The Trouble with Tuck by Theodore Taylor

Author:Theodore Taylor [Taylor, Theodore]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-54834-4
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 1981-08-31T04:00:00+00:00

11

About a week after the unproductive visit to the companion-dog school at San Carlos, just a few days before my school started, Mother let Tuck out for his usual morning stroll at about six-thirty.

Tuck started off as he did on any other morning, loping down the driveway, but less than ten seconds had passed when Mother heard the sickening screech of car brakes and a muffled yelp. Instantly she guessed what had happened and called out to my father, who was upstairs, shaving. Then she ran outside, still in her blue robe and scuffs.

A car was stopped in the middle of Cheltenham, about fifty yards from our house, and in front of it was poor Tuck, on his side on the pavement, a still gold mound. Maybe dead. The driver of the car was kneeling down.

My mother ran to Tuck, and then my father, having pulled on his robe, joined her. There was blood on Tuck's head, and he was quivering, breathing in short gasps, blank eyes still wide with fright. Fortunately the car had struck him a glancing blow as it skidded to a stop, only the bumper hitting him.

The driver, a student on his way to college classes at Los Angeles State, was very upset, saying, “The dog suddenly ran out in front of the car, as if he hadn't seen me.”

“He couldn't see you,” my father said.

Stan had heard my mother cry out and had awakened me. I came downstairs in my nightgown just as my father and the young driver were carrying Tuck to the station wagon. I saw them through the kitchen window. They had Tuck in a first-aid carry, with their hands locked on each other's wrists.

My mother was already on the phone to Dr. Tobin.

As I rounded the corner of the house, my father took one look at my chalky face and said, “Helen, don't panic! He's alive. He's hurt, but he's alive.” Closing the back door to the station wagon, he added, “Maybe you shouldn't look at him. I have to get some cotton. I'll be right back.”

I'd never been very brave about anyone getting hurt, or seeing blood. I'd always turned away, feeling faint. But this time I made myself do it, opening the wagon door instantly. I almost wished I hadn't.

Tuck was on some beach towels that my mother had thrown down, and I saw that the gash on his head went from behind his left eye all the way to the back of his right ear. Blood was oozing from it, and the yellow hair was already matted. Tuck was shaking all over, as if freezing.

He needed me, I knew.

Climbing in beside him, I pulled one of the towels around him, then began stroking his side and belly, telling him again and again that everything would be okay. I tried not to look at his bashed head.

Having put some clothes on, my father came back with the surgical cotton and began pressing it against the wound. He asked how I was doing.

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