Shiloh Season by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

Author:Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers

Ten

The Tyler Star–News says that rabies has been reported in Tyler County, and Dad says it’s time we took Shiloh to a vet, make sure he has all his shots.

We know for a fact that Judd never takes his dogs to a vet unless he has to. Says with his dogs being chained and all, how are they going to get rabies?

Judd’ll do most anything to keep from spending a nickel he don’t have to, but Ma says if he took the money he spent on beer and spent it on his dogs instead, he’d have a lot happier, healthier animals. Happy and healthy ain’t what interests Judd, though. Hunting is.

Doc Murphy gives us the name of his veterinarian friend down in St. Marys, and we make an appointment for Tuesday afternoon late. Dad goes to work early that morning to get his mail delivered in time, and about four o’clock, after Dara Lynn and me get home—have some pop and cheese crackers—Dad and Dara Lynn and me put Shiloh in the Jeep and drive to the vet’s.

John Collins is his name and, just like Doc Murphy, he uses part of his house for his clinic. Shiloh is not one tiny bit happy about going, let me tell you. He’s happy about gettin’ in the Jeep, though, and likes to ride up front with Dad, his head out, the wind blowing his ears. Dara Lynn and me laugh at the way spit drops off the end of his tongue. Jeep gets going fast enough and the wind’ll blow that spit right into the backseat. Dara Lynn lets out a shriek when some of it smacks her arm.

Once we get to the clinic, Shiloh knows something is up. Don’t know how dogs can tell that, but they seem to. Not a place he’s ever been before, that’s one thing. The scent of other dogs around, that’s another. Scared dogs, too.

We’re walking up the sidewalk with Shiloh on a leash, and the more he smells the bushes, the more scared he gets. By the time we reach the door, his tail’s so far tucked in between his legs he can hardly walk. Dara Lynn picks him up in her arms and carts him inside.

Dad signs in at the desk, and a young woman in a blue shirt rubs Shiloh on the head, but that don’t fool him one minute. He knows right off this is a place he don’t want to be. Knows it for sure when a fifteen-pound cat reaches out and swats at him as we go past.

We sit in a row on the plastic chairs and Shiloh’s sitting on the floor between my feet. I sort of press the calves of my legs close around him like a hug, but I can feel him shaking. I reach down and pat Shiloh on the head. He licks my hand, but it’s not a very strong lick. Think he’s saying, “I thought you liked me. How come you’re bringing me here?”

Dad’s reading some pamphlets on distemper, rabies, and something called hepatitis.

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