Storm Rescue by Laurie Halse Anderson

Author:Laurie Halse Anderson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2010-03-01T05:00:00+00:00

I’m still thinking about that puddle in the yard—and the ones in the basement—when I get back to the clinic. The phone is ringing when I walk in. There’s nobody else in the reception area, so I throw my body against the door to push it closed against the howling wind, then rush over to pick up the phone.

“Hello, Dr. Mac’s Place,” I say. “Can I help you?”

“It’s an emergency!” a breathless, panicky voice answers. “My little Precious girl won’t eat her food and she keeps shivering, and a tree fell over so I can’t get the car out of my driveway to bring her in, and I just know she’s sick—”

“Um, hold on a second, please,” I interrupt. “I’ll get Dr. Mac.”

I’ve already recognized the woman’s voice. I hurry back to the recovery room, where I find Dr. Mac changing the gauze bandage on a corgi with a torn toenail. “It’s Mrs. Creighton,” I tell her. “She says Precious is shivering and not eating, and she can’t get her car out of the driveway to come over.” Mrs. Creighton is one of our most frequent visitors to the clinic. She has two tiny Yorkshire terriers, and she gets hysterical if one of them sneezes or coughs or looks at her funny.

Dr. Mac sighs. “Oh, dear,” she says, looking harried. “Precious is probably just anxious because of the weather. But she’s so nervous, even missing a meal or two could stress her enough to upset her stomach again. I suppose I’d better get over there and check on her. She may need a dextrose injection.”

I help her return the corgi to his cage. Then, as Dr. Mac hurries toward the phone, I wander into the kennel area, where the other volunteers are doing chores.

When I tell them about the phone call, Zoe rolls her eyes. “Mrs. Creighton is a nut,” she comments. “Precious is probably on a hunger strike to try to get herself a new owner.”

I expect Maggie to argue with her—maybe launch into some long speech about dextrose injections. But she just nods. “Mrs. Creighton worries too much,” she says. “And those little dogs know it, so they walk all over her. Precious probably decided she doesn’t like her brand of dog food.”

As Maggie talks, she’s letting a dog I’ve never seen before out of one of the wire kennels. He looks like a small collie or sheltie mix. “Who’s that?” I ask.

“His name’s Otis.” Brenna reaches down to scratch the dog behind the ears. “Someone found him wandering around and brought him here for safekeeping.”

Maggie nods. “Dr. Mac called his owners—the number’s on his tags—but their phone doesn’t seem to be working, probably because of good old Felix. She’s keeping an eye on him here until we can get in touch with them.”

“Good thing he’s wearing his tags.” I watch the little dog cheerfully follow Maggie toward the back door. It would be terrible to lose your pet in a storm and not know how to find him.

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