and still. There is a tube in his mouth giving him oxygen and the drugs that will keep him unconscious until the surgery is over. An IV needle in one leg provides pain relief. He has a blue sheet covering his body. Only his head and the spot where the raccoon attacked are exposed.
A machine beeps in the room, tracking Harvey’s heartbeat and blood pressure. The vet’s assistant keeps an eye on it as she passes instruments to Dr. Parker, a specialist in canine spinal repair.
Her eyes flash to a number on the bottom of the screen. Harvey’s temperature plummets. “Dr. Parker,” she says, and gestures with her eyes to the screen. “He’s going hypothermic.”
She watches as the numbers steadily decrease. There is a flurry of activity as she and Dr. Parker jump into action. Harvey can’t hear the commotion or the call for a heating device that will warm him up. He isn’t aware that Dr. Parker picks up the pace of the surgery. Losing this Westie on the operating table is not an option. He’s seen the girl in the hallway who refuses to leave even for a moment. She reminds him of his own daughter. He can’t imagine going into the hallway and saying anything other than The surgery was a success.
“Stay with me, Harvey,” he mutters, snipping a thread. “Someone out there needs you.”
Harvey shouldn’t be able to hear the doctor. He shouldn’t be conscious of anything as he lies on the table. But from the black emptiness in which he floats, he feels a pull.
A tug.
His Maggie needs him. He can’t let her down.