Oh, good, you’re here,” Dr. Mac says absently as I walk into the clinic. The waiting room is empty, and she’s reading something on the computer.
“Mom just got home.”
“I saw the little party you put on. That was a very sweet thing to do. Your sister will always remember that.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Dr. Mac looks over the top of her bifocals at me. “Why didn’t you go with Lucas and the girls?”
“Mom wasn’t home yet. I couldn’t leave Ashley alone.” Both good excuses.
“I’m headed out there just as soon as I finish with the next patient. It’s that ferret again, Rascal. You can ride with me if you want. I need to check Trickster’s leg.”
“I don’t think Mr. Quinn wants me out there.”
“Suit yourself.” Dr. Mac stands up with a folder in her hand. “I have to work on my column. It seems like there’s a deadline every time I turn around. Let me know when Rascal gets here.”
Dr. Mac writes a newspaper column that runs in papers all over the country. She’s not famous enough to be recognized in airports, but you’d be shocked at how many people know her name.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
She points to the balls of dog hair around the base of the potted plant. “Why don’t you unearth the broom and dustpan? This floor is atrocious. Looks like it hasn’t been swept in a month.”
Oops.
As soon as she walks down the hall, I kick the fur balls under the chair. It’s too quiet here. It feels weird without the others around.
I wonder what they’re doing now. I bet they’re still cleaning stalls. Who’s going to dump the wheelbarrow? Brenna, probably. She’s the strongest. She’ll probably take the manure all the way back to the manure pile and not dump it behind the toolshed. That was another stupid thing I did yesterday. Mr. Quinn is going to find it, and he’ll know it was me. Darn it, why do I do stupid things like that?
The bells on the front door jangle, jolting me out of my thoughts. It’s the ferret guy, Erik, carrying Rascal’s cage and looking stressed.
“I called Dr. MacKenzie,” he says. “Is she here?”
“Here I am,” Dr. Mac says calmly as she walks down the hall from her office. She lifts the reception counter and enters the waiting room. “Oh, Rascal,” she says as she peers in his cage. “What have you done now?”
“He was in the drawer,” Erik says. “I don’t know how he got in there. I didn’t see him. He was hiding. It’s his paw. It’s really smashed.”
Dr. Mac puts on her glasses. “That would explain the blood. We need to take a look at this. Let’s go into the Doolittle Room,” she says, standing up and showing him into one of the exam rooms. “David, I’ll need your help. Come on in and wash your hands.”
As I scrub away, Dr. Mac takes Rascal’s cage and sets it on the examination table. “What’s the first thing I need to do here, David?”
“Um …” I stall by putting more soap on my hands. I’ve never helped with a ferret before. “Take his temperature?”
“Good guess, but not yet.”
“Check his heart?”
“Even before that,” Dr. Mac says.
Three strikes and I’m out. Got to get it right this time. I turn off the water an dry my hands on a paper towel. “I know! You have to take him out of the cage.”
“Very close,” says Dr. Mac. “The first thing we need to do is close the door and make sure the cupboards are latched. It’s hard to treat a patient you can’t find. Ferrets can squeeze through openings only an inch wide.”
Once I’ve locked everything up tight, Dr. Mac opens the cage door. Rascal slinks out onto the cool surface of the table. He isn’t as perky as the last time we saw him. His eyes are half closed, and he doesn’t try to run around at all.
Yikes. His front paw is a mess, swollen and bloody.
“That looks painful,” Dr. Mac says. “What happened? Exactly.”
Erik looks nervous. “It was my fault this time,” he says. “I left my sock drawer open. Rascal loves socks—he must have gotten in there. When I went in the bedroom later, I slammed the drawer shut without checking.”
“Hmmm,” Dr. Mac says, slipping on her bifocals.
She gently scoops up Rascal, cradling him in her arm. She pets him gently, but I can see she’s checking him out at the same time. She feels along his backbone and tail, then frowns. She moves her fingers along the bones in each one of his legs until she’s ready to examine the paw.
Rascal pulls back and squeaks in pain.
“I know, I know, that hurts,” Dr. Mac tells Rascal as she strokes his head to calm him down. “When did he injure his tail?”
“His tail? There’s nothing wrong with his tail,” Erik answers quickly. “Is there?”
“Well, the fact that it’s not moving would be the first sign, plus there is some swelling. My guess is that it’s broken.”
“But how?”
“Think,” Dr. Mac says. “When you’ve been playing with him, has he gotten his tail pinched in anything?”
Erik’s face turns bright red. He has guilty stamped all over his forehead.
“You have been playing with him, haven’t you? We talked about this a few days ago. Ferrets need time and attention.”
“I’ve been busy,” he confesses. “And he’s so hard to catch. I can barely find him half the time. When I sat down in the recliner last night, he screamed and took off. He had been hiding in the chair. Freaked me out.”
Dr. Mac stops petting Rascal. “You have a recliner?”
“An old one.”
“Recliners are death traps for ferrets. They love to take naps underneath them. When someone leans back in the chair, they can be killed. Rascal is a quick fellow. I bet he broke his tail trying to get out of there.”
“Oh, man,” Erik says. “This wasn’t supposed to be so hard. The guy who sold him to me said he was the easiest pet in the world.”
Dr. Mac pauses, like she’s searching for just the right words. Her right eyebrow is way up on her forehead.
“If you want an easy pet, a ferret is a bad idea,” Dr. Mac says. “I need to do some X rays, but I’m pretty sure that Rascal has a broken tail and some broken bones in his paw.”
“Is that going to be expensive?” Erik asks. “If he keeps costing me money, I’m going to have to get rid of him. Maybe I should just turn him loose.”
What!? How can he say that? He doesn’t care about Rascal at all.
“I have a better alternative,” Dr. Mac says. “I know a woman who runs a rescue shelter for ferrets in situations like this. You pay for the X rays, and I’ll arrange for Rascal to go to the shelter. Fair?”
He hesitates for an instant, then says, “All right.”
“What a moron,” I say after Rascal’s owner—his former owner—has gone. “What an idiot, what a rat! Can you believe that guy?”
Dr. Mac puts Rascal into a roomy cage and closes the door. “You seem surprised.”
“Of course I’m surprised. Aren’t you? He thought it would be easier to dump Rascal than to take care of him! That’s … That’s …” I can’t think of a word strong enough. Where’s Sunita when I need her?
“That’s irresponsible?” Dr. Mac asks, as she adjusts the water bottle hung from Rascal’s cage.
“Way more than irresponsible,” I protest.
Dr. Mac writes a note in Rascal’s file. “When taking care of Rascal got boring, he took the easy way out. It happens all the time. Drives me nuts.” She slaps the file closed. “Know what I mean, David?” she says pointedly.
I nod my head slowly. She’s talking about me.
“You have been known, on occasion, to cut corners, too.”
“But I would never do something to hurt an animal the way that guy did.”
Rascal’s cage rattles as he limps over to take a drink.
“What about Trickster?” Dr. Mac points out.
Ooh—that hurt.
I slump on a stool. “I know. I keep trying not to think about it, but it won’t go away. How can I explain this, Dr. Mac? It’s like there’s a piece of me that I can’t stand, the corner-cutting part. I start doing things and then, they’re boring, or it takes too long, and I … just … stop.”
“It’s too bad you can’t take that piece out.”
“Exactly! Like a sliver or a wart. A big, ugly wart. But it doesn’t work that way, does it?”
“You already know the answer to that. Maybe you need to grow a new piece, a ‘do-things-right’ piece.”
I spin around once on the stool.
“I was responsible today, taking care of Ashley. I sort of flooded the kitchen, but I cleaned it all up.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.” I get up and follow Dr. Mac to the file cabinets behind the reception desk. “Honest. When I wanted to quit, I kept thinking about Trickster, how my corner-cutting hurt him. Not that me cleaning the floor would help him. I guess that’s stupid, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” she says as she opens the file drawer. “Seems like it’s all connected, if you ask me.”
The phone on the desk rings, and Dr. Mac picks it up. “Veterinary clinic,” she says crisply. “Lucas?” She pauses. “When did it happen? Have you taken his temperature?”
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is it Trickster?”
She motions for me to be quiet. “I’ll be right there. Don’t get upset. It’s probably nothing, just a little colic.”
I can’t stand this.
“We’re on our way,” she says.
“What?” I ask as she hangs up.
“Quinn has a sick horse.”
“Trickster?”
“No—it’s Starfire.”