Chapter Eighteen

I push open the door to Dr. Mac’s clinic and hear the familiar jangle of the bell above the door. The waiting room is empty. I set Cuddles’s cage down.

“Hello, hello!” I call. “Is there anyone here?” I know a lot of the Vet Volunteers are at Stream Cleanup Day, but someone has to be here. The front door was unlocked after all. But even the basset hound, Sherlock, and Socrates, the cat, are missing.

I look down at Cuddles in her cage. She’s biting at her stitches. “No, Cuddles,” I say. I jiggle her water bottle to distract her. She stops chewing at her incision site and looks at me, then goes right back to biting at her belly.

“I need some help!” I call louder. “Dr. Mac? Dr. Gabe?” I’m panicking. I hear it in my voice.

The Dolittle Room door opens. Finally! Dr. Mac must have been with another patient. But as the door opens farther, it’s not Dr. Mac who emerges. It’s Maggie, holding the tiny calico kitten and a bottle of kitten formula.

“What’s wrong?” Maggie asks, walking closer. Her face is full of concern, looking at Cuddles in her cage.

“Is Dr. Mac here?” I ask.

“No,” Maggie says. “She just left on an emergency call—something about a baby fox trapped in some equipment they found at the stream. Is your rabbit okay?”

“No,” I say. “She’s pulling out her stitches from her surgery. She’s bleeding, breathing rapidly, and she’s shaking. What about Dr. Gabe? Is he here?”

“No,” Maggie says. “He’s out on call at Abbott’s Farm. He won’t be back for a couple of hours.” Maggie leans down and looks in at Cuddles.

“You’ve got to help me,” I say. “Please, you’ve got to help Cuddles.”

“Follow me,” Maggie says. I follow her to the Dolittle Room, and she puts the kitten back in a box with its four mewing siblings. “Bring your rabbit out here,” Maggie says. “I’ll take her temperature, and we’ll call my grandmother. She’ll tell us what to do.”

Maggie washes her hands and puts on a pair of gloves. “Hey, isn’t that Chewie?” she asks. “From Mr. Hart’s class?”

“Yes, her name is Cuddles now.”

“Better wash your hands, too,” Maggie says. “Use that scrub brush. If she has an open wound, we want to avoid any germs that might cause infection.” So I do, then I carefully carry Cuddles to the metal exam table, where Maggie has placed a clean towel.

“Hold her up carefully, so I can see where she’s bleeding,” Maggie says, “then wrap her like a bunny burrito in the towel, but leave her tail end exposed so I can take her temperature.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you call Dr. Mac first?”

“Do you want my help or not?” Maggie glares at me. “I know how to take a dog’s, a cat’s, and a rabbit’s temperature, and I know what questions my grandmother will ask when we call. So we might as well take her temp now. You’re wasting time—time Chewie may not have. I hate to tell you, but rabbits can become really sick and die very quickly. I can’t help if you don’t let me.”

“Okay,” I say, and I lift Cuddles up for Maggie to see.

Maggie winces a little, as if Cuddles’s pain is her own.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re right, she has chewed out a couple of her own stitches. And she’s bleeding a little, not too much, though, I don’t think. Looks like three of her stitches are still holding, and I’m sure my grandma did more than one layer of sutures. Wrap her up and hold her still.”

I do as she says. Maggie seems to know what she’s doing as she takes Cuddles’s temperature.

“One hundred and three point five,” Maggie says. She writes on a small pad of paper. “That’s a little high, but let me double-check my grandma’s vet reference.” She flips through a binder. “Yes, normal temperature range is one hundred and one to one hundred and three degrees. Any other symptoms you’ve observed?”

“Just the bleeding and the stitches coming out, of course, and she’s been panting—she doesn’t usually pant—and she’s not eating. I saw her drink a little water this morning.”

“Okay, stay here and I’ll get her chart, just in case my grandma wrote down any other specifics or meds or anything. Then we’ll call,” Maggie says before she quickly leaves the room. While she’s gone I double-check the chart in the binder. She’s right: 101 to 103 degrees is the normal temperature range for rabbits.

Maggie picks up the wall phone when she comes back into the room and does speed-dial with just one click.

“Right,” Maggie says into the phone. Then she says loud and clear for me to hear, too, as if she is repeating what Dr. Mac is saying, “Yes, I understand. We’ll apply a disinfectant to clean the incision site, let that dry, cut a butterfly bandage or two, and apply those to hold the skin together, cover it with gauze, apply gentle but firm pressure if it is still bleeding . . .” Maggie stops talking and looks at me to see if I’m listening.

I nod, though I’m not sure what a butterfly bandage is. I hope she does.

“Okay,” Maggie says. “I can do all that.”

All what? What is Maggie going to do?

“Gran,” Maggie says, “when do you think you’ll be back?”

I hold my breath and pet Cuddles while I listen. Maggie’s voice is serious and confident, and she keeps looking at Cuddles as if she really cares. That gives me a bit of confidence, too.

“Okay,” Maggie says, still on the phone. “Yes, there are two of us. But please come as soon as you can. And oh, is the fox cub okay? Yes, I think we can do it. Bye.”

I exhale. “When can she be here?” I say.

“As soon as she can,” Maggie says, looking at me very quickly, then looking away. “But it might still be an hour or more. She says we shouldn’t wait, because Chewie could hurt herself even more before she can get here.”

Maggie looks at me again, and this time we make eye contact and hold it. She must see how worried I am. I feel all shaky inside.

“We can do this,” Maggie reassures me.

“Okay,” I say. “Just tell me what to do.”