New Beginnings (10 page)

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.”

Chapter Nineteen

M
aggie washes her hands again and cuts some notched triangles out of adhesive tape with sterile scissors until the remaining tape looks like butterfly shapes.

“Butterfly bandages?” I ask.

Maggie nods and tells me to hold Cuddles up carefully. I do. She applies a disinfectant solution and fans it to dry. She talks to Cuddles and me in a calm voice, and Cuddles is amazingly cooperative.

“Hold her still now,” Maggie says. “Good. The wound site is cleaned, and it's time to close the gap with the temporary butterfly bandages.” Maggie says aloud what she is doing, just like Dr. Mac did during Cuddles's checkup.

“I'm going to gently attach these butterfly bandages, with the larger triangle on each side of where the incision is separated,” Maggie says. Cuddles tries to wiggle away and tries to kick my arm. She thumps me hard. It's good Dr. Mac trimmed her nails or she would have scratched me, too.

“This is definitely a two-person job,” Maggie says.

She carefully applies one of the butterfly bandages, then the other. Then she opens a sterile gauze pad and gently holds it over the butterfly bandages. “Can you hold this in place?” she asks. I do. Maggie gets a roll of stretchy bandaging, but as soon as she has wrapped it around Cuddles's belly, it bunches up and the gauze slips. “Sorry,” she says. “Let me try this again.” She goes around a few times, then wraps the bandage around Cuddles's shoulder and leg to hold it in place, but Cuddles wiggles and starts biting at the bandage.

“I guess we should have kept her name, Chewie,” I say.

“Okay, just hold her a minute and see if she calms down. She must be nervous after all that's happened,” Maggie says. “Let me think. There's got to be a way to keep her from nipping at the stitches and bandage.” Maggie looks up at me. “Any ideas?” she asks.

“She needs something stretchy, like the bandage you're using, but all one piece, not a long roll. Something like a fairly tight bunny-sized T-shirt,” I say.

“Good idea,” Maggie says. “Maybe a one-piece stretchy tube of some kind?” She carefully places her cupped hands around Cuddles's middle to measure how big she is, then she holds both of her rounded hands midair, fingertips and thumbs touching.

Maggie shakes her head. “I was thinking my cousin's tube top might do it, but that'd be too big. We'd have to cut it and sew it around Cuddles's belly and it'd probably still slip . . . Wait! I have an idea. I'll be right back.” Maggie jogs from the room.

I pet Cuddles while I wait. “You're going to be okay, Cuddles. Maggie knows what she's doing. You're in good hands.” In my own hands I can feel Cuddles's heart beating a little slower, and instead of panting she takes a sigh now and then. I nuzzle her ears, but they still feel very warm.

The kittens have been mewing in their box on the floor the whole time I've been here, and now they're getting louder and louder. They must be really hungry. I hope they're okay. Maggie was feeding the calico when I arrived. I don't know if she was just starting or finishing.

Maggie comes in with a pair of pink-and-purple-striped leggings and another big pair of scissors. She holds up one of the legs and says, “What do you think?”

“Maybe,” I say, “but they look brand-new.”

“Yep,” Maggie says with a smile, and snips off a section of one leg. “My cousin Zoe gave these to me and I've never liked them. Pink and purple stripes? Please, that's just not me.”

“Your cousin in Hollywood?” I ask, remembering her Hollywood shoes on the bus that first day.

“Yes,” Maggie says. “The one and only Zoe. Now I have an excuse not to wear them,” she says, stretching the cut section this way and that, holding it over Cuddles to see if it will fit. She looks at me.

“Maybe a teensy bit shorter,” I say.

Maggie snips off a little more. “Uh-oh,” she says. “How do we keep it from unraveling? We don't want her swallowing a bunch of threads next. Where should we put the finished edge?”

Maggie is right. It doesn't matter if the cut edge is nearer Cuddles's head or tail. Wherever it is, Cuddles is sure to try to unravel it.

“We need two finished edges,” I say.

“Good thing I didn't cut this one yet,” Maggie says, holding up the other leg. “What if we tuck the cut end underneath?” And that's what she does. She cuts a longer section from the other side. Then she folds the cut end underneath and measures it next to Cuddles's body.

“Great,” I say. “Now how do we get it on her?”

“Over her head, I think,” Maggie says. “Can you lift her front legs up?”

And we do. Like Maggie said, it is definitely a two-person job, dressing a wiggly rabbit in a fancy one-legged legging. Once it is on, I carefully cradle her like a baby while Maggie tucks the cut end of Cuddles's new bellyband back underneath and checks to be sure the gauze is still in the right spot.

“Not too tight, not too loose,” Maggie says, raising her eyebrows. “What do you think?”

“I think it's going to work,” I say.

I set her down on the table, and Cuddles twitches her whiskers. She turns her head, as if to look at her new outfit, then ignores it altogether and sits on her haunches. She licks her paws and begins washing her face, as if she's always worn a brightly striped coat.

“Are rabbits color blind?” I ask.

“I don't know,” Maggie laughs. “But my cousin Zoe must be. That legging looks much better on your rabbit than it would ever look on me!”

“Thanks so much, Maggie,” I say. “Look. She's so much calmer now. It's as if she's forgotten she has stitches. Let's see if she'll drink or eat anything.” I carefully put Cuddles back in her cage. She does a small hop, then goes right to her water bottle. The little clicking sound of her drinking from the metal spout never sounded so good.

“Okay,” Maggie says, taking a deep breath. “So far, so good. Let's clean up. Then onto these hungry, noisy kittens.” She tosses the towel from the exam table into a bin and begins to disinfect the table with a spray bottle and paper towels.

Maggie removes her gloves, washes her hands, and puts on a new pair. “As long as you're here, do you want to help me feed these kittens?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. I throw away the paper towels, toss my gloves, and wash my hands at the sink. As I rub my hands in the warm, soapy water, I feel as if all my worries are washing away. Maybe Sunita was right. Maggie seems okay after all. I shake my head.

“What?” Maggie says.

“Nothing,” I say. I have no idea how Maggie feels about me. But she cares about animals, that's for sure. She took great care of Cuddles, and she cares about these kittens, too.

“I don't get it,” Maggie says. “Do you want to help feed them or not?”

“Yes. Yes, I
said
I want to help. Why?” I ask as I reach for a clean paper towel to dry my hands. I can't bring myself to look at Maggie's face.

“Because first you say yes, then you stand there shaking your head like you don't want to help. And now you say yes again, but you are acting all weird on me,” Maggie says.

I turn and look at her. “I was shaking my head because I was wondering how we got off to such a bad start. You're good with animals. I'm good with animals. We have stuff in common, so it seems like we should be able to get along. I thought you were mean at first, but . . .”

“Yeah, I thought you were a total jerk, at first, too,” Maggie says.

“At first?” I say, and look right at her eyes.

“Okay, I thought you were a jerk every single day—until today, that is—so I guess I acted like a jerk, too.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I'm better around animals than I am around people.”

“So I guess you need help, too?” Maggie smiles.

“What do you mean?”

“My challenge is reading,” Maggie says. “That's why I have a tutor to help me. Your challenge is reading people. Maybe you could use some tutoring in that?”

“Yeah,” I say. “You're right.”

“Okay,” Maggie says, still smiling. “What do you think these kittens want?”

“Kitty formula,” I say, putting on a fresh pair of gloves.

“And what do you think I want?” Maggie asks.

“You want help with the kittens?”

“Yes, and—?”

“And you want me to not ruin any more of your school projects or be a jerk anymore?”

“Yeah, but first the kittens,” Maggie says, tilting her head toward the box full of noisy little mews. “Can you get the little calico? She's the next up. I tried to feed her first, but she kept turning away from me and the bottle.”

“Okay,” I say to Maggie, and then I pick up the little calico from the pile of kittens. She looks smaller and weaker than the others, who are climbing all over each other, mewing loudly for food. “Come here, little girl,” I say, and carefully lift her to the towel in my lap. Her head droops and her neck muscles seem weak. She is so skinny I can see her little hip bones, ribs, and backbone.

“The others are gaining weight and thriving,” Maggie says. “I'm worried about her.”

I test the temperature of the formula to be sure it's not too hot or too cold. But when I put the bottle near the calico's mouth, she turns away. I try to get a little formula on her tiny chin and mouth but she doesn't lick, bite, or suck. Then she shivers. I wrap her in a towel to warm her, but she keeps turning away.

Maggie watches me. “See what I mean?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, and I put her back in with her siblings to stay warm. She scoots to join them, sighing deeply when she is back in the furry pile.

I get out of the chair and sit cross-legged on the floor next to the box. “I wonder,” I say, taking off my gloves, “if maybe she doesn't like the gloves or the hand soap? It must be so different from the feel and smell of her brothers and sisters. I gently slide my clean bare hands back and forth over the remaining kittens in the box, rubbing both the backs and the fronts of my hands and fingers.

“What are you doing?” Maggie says.

“I'm trying to make my hands smell more familiar to her. That might be more comforting.”

I take out all but the calico and place the pile of four snuggling kittens on the towel in my lap. I rub the fronts and backs of my hands on the kittens again.

“I hope this works,” I say, and I carefully place the calico on top of the four-kitten huddle. She settles in, looking warm and comfortable. I squirt a tiny bit of formula on the fur of the kitten right in front of the calico's nose and mouth. She sneezes.

“Oopsie,” I say. Then she licks the milky fur of her sibling. I add another drop of formula, and she licks that, too. I try the bottle with her atop the kitten pileup and she lifts her head and begins to suck, slowly at first, then more consistently. The kitten sucks the milk down, eyes closed, her tiny milky mouth and whiskers moving as she makes little
um, um
sounds. I have to keep steadying her atop the wobbling kitten huddle, but she seems to like it there. It takes a while, and her brothers and sisters are a little dripped on by the time we are through, but she drinks most of the bottle. I put her siblings back in the box. When I pick her up to burp her on my shoulder, her belly feels nice and round. I use a wet cotton ball to make her poop, like I saw Josh and David doing. Then I gently return her to the warm comfort of her brothers and sisters. She falls right to sleep.

“How'd you know to do that?” Maggie asks.

“I didn't know,” I say. “Must be beginner's luck, I guess.”

I glance at Cuddles in her cage. She sits comfortably now, with her funny pink-and-purple-striped bellyband doing its job. She's sipping from her water bottle again, thank goodness. I take a deep breath as I pick up another kitten, smelling the fuzzy kitty smell and feeling the warm wiggliness.

I exhale, and my shoulders relax. I turn to look at Maggie, and I see she's watching me. I am so relieved about Cuddles and the kittens and all that's happened—and Maggie must know it. I want to look away from Maggie staring at me. But I don't. We keep eye contact with each other for a few awkward seconds longer, and it's as if we're finally seeing each other for the first time.

“Hi,” Maggie says, raising her eyebrows at me and smiling.

Hi? That's odd. We've been working together this last hour and now she's saying hi? I guess Maggie knows how I feel.

“Don't you wish we could start over,” I say, “and pretend that all the other stuff before today never happened? Maybe create some kind of new beginning to meeting each other?”

Maggie nods.

“Me too,” I say. “Hi, Maggie. Nice to meet you.”