Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

“Oh, boy, this is going to be a whopper,” she told Raleigh and Rooster.

Neither dog was afraid of thunderstorms. Sister wondered if fear is inbred somehow, just as some phobias seem to run in families. Then again, they could be teaching one another the phobia.

A crash overhead rattled the glassware. This was followed by a bolt of lightning, which blasted Hangman’s Ridge, three miles distant from the house and eight hundred feet higher.

Here was a thunderstorm of biblical intensity. Two minutes after the strike on Hangman’s Ridge the rain started. Water lashed at windowpanes. Coupled with the thunder, the sound made Sister jump a few times.

Worried, she hurried back upstairs from the kitchen, the old winding wooden steps reverberating underfoot. Once in her bedroom she walked into her closet, spying a fluffy tail hanging out from under the cashmere sweaters.

“It’s all right, Golly. It’s all right.”

“I’m going to die,” Golly cried.

“I wish.” Rooster taunted her, as he followed on Sister’s heels.

Under any other circumstances, Golly would have attacked Rooster.

Sister patted the top of the cashmere sweaters. “You’re safe in here. You just sit tight.”

“I don’t want to die,” Golly shook.

By eleven-fifteen the storm was continuing, but with slower intervals between thunderclaps. Sister pulled on overalls, a slicker, and her green wellies and was in the kennels within minutes. “She all right?”

“Four so far.”

“You go, girl.” Sister smiled down at the lovely hound. “Shaker, I’m going to check the pastures. They all have run-in sheds, but half the time the horses don’t use them in a storm. I don’t get it.”

She grabbed the large flashlight from the kennel office and walked to the first pasture. Aztec, Lafayette, and Matador were fine and, no, they weren’t standing in the run-in shed.

She climbed the fence between pastures and walked toward Shaker’s horses. Gunpowder hung his head.

She walked faster but didn’t run. Animals, especially ones as sensitive as horses, pick up human emotion. If you’re scared, they’re scared.

“Gunpowder.” She stopped before him.

Blood was everywhere. She ran the flashlight over his body until she found a deep wound in his upper inner thigh near his sheath. There was no way to determine the direction of the wound. The rain still came down, and even with the flashlight it was hard to see. She took hold of his halter, gently walking him toward the barn, lifted the kiwi latch on the gate, and got him into the wash stall.

Oh, God, she thought to herself. Don’t let him have a perforated intestine. Please.

She began to wash him with warm water. A spurt of blood rewarded her. She now had a better look at the site. A two-inch hole where the upper leg meets the underside of the animal gushed like Old Faithful.

Gunpowder wobbled.

She ran for the cell in the tack room and dialed Hope’s emergency number at the clinic. No answer. She called the home number.

“Hello,” came a sleepy voice.

“Hope? Sister. Can you get here?”

“Be there as fast as I can.”

She ran back in the wash stall, took a half roll of vet wrap and squished it to make it smaller, wrapped a thin old towel around it, and plugged the hole with her left hand while holding not too hard, above it with her right, to slow the bleeding. If he dropped, she’d never get him in the trailer. It was obvious he needed to go to the clinic, but first she needed the vet here. In a crisis, Hope could stretch out a plastic tarp, knock him out, and operate. But dropping a horse in a barn or pasture can lead to other injuries. That’s why Hope’s padded operating table was sheer genius.

She waited for what seemed forever, praying she could stanch the flow, all the while talking to Gunpowder.

Bitsy left her owlets to watch, and for once the tiny little thing had the sense to keep her beak shut.

Headlights shone through the rain. Thank God.

Hope appeared in the barn twenty minutes after Sister’s call. She must have driven like a madwoman to get there so fast. She removed Sister’s bandages, a second set.

“Good work, you stopped the flow,” Hope said briskly; then, all business, she performed a brief exam. Blood had covered the washroom floor, filled the drains, and splashed all over Sister and Hope.

“Let’s load him. No time to lose. He’s in shock.”

The two of them carefully walked the wobbly big gray out of the wash stall and down the aisle. Sister ran out; the trailer was parked near the barn. She dropped the back walkway. They got him up. She didn’t tie him for fear he would drop during the ride. No need for his head to be yanked up.

Driving as fast as they could in the rain, they arrived at the clinic in twenty minutes.

One on each side of Gunpowder, the women walked him into the operating room. The outside garage door had allowed Sister to back right up to it.

Sister marveled at Hope’s efficiency and skill. It’s one thing to see the vet at your farm for routine checks or small problems; it’s another to see her in a full-blown crisis.

Hope hit Gunpowder with a shot of anesthetic. The big guy went to his knees, both women steadying him so he would go down with the wound side exposed. In a short time he was completely sedated. They stretched him out carefully.

Hope pressed the hydraulic lift, and the operating table came up to waist level. She put on her coat and mouth cover, pointing to Sister to do the same. When she probed and cleaned the wound, a bit more blood came out, but thankfully the major artery there hadn’t been severed.

Reaching in while Sister held the small snake light, Hope irrigated the wound again, checked to see if she’d missed any dirt, and sewed the wound closed.

The major problem now was that Gunpowder was in shock. Hope quickly began to replace fluids intravenously. “Want a career as a vet tech?”

“Be fascinating. You need steady nerves.”

Hope removed her surgical gloves and Sister did the same; then she removed her mask and turned to the older woman. “He’s going to be out for a couple of hours. I’ll sleep in here. When he starts to rouse I can get him into a stall. ’Course, Dan or Lisa might be here by then.”

“How are his chances?”

“Good. I expect there will be swelling, and if there’s too much I’ll take out the stitches and insert a drain tube. I’d like to try to get him through without doing that. I’ve got to keep the IV bag on him for”—she swept her gaze back to the recumbent animal—“well, at least three days and maybe more. And he’ll be on a program of antibiotics for a full two weeks. After that, we’ll see. The last thing we want, Sister, is for this to turn into a full-blown infection. The wound itself is deep enough.”

“Missed his intestines, thank God.”

“Yes. And whatever he got into didn’t shred a lot of muscle. It’s a very deep puncture wound but no ligaments are torn; you know how bad that gets.” She paused. “He has to heal from the inside out, but I’d be surprised if it affects his movement at all. When I probed I didn’t find anything that set off alarm bells.” She exhaled. “I need a cigarette.”

“I didn’t know you smoked.” Sister had removed all her paraphernalia, washing up after Hope finished.

“When no one’s looking.” Hope walked over to check Gunpowder one more time. “You ever smoke?”

“At college and in my twenties; then I gave it up. Every now and then, though, I miss it. Tobacco may be bad for your health, but it’s good for your nerves.” Sister followed Hope out of the operating room and into the small lounge. “Need me to help you roll in a cot?”