made in my report. Ms. Griffith told me to connect it to a topic that interests me. So I try to find a way to sneak in information about basketball, but it’s hopeless. As far as I can tell, the Pennsylvania state legislature hasn’t passed any laws about hoops.
I look at the clock. Gran is still down in the clinic. She’s been down there over an hour. Something must be wrong.
“I’m not supposed to go down there,” I tell Sherlock. He lifts his head off my pillow. “But I don’t think that applies if there’s an emergency. Let’s go and see if Gran needs help.”
Chapter Eleven
G ran has Mitzy, the airhead Airedale, stretched out on the table in the operating room. She whimpers as Gran gently prods her stomach.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I’m not sure yet. She was acting antsy, couldn’t settle down or stop barking.” Gran listens to Mitzy’s stomach with her stethoscope and feels her abdomen with her hands. “She’s got some air in her stomach, and probably lots of food. How much did you tell Brenna to feed her?”
“Exactly what we always feed her. I even wrote it down. You don’t think the puppies brought in an infection and Mitzy got it, do you?”
“Is it dangerous?”
Gran and I turn around. Zoe is standing by the door. She has changed into a black sweatshirt.
“Mitzy here has a bellyache,” Gran says.
“It might be bloat,” I say.
“Could be, but she’s not in that much pain,” says Gran. “Bloat is when a dog gets too much food and air in its stomach. Sometimes the stomach twists, and it can be very dangerous,” she explains to Zoe. “That’s why I want to keep an eye on her. Maggie, help me get her down. We’ll put her in the recovery room. I’ll take an X-ray if it gets any worse.”
Zoe follows us to the recovery room. She kneels by the puppy pen as we struggle with Mitzy. Now, of course, Mitzy wants to sit. She doesn’t want to go into the cage.
“Let me try something,” I say. “Mitzy, lie down.”
“Don’t be silly, Maggie. We don’t want her to lie down,” Gran says. “We want her in the cage.”
“It worked yesterday. She gets things mixed up. Mitzy, come on, honey, lie down!”
Mitzy gives me a mournful look, then steps into the cage. Gran fusses over her, getting her settled in comfortably. I sneak a look at Zoe. She’s leaning over the puppy pen. She’s not picking up any of the puppies, but she’s petting them gently.
I stay with Mitzy for a minute, stroking her nose. “Don’t worry, Dr. Gran will help. You’ll feel better in the morning, just hang in there.” Mitzy thumps her tail once.
Suddenly Zoe gasps and makes a funny noise in her throat. I ignore her. Gran shouldn’t let her in the clinic if she’s going to keep freaking out about little things. I rub behind Mitzy’s ears. “Instead of teaching you how to sit, maybe we’ll just go for a short walk tomorrow. Does that sound good?”
Zoe gasps again. Gran looks up from the notes she’s writing. “Zoe?”
I turn around. Zoe bites her lip. I scramble over to the puppy pen. Zoe points to Dinky.
“It—it’s not breathing,” she says. Dinky is very, very still.
Gran is next to us in a flash. She quickly checks Dinky for signs of breathing and a heartbeat.
“Anything?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“He’s gone, Maggie.”
Bounce. Bounce. Swish.
Bounce. Bounce. Swish.
Shooting baskets in the driveway always helps me feel better, even when it’s late at night. Especially when it’s late at night.
Bounce. Bounce. Thunk. The ball clangs off the rim and rolls into the shadows. Darn. Now I won’t find it until the morning.
“You didn’t bend your knees enough,” Gran says as she steps out of the darkness holding the ball. “Watch.” She dribbles once, bends her knees deeply, and shoots. The ball bounces off the top of the backboard and lands at my feet. No basket.
“You pushed it,” I say. “Use your wrist and follow through.” I pass the ball to her.
I look at the clock. Gran is still down in the clinic. She’s been down there over an hour. Something must be wrong.
“I’m not supposed to go down there,” I tell Sherlock. He lifts his head off my pillow. “But I don’t think that applies if there’s an emergency. Let’s go and see if Gran needs help.”
Chapter Eleven
G ran has Mitzy, the airhead Airedale, stretched out on the table in the operating room. She whimpers as Gran gently prods her stomach.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I’m not sure yet. She was acting antsy, couldn’t settle down or stop barking.” Gran listens to Mitzy’s stomach with her stethoscope and feels her abdomen with her hands. “She’s got some air in her stomach, and probably lots of food. How much did you tell Brenna to feed her?”
“Exactly what we always feed her. I even wrote it down. You don’t think the puppies brought in an infection and Mitzy got it, do you?”
“Is it dangerous?”
Gran and I turn around. Zoe is standing by the door. She has changed into a black sweatshirt.
“Mitzy here has a bellyache,” Gran says.
“It might be bloat,” I say.
“Could be, but she’s not in that much pain,” says Gran. “Bloat is when a dog gets too much food and air in its stomach. Sometimes the stomach twists, and it can be very dangerous,” she explains to Zoe. “That’s why I want to keep an eye on her. Maggie, help me get her down. We’ll put her in the recovery room. I’ll take an X-ray if it gets any worse.”
Zoe follows us to the recovery room. She kneels by the puppy pen as we struggle with Mitzy. Now, of course, Mitzy wants to sit. She doesn’t want to go into the cage.
“Let me try something,” I say. “Mitzy, lie down.”
“Don’t be silly, Maggie. We don’t want her to lie down,” Gran says. “We want her in the cage.”
“It worked yesterday. She gets things mixed up. Mitzy, come on, honey, lie down!”
Mitzy gives me a mournful look, then steps into the cage. Gran fusses over her, getting her settled in comfortably. I sneak a look at Zoe. She’s leaning over the puppy pen. She’s not picking up any of the puppies, but she’s petting them gently.
I stay with Mitzy for a minute, stroking her nose. “Don’t worry, Dr. Gran will help. You’ll feel better in the morning, just hang in there.” Mitzy thumps her tail once.
Suddenly Zoe gasps and makes a funny noise in her throat. I ignore her. Gran shouldn’t let her in the clinic if she’s going to keep freaking out about little things. I rub behind Mitzy’s ears. “Instead of teaching you how to sit, maybe we’ll just go for a short walk tomorrow. Does that sound good?”
Zoe gasps again. Gran looks up from the notes she’s writing. “Zoe?”
I turn around. Zoe bites her lip. I scramble over to the puppy pen. Zoe points to Dinky.
“It—it’s not breathing,” she says. Dinky is very, very still.
Gran is next to us in a flash. She quickly checks Dinky for signs of breathing and a heartbeat.
“Anything?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“He’s gone, Maggie.”
Bounce. Bounce. Swish.
Bounce. Bounce. Swish.
Shooting baskets in the driveway always helps me feel better, even when it’s late at night. Especially when it’s late at night.
Bounce. Bounce. Thunk. The ball clangs off the rim and rolls into the shadows. Darn. Now I won’t find it until the morning.
“You didn’t bend your knees enough,” Gran says as she steps out of the darkness holding the ball. “Watch.” She dribbles once, bends her knees deeply, and shoots. The ball bounces off the top of the backboard and lands at my feet. No basket.
“You pushed it,” I say. “Use your wrist and follow through.” I pass the ball to her.
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