(13)Dr. Raymond

The vet arrived twenty minutes later, a large, red-faced man smelling of cows and antiseptic. “Hi, I’m Doc Raymond. Sorry I took so long.” He came into the stall with Sarah and Barney, and pulled away the latest bandage. “Whew! That’s a mess. Too bad, he’s a darned good little horse. My daughter’s ridden against him in shows. Remember me, Barney? I’m the guy who sticks needles in you every once in a while … and you’re going to get some more today, poor fellow.”

He turned to everybody clustered around the stall door. “Could you get me a bucket of warm water, and maybe a drop cord? Light’s kind of poor in here.” While Mom and Dad were gone, he swabbed a place on Barney’s neck with alcohol and gave him a shot. “General antibiotic. Hmm, better go with a tetanus, too. God, I hate this time of year!” His broad, genial face hardened. “I have more animals come in shot by hunters … I know you hunt, Art,” to Mr. Jones, “and I don’t mean all hunters—but God, the fools they let into the woods with a gun!”

Dad came back with a steaming pail of water, and Dr. Raymond splashed a pungent liquid into it. Then he brought out a huge, gleaming stainless steel syringe, filled it with water, and gently squirted it over the wound, washing it. Now that the first shock was over, Sarah found that she was able to watch. The small seepage of blood turned pink, and washed thinly down Barney’s chest.

“There.” Dr. Raymond put the syringe back in the pail, and patted the wound dry with gauze. This worried Barney a little, but Sarah’s fingers, gently rubbing the base of his ears, reassured him.

Mom finally brought the drop cord, and the dark stall was flooded with yellow light. Dr. Raymond now injected a local anesthetic into Barney’s chest, and threaded a needle. Mom turned abruptly away, and even Dad looked a little distressed. Sarah stood stroking Barney’s neck and watching, fascinated, as Dr. Raymond began putting together the puzzle of torn skin and flesh. It took a long time, and the very center of the wound could not be closed. As Sarah watched, the world narrowed to the haze of yellow light, Barney’s marred chest, and the vet’s sure hands. Nothing else had ever existed, or would exist.

“There,” said Dr. Raymond, straightening finally, blinking his eyes hard. “Want to hand me that bottle of sulfonamide dressing, Art?” He puffed the yellow powder on the open patch. “There, that’ll help with the formulation of new tissue.” He washed his hands and began putting things away.

Now that the stitching was done, Mom came back to the stall door. She asked the question Sarah didn’t dare to. “How do things look?”

Dr. Raymond closed his bag and stood up, stiffly. “It’s early to tell. If all goes right, he could heal perfectly. If he gets infected, or feverish … well, anything could happen.” He turned to Sarah.

“Keep him on bran mashes for the first three or four days, that and a little hay—oh, and plenty of water, warm, so he doesn’t get colic. And he’ll need exercise, too, or the muscles will heal short and he’ll be permanently lame. Start late tomorrow, maybe five minutes of walking, and gradually work up from there. That’s very important.

“Now, I’ll leave a bottle of wound dressing, and some of this antiseptic. Wash the wound twice a day, dry it, and then puff this dressing all over it. That’s about all; I’ll drop by sometime tomorrow and see how he’s doing.” He rubbed Barney’s nose gently with his knuckles, and refastened the blanket. “There, old horse. We’ll get you feeling better in no time. It’s probably a good idea to keep him covered for a while, and I’ll give you a collar so he can’t bite out his stitches.” He picked up his bag and left the stall, looking at his watch. “Darn, I’m due in surgery five minutes ago.”

Mom went with him, and brought back the collar. It was made of smooth, rounded sticks, held together by leather straps, and would keep him from bending his neck. It looked dreadfully uncomfortable.

“Do you think he needs it on tonight?” she asked, as Mr. Jones started to adjust it. “He probably won’t feel up to chewing himself.”

“Leave it on, or Doc’ll have all that stitching to do over in the morning. You folks got any bran?”

“No,” said Mom, “I’m afraid we don’t.”

“I’ll send Mother over with a sack. C’mon, Bert, get your nag in the truck. It’s getting on to chore time.” It didn’t seem possible that that much time had passed, but when Sarah looked at Mom’s watch, it was almost four.

Albert untied Herky and started to lead him outside. But as soon as he moved away, Barney came to life. With a high-pitched neigh, he turned to lean against the door, staring anxiously after his friend.

“Bring him back,” Sarah shrieked. “Barney’s pressing his chest on the door!” Hurriedly, Albert turned Herky around and let Barney sniff him. Reassured, Barney drooped again.

“Looks like you’ll have to leave him,” said Mr. Jones. “Well, get him settled, then.” Now that the crisis was over, he seemed fidgety.

“OK.” Albert tied Herky beside the stall, adjusted his blanket, and got him a bale of hay from the mow. He paused awkwardly beside Sarah. “Sorry I have to run off like this. I’d like to stay and help.…”

“You better go get warmed up,” Sarah said dully. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“Oh, thanks.” Looking very embarrassed, he squeezed her shoulder. “Well, take care, OK? I’d better go, or Dad’ll get jumpy.” He reached over the door to scratch Barney’s ear. “Hope you feel better, Barney. And you be good, Herk. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Warmed by his concern, Sarah watched him out of sight. Thank heaven for good, fat old Albert—and the next time Danny Trevor called him Fat Albert, she’d punch him in the nose! She turned back to Barney.

The first thing was to get him some warm water. She got a pail, filled it at the sink, and trudged back, slopping the water into her boot. Barney wasn’t interested. She splashed in it with one hand, to let him know what it was. He paid no attention, and when she took her hand out the cold turned it numb and she had to tuck it quickly into her armpit.

At last, Barney turned listlessly toward the water, flipped the surface with his bottom lip, and then sucked down the whole pailful. Finally, response! Best not to give him too much all at once, though. She took Herky out to the water tub before bringing Barney another pail, which he drained.

By that time Mrs. Jones had arrived with the bran. Mom and Sarah mixed up the hot mash, a very messy process. Dad thought it smelled wonderful, but Barney mouthed it dully and ate only half. At last, Sarah gave up trying to coax him and went back into the house, moving in a fog of exhaustion.

To her surprise, she was hungry. Cold air and hard work had sharpened her appetite. She ate slowly and methodically, her head propped on one hand, trying to think of nothing but the food. At last, though, she was stuffed, and there was nothing else to do. “Guess I’ll call Mrs. O’Brien and get Missy’s number.”

“Good girl,” said Mom.

Mrs. O’Brien was horrified. At first she could only ask, over and over, “But will he be OK?” When she calmed down, she refused to even consider letting Sarah call Missy. “I’ll call her myself. Such a shock—you’re a good girl, but a mother can handle this better. I will give her your number, so she can talk to you afterward.”

More waiting. Twenty minutes passed, while Sarah dozed uneasily in the big chair by the fireplace. When the phone finally did ring, she jumped nearly out of her skin.

“Hello, Sarah?” A terrible tension in the voice. “Mom said … how is he?”

Sarah had to clear her throat. “Well, it looks awful, but the vet says with good luck and care he should heal fine.”

“Whew! I was so scared.” Missy’s voice went shaky with relief. “When Mom said he’d been shot … how did it happen?”

Sarah explained as well as she could. The whole thing was still fragmented in her mind. She couldn’t understand how the hunter could have missed the deer, that close, or how he could have fired in the first place, when he must have seen her and Albert right behind the deer.

“How does he feel?” Missy asked finally, in a tiny, dreading voice.

Sarah had to say, “Pretty bad. But he drank, Missy, and he ate half his bran mash. The vet’s coming again tomorrow.…”

“Doctor Raymond?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God. He’s wonderful.”

“Yes, and Mom and Mr. Jones—he’s a farmer up the road—will tell me what to do. I’ll take good care of him, Missy.”

“I know. It’s just … darn, why did I have to go to school so far away? If I could only come see him, and help … darn!” She’d been feeding in coins as the operator demanded them, but, “I’m out of money. I’ll call tomorrow, OK?” Sarah’s reply was cut off.

She hung up and went out to the kitchen. “I’m going to take another pail of water to Barney and go to bed.”

“I’ll do that for you,” said Dad. “You’re too tired.”

“No, I’ll get it.”

She was surprised to find it snowing out, fat, puffy, endless flakes drifting through the flashlight beam. Already there was a coating on the path deep enough to make tracks in. It seemed years since morning, when she’d rejoiced that the snow hadn’t come.

Herky nickered sleepily as she came in. He’d finished his hay and was standing close to Barney’s door. Sarah fondled his big head a moment before daring to look into the stall.

Barney was still in the same place, his ears back in a strained expression. He looked at her with brief interest, then dismissed her, ignoring the water. The wound hadn’t changed since she’d last looked. If only it doesn’t get infected, she thought. But there was nothing more she could do tonight. She left the water beside him and went back inside. There she ran a deep tubful of warm water, got in, and, half an hour later, Mom was tucking Sarah in bed. “You’ve done well today, dear,” she said. “We’re very proud of you.” Giving her a quick, tight hug, she left. Sarah fell asleep immediately.