Teacher's Pet (4 page)

“We need the vet right away.”

W
hat happened, Mr. Carlson?“ I ask anxiously as Gran lifts Scout onto the exam table.

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Carlson says. “Who is speaking?”

“It's me, Maggie MacKenzie, from eighth-period biology. Is Scout OK? Is his foot broken?”

Gran holds up her hand. “He just got here, Maggie. Give me a few minutes.”

“Maggie? What are you doing here?” Mr. Carlson asks, puzzled until he makes the connection. “Ahh, Dr. Mac—MacKenzie!” he says. “You're related?”

Gran scratches Scout between the ears. “Maggie is my granddaughter. She lives with me and helps out at the clinic.”

My teacher nods. “You told me about that at the end of class, didn't you?”

I start to nod, then say, “Yes. What happened to Scout?”

Mr. Carlson takes a deep breath and quietly explains. “I stepped on his paw. We were running late because we got lost. When I realized what time it was, I rushed and landed right on Scout's paw with my boot.”

I glance at his feet. Mr. Carlson wears fancy cowboy boots. I didn't notice that in class. They are pretty neat looking, but I can see how their thick heels could have hurt a paw.

While Mr. Carlson's talking, Gran quickly examines the dog's eyes and mouth and takes his pulse. She always checks an animal's overall health before she zeroes in on what is bothering him. Scout watches Gran, but he keeps one eye on Mr. Carlson, too. I think the guide dog looks a little anxious. Maybe he thinks he messed up.

“I could tell he was limping right away,” Mr. Carlson continues, “and I felt the blood on his paw. I called a taxi and told the driver to bring me to the best vet in town. She brought me here.” He rubs his forehead. “I hope his foot's not broken.”

Gran slips on a pair of latex gloves. “Let's not jump to conclusions before we have all the facts. Scout can put weight on the paw, which is a good sign. I'm going to take a closer look now. Mr. Carlson, would you please ask Scout to lie down?”

“Scout, down,” Mr. Carlson commands.

Scout obeys right away, stretching until he is lying down perfectly. He looks at Mr. Carlson expectantly. He's waiting for praise. You should always congratulate a dog when he's done the right thing.

Mr. Carlson is silent.

“Good boy, Scout,” I say loudly. I reach over and pet his head, and he pants happily. “He listened to you perfectly, Mr. Carlson,” I say.

“The guide-dog school trained him very well,” Mr. Carlson says.

Scout looks at his human companion, eagerly waiting for something, anything, but Mr. Carlson doesn't move toward him.

Gran looks at me and gives a little shake of her head. She's thinking the same thing I am, but now is not the time to mention it.

“Want me to hold his head?” I ask.

“Sure,” Gran says. She gently touches Scout's left paw, watching him closely.

“Isn't it his right paw that's hurt?” I ask Gran.

“It is,” Gran says, squeezing the left paw a little. “Some dogs don't like their paws touched at all. I'm starting with his good one to see if he is comfortable with it.”

Scout looks relaxed. He lets Gran feel his good paw without any complaint.

“Good boy,” Gran says as she gives him a friendly pat. “Now let's see the other one.”

She picks up the injured paw and cradles it carefully in her hand. Scout watches her, but he isn't showing any signs of pain.

“Maggie, get me an antiseptic wash and some gauze pads. I need to clean off this blood.”

I quickly hand the big bottle to Gran, and she gently sprays antiseptic over Scout's paw. I get a handful of paper towels ready to sop up the mess.

“That's better,” Gran says. She bends over to see the pads of the paw. When she touches his right paw, Scout whimpers and tries to pull it out of her hands.

“Shh, shh,” I say softly. I stroke the fur on his neck and shoulder. “I know it hurts,” I say, “but it's just for a minute. Then she'll make it feel better. It's OK, Scout. You're a good dog.”

I look over at Mr. Carlson. He can't see any of this. I close my eyes to imagine what it's like for him. I can hear Scout panting, Brenna talking out in the waiting room, a radio playing down the hall. Scout whimpers again, and I open my eyes.

“How does it look?” Mr. Carlson asks.

“Not too bad,” Gran answers. “We washed the blood off. He has a cut on the side of the pads. The boot pinched it. His nails are in good shape—none of them are split or broken. That's really good. It can be very painful for a dog to lose a toenail. Right now I'm feeling his metacarpals, the little bones in his foot. His foot pads are a little swollen and tender, especially around the cut, but I don't think anything is broken.”

After working her fingers along the bones in his paw, ankle, and foreleg, Gran gently flexes Scout's foot. Scout doesn't flinch.

“Ah, you're fine,” Gran tells him. “Do you want to feel, Mr. Carlson?”

“Yes, thank you,” my teacher says. He steps closer to the exam table.

“Let me show you on his good leg,” Gran suggests. She takes Mr. Carlson's right hand and sets it on Scout's left leg. Scout wags his tail and leans against Mr. Carlson's arm.

Gran plows ahead. “Can you feel how thick the skin is on his pads?” Gran asks as she guides Mr. Carlson's fingers to the bottom of Scout's paw. “It is kind of like a moccasin—thick enough to protect, but sensitive. It is bruised, but it will heal. Scout's bones are fine. He has a compression injury along with a contusion.”

“Meaning my boot squashed his paw and cut it,” Mr. Carlson adds with a wince.

“Exactly,” Gran says. “But don't be too hard on yourself. These things happen to everyone.”

“How long will it take Scout to recover? Should he rest? Can he walk with me?”

“It's not that bad,” Gran says with a friendly laugh. “I'll bandage his paw, but he can walk fine. He can still guide you. The skin will heal quickly. I'll give you some antibiotic ointment to use.”

Mr. Carlson frowns. “The bandage will need changing, won't it?”

“I could change the bandage for you,” I say. “After class. Or Gran can show you how to do it.”

Gran rips open a package of sterile pads. “Come close and put your hands on mine as I wrap the bandage. Then you can try it on your own.”

Mr. Carlson thinks about it for a minute, then nods his head once. “That might work.”

Gran wraps the injured paw with Mr. Carlson following every step. “Maggie tells me that you and Scout are new partners,” she says. “How long have you been working together?”

“Exactly one week. We're going back to the guide-dog school tomorrow for a follow-up visit. It's a good thing, too. I have lots of questions.”

“Scout looks like a skilled guide,” Gran says. “I'm sure the two of you make a terrific team.”

Scout wags his tail happily. He can tell when someone gives him a compliment.

“We're still learning,” Mr. Carlson says. “I wish we had had more time to get used to each other before I went back to teaching. There's just so much going on right now with school starting: my students, my dog, not getting lost in the building... ”

“Didn't they teach you about all this stuff at the guide-dog school?” I ask.

“They did a great job,” Mr. Carlson says. “But it's still a big adjustment.”

Gran tapes the bandage in place. “I've read about guide-dog training, but I've never seen the school. Do you want some company tomorrow? ”

“That would be great,” Mr. Carlson says. “In fact, I'd feel better if you came along. You can explain what happened to the school's veterinarian. ”

They discuss the details of getting together on Saturday while I put away the bandaging supplies. After breakfast, Gran will pick up Mr. Carlson and Scout and drive to the guide-dog school in her van.

“Would you like to come, too, Maggie?” Mr. Carlson asks as Gran helps Scout off the table.

Spend Saturday with Scout?

Scout shakes his coat once and looks up at me.

“Sure!”

Scout grins and wags his tail.

“Good. That's settled,” Mr. Carlson says as he bends to pick up Scout's leash. “You're sure it won't hurt his foot to guide me?”

“Scout's honor,” Gran says, with a chuckle.

Mr. Carlson grins. “That's a good one, Dr. Mac.”

Scout whines just a tiny bit and scootches closer to Mr. Carlson. He looks up at his companion, waiting. Why doesn't Mr. Carlson pet Scout? That little whine was Scout's way of asking for attention. Maybe my teacher's not much of a dog person.

“Why don't you give him a hug,” Gran suggests. “I think Scout could use some reassurance.”

Mr. Carlson pats Scout's head. “That's the kind of thing I have trouble remembering,” he admits. “I still feel awkward around him. Between teaching again and getting used to Scout, my brain is ready to explode. I feel like a kid—a kid with too much homework and a pop quiz every day.”

I know exactly what that feels like.

T
his is torture.

I am locked in a speeding van with my grandmother and my biology teacher, who spend the two-hour drive to the guide-dog school yakking about mice and frogs and microscopes. I wish someone would develop one of those sci-fi transporters. We'd be with the dogs in no time!

Scout sleeps by Mr. Carlson's feet. I thought maybe he could sit next to me, but Gran said no. I think she wants Scout to be as close to Mr. Carlson as possible, to help them bond. I don't know why Mr. Carlson didn't click with Scout right away. Maybe it's because he never had a dog before. I just hope it doesn't hurt Scout's feelings. Even working dogs need a little TLC—tender loving care.

The guide-dog school is on the edge of a busy town called Franklin. The school reminds me of a college campus, with low brick buildings and walking paths that wind around beautiful gardens. As we park in the visitors' lot, we see a small group of blind people with their dogs and instructors walking down the sidewalk toward town.

I sit up straighter. The guide dogs are gorgeous: they're golden retrievers, black Labs, and German shepherds. They walk quickly with their heads up, tongues lolling out of their mouths, and tails wagging eagerly. An entire school devoted to people and dogs—sign me up!

Before Mr. Carlson takes Gran to the veterinary center, he introduces me to John Liu. John was his instructor. He trained Scout and taught Mr. Carlson how to work with the dog.

John (he says I have to call him that) has short black hair and is wearing jeans, a dark green polo shirt, hiking boots, and a faded Mets baseball cap. He looks more like a mountain climber than a teacher.

“Pleased to meet you,” I say as I shake his hand. Gran is big on hand shaking.

“Pleasure to meet you, too,” he says.

“We thought you might be able to show Maggie around,” Mr. Carlson says.

“I'd love to,” John answers.

We agree to meet at the van later. Gran, Mr. Carlson, and Scout leave to visit the school's clinic. John turns to me.

“Now, Maggie, I could give you a tour of the grounds, complete with video presentation and an armful of brochures.”

Oh, no.
That sounds like a class trip to the Museum of Boring Things. I want to see dogs!

He pushes up the brim of his cap. “But I remember what it felt like to be a kid,” he continues. “Follow me.”

We walk down a grassy hill to a long building that has dog runs jutting out one side. I hear barking. My heart starts to beat faster.

We step through the door of the building and—wow!—a litter of German shepherd puppies! They look to be about four weeks old, chasing, tumbling, and playing in a giant puppy pen. The mom dog is napping in the corner. She lifts her head to look at the intruders and wags her tail happily when she sees John.

“They are so cute!” I squeal. I'm normally not the kind of person who squeals, but puppies bring out my inner Zoe.

“Will the mom let me pet them?” New mothers can be very protective of their puppies.

“Sure,” John says as he scratches the mom dog's ears. “We want the dogs to be as sociable as possible. She is very comfortable with visitors.”

I step into the puppy pen and kneel down. The puppies are all over me in an instant, kissing my face, licking my hands and arms, jumping up and down. I burst into giggles. Their ears are still floppy, and their fur is more like fuzz. When they grow up, they will be regal, dignified dogs like Scout. Right now, they are tubby little fluff balls that want to chew on my hair. It's great.