Storm Rescue (2 page)

Maggie perches on the bench beside David, settling Lucy on her lap. As I take a bite out of the hot dog, Brenna comes charging toward me leading Mercury, a huge black dog, along behind her. Brenna hardly ever walks at a normal pace. She has lots of energy, which comes in handy when there's work to do at the clinic. And there's always plenty of work to do at Dr. Mac's Place. That's why Dr. Mac invited the five of us—Maggie, Brenna, Zoe, David, and me—to volunteer here after school and in the summer.

Lucy sees Mercury and hisses at him, showing all her teeth. Her long, slender dark brown tail twitches, and her ears flatten back against her head.

“It's okay, Lucy.” She leaps down from Maggie's lap and retreats behind my legs. I glance at Maggie and shrug. Lucy's not too crazy about big dogs. I don't blame her.

“Have you seen the dog biscuits?” Brenna asks breathlessly. Her long brown hair is escaping from its ponytail, and she looks just as hot as the rest of us. “I just taught Mercury how to sit up and beg, and I want to reward him.”

“Good boy, Mercury!” David says, giving Mercury a quick scratch on the head.

I stand up and keep a cautious eye on Mercury. He's awfully big—a rottweiler mix. I like dogs, but I prefer them on the smaller side. Mercury stares at my hot dog with his huge pink tongue hanging out of his mouth. I take a step backward.

Mercury takes a step toward me. He pulls his tongue into his mouth for a second, making a slurping sound. Then his jaw falls open again. He has an awful lot of teeth. I stare at him, hoping that Brenna has a tight hold on the leash.

David notices my expression and laughs at me. “Don't be so worried, scaredy-cat!” he says. “He just wants your hot dog.”

“Um, I know.” I keep my gaze on Mercury. What if he jumps at me and knocks me down?

“Brenna, I think Mrs. Creighton's terriers ate all the biscuits. Check inside for more,” says Maggie.

“Thanks.” Brenna takes off again, with Mercury trotting along behind her. Even with his long legs, the dog has to hurry to keep up.

I'm relieved to see them go. I sigh and put my hot dog down. I'm not really hungry anymore.

“What's up, Sunita?” Maggie asks, handing Lucy back to me.

“Nothing,” I reply, cuddling Lucy.

Just then I see Dr. Mac heading toward the deck. A slim, well-dressed elderly woman with bluish-white hair is with her. “There you are, Sunita,” Dr. Mac says when she reaches us.

“How are my girls?” Mrs. Clark says, giving me a friendly smile and her cat a rub under the chin. I love the way Mrs. Clark's greenish-brown eyes sparkle—it makes her look happy and wise and curious, all at the same time. “How's everything going? Is Lucy giving you any trouble?”

“Not exactly,” I say, glancing from Dr. Mac to Mrs. Clark and back again. I quickly explain Lucy's odd behavior.

“That doesn't sound like her at all,” Mrs. Clark agrees.

“Do you think we should check her glucose level?” I ask Dr. Mac.

“That's exactly what we should do, Sunita. Good call,” she says. “Bring her on in.”

Chapter Two

I
follow Dr. Mac and Mrs. Clark into the Herriot Room and place Lucy on the exam table. I've helped Dr. Mac perform glucose tests on Lucy and other animals lots of times before. But right now I'm a little nervous. What if Lucy is having some kind of complication because of her diabetes? She is getting kind of old.

“All right, Lucy. Are you ready?” Dr. Mac says, and calmly approaches the Siamese with a needle.

I move forward and hold Lucy gently in place. Dr. Mac inserts the needle into a vein in Lucy's neck and draws the blood she'll need for the test. Lucy hardly moves.

“Brave girl,” I say.

When she's finished drawing the blood, Dr. Mac gives Lucy a pat, then puts the blood sample into a centrifuge. That's a machine that separates the solid part of the blood—the red and white blood cells—from the fluid part. The clear-looking fluid is called serum, and it's the part that gets tested for its glucose level.

“When did she have her last meal, Esther?” Dr. Mac asks as she works.

“This morning at eight, as usual,” Mrs. Clark replies. “She ate it all, like a good girl. She's been eating very well lately.”

That's a good thing. In addition to giving her daily insulin injections, Mrs. Clark also has to be extra careful about what Lucy eats. She feeds her a special high-fiber, low-fat cat food in several small meals a day, instead of just leaving dry food down all the time like I do for Mittens. It's really important for diabetic cats to get regular meals as well as regular injections. Otherwise their sugar levels can get all messed up, and that can put their lives in danger.

I stroke the cat as Dr. Mac works. Lucy finally starts to purr, stretching out first her front and then her back legs so that her claws extend, then rolling onto her side and tilting her chin up for me to scratch. I smile, figuring that's all a good sign.

Sure enough, when Dr. Mac finishes with Lucy's tests, she tells Mrs. Clark, “Her sugar is fine.”

“Oh, good,” Mrs. Clark says with a smile. She picks up Lucy and hugs her. “Ready to go, sweet-heart?”

“There are plenty of hot dogs left,” I say, hoping Mrs. Clark will stay so I can hang out with Lucy a little longer.

“Thanks, but this damp weather isn't good for my old bones,” Mrs. Clark says. “Or Lucy's, either. We're going to go home and try to stay dry.”

Dr. Mac and I walk Mrs. Clark out to the reception area. Mrs. Clark settles her bill while Lucy sits on the counter, washing her face. Then Mrs. Clark picks up her cat. “Okay, girl,” she says. “Let's get going before the storm gets any worse.”

“You know how I feel about you driving with Lucy, Esther,” Dr. Mac says. “Why don't I lend you a cat carrier for the ride home?”

Mrs. Clark shakes her head firmly. “No, thank you. I've got a couple collecting dust in my attic. Lucy hates them. She'll be just fine riding on my lap, as usual.”

Dr. Mac shrugs slightly, looking disappointed. She thinks all pets should be safely confined when they ride in a car. But she can't make her patients' owners do anything they don't want to do.

As I open the door for Mrs. Clark and say good-bye, I notice a van with a canoe tied on top of it parked in the lot next to the clinic. A customer named Mr. Jermaine—he always tells us to call him Bill—is standing nearby talking to David. He hurries to help Mrs. Clark climb into her car. Soon Mrs. Clark pulls away. I wave at Lucy, who is standing up and looking out the car window with her paws pressed against the glass.

Bill Jermaine walks over to me with a friendly smile on his face. “Hi there, Sunita,” he says.

“Hi,” I reply, tipping my head back to look up at him. He's a big man, tall and wide with a loud, booming voice. He makes David, who is right behind him, look even shorter and skinnier than he really is.

Bill Jermaine's wife, Jacqueline, climbs out of the van. She's just the opposite of her husband. She's petite, with dainty features and a soft, soothing voice. She's the weather reporter on one of the local TV stations. Bill Jermaine is a meteorologist, too—that's a scientist who studies the weather—but he teaches at the university.

“Hello, dear,” Jacqueline says as I greet her politely. She calls everyone at the clinic “dear” except Dr. Mac. I don't think she remembers our names. She even calls Dr. Gabe “dear.”

“Are you here for the picnic?” I ask as the sky releases a low rumble of thunder.

“Picnic?” Jacqueline says blankly. “No, we're just on our way home. We were supposed to go camping in the Poconos this weekend, but we both got called back to our offices. It seems that Felix is changing direction again.” She sounds just like she does during her nightly weather reports on TV. “It looks like it's going to be moving farther up the coast instead of making landfall in the Carolinas.”

“Farther up the coast?” I repeat. The idea of a hurricane coming our way is kind of scary.

“Whoa!” David says. “You mean, the hurricane is coming toward us?”

“Right,” Bill says. “They're tracking it carefully, and it seems it won't make landfall until somewhere near Virginia or maybe farther north. That means our weather here in Pennsylvania will get a lot worse before it gets better. We're expecting bands of heavy rain for the next two to three days. And that's the forecast, whether you like it or not.” He grins. His wife ends all of her reports on the news by saying that.

“So why are you here?” David asks.

“It's Stormy,” Jacqueline says, opening the van door. “He's been acting weird the whole way home. I was hoping Dr. Mac could take a look at him.”

I gulp as a huge black-and-white dog carefully climbs down from the van. Every time I see Stormy, I'm surprised all over again at how enormous he is. He's a Great Dane—that's one of the largest breeds of dog there is. Stormy is Dr. Mac's Place's largest patient with paws.

I smile nervously at Stormy, but he doesn't seem to notice me. He sits down, tucks his tail between his legs, leans against the side of the van, and whines. He looks terrified.

“Hey! Stormy, old buddy!” David squats down beside the big dog, rubbing his chest. David's crazy about Stormy. I think it's because Stormy is almost as big as a horse!

The Great Dane wags his tail weakly when David pats him, then whines again and cringes against him. Jacqueline kneels beside her dog, looking worried. Before I can ask what's wrong with him, Dr. Mac appears at the clinic door. “Oh, hi, Jacqui and Bill,” she greets the Jermaines with a smile. “Can't you do something about this weather? It's ruining my picnic,” she jokes.

The Jermaines chuckle, then tell Dr. Mac about Stormy's behavior. He's still cringing against the van, looking miserable, even though David is petting and scratching him in all his favorite spots.

“Stormy's always a little nervous before a storm,” Bill explains. “But not this bad. We want to make sure that's all there is to it.”

“Poor guy. He looks like a dog, but he's really just a big scaredy-cat.” David grins up at me. I feel my cheeks turn red. David doesn't know how to let something drop. I hope he's not going to start calling me scaredy-cat all the time.

Dr. Mac gazes at Stormy thoughtfully. “Why don't you bring him in?” she suggests. “I can take a quick look.”

“Could you?” Jacqueline looks relieved. “Thank you so much. That would make us feel a lot better.” She puts one hand over her heart. Everything she does is dramatic. I guess that comes from being on TV every day.

I follow Dr. Mac, David, and the Jermaines inside, making sure there's plenty of room between me and Stormy. He looks even more enormous once we're all in the reception area. I know he's a gentle, well-behaved, friendly dog that wouldn't hurt a flea. But that doesn't stop me from being a little uneasy around him.

Dr. Mac is staring at him, her eyes thoughtful and distant, the way they always get when she's concentrating on something. “Sunita, could you help me with the exam, please?”

“Me?” I gulp, glancing at Stormy out of the corner of my eye. “Sure, I—”

“I'll do it,” David interrupts. He steps up and gives Stormy another pat. “It'll take a strong kid like me to help keep Stormy on the exam table. Besides, Stormy likes my Scooby-Doo imitation.”

I force a smile as he follows Dr. Mac, Stormy, and Jacqueline into the Dolittle Room. But I have a queasy sort of feeling in the pit of my stomach. I sink down onto one of the chairs in the reception area.
Am I really a scaredy-cat?

Chapter Three

D
o you mind if I sit here with you, Sunita?” Bill Jermaine says. “That exam room is too small for both Stormy and me, and I don't want to get in the doctor's way.”

I glance at him, suddenly realizing that he hasn't followed the others. “No problem,” I say weakly, forcing another smile. I don't want him to see that I'm upset. I especially don't want him to guess that his big dog scares me, at least a little. It wouldn't look good for someone who volunteers at a vet clinic.

“Thanks,” Bill says, sitting down beside me. The chair squeaks a little under his weight.

At that moment Socrates, Dr. Mac's cat, wanders into the room. He stops and looks at us for a moment. I'm expecting him to come to me, but he goes to Bill instead. With a small meow, he butts his big orange head against Bill's shin.

“That's strange,” Bill says, raising one eyebrow as he leans over to pat Socrates gingerly on the back. “This cat never gave me the time of day before.”

It's more than strange. Socrates isn't the friendly type, like Lucy. He's more of a look-but-don't-touch kind of cat. Just about the only people he lets pet him are Dr. Mac and me.

“He's acting like a completely different cat,” I comment as Socrates weaves in and out around Bill's legs. “I wonder if there's something wrong with him.”

“I wouldn't worry too much,” Bill says. “It's probably Hurricane Felix that's affecting him, just like Stormy.”

“The hurricane?” I say. “What do you mean? Does Stormy know that it's coming this way?”

“Well, he probably wouldn't put it so specifically. But yes, he knows something is wacky about the weather—like now, he knows a big storm is brewing. Animals are good at sensing that.”

“Are you saying that animals can predict the weather before it happens?” I ask.

“Not exactly.” Bill smiles. “They use their five regular senses just like us, only they're a little more perceptive than we are about certain environmental changes, like air pressure and static electricity. As a cat lover, you might notice that static electricity in the air often makes cats groom themselves more.”