James Smith - Hybrid

“Come back, Rusty!” he called out as he followed the dog. Bat in hand, he came upon the path he’d taken many times when walking Rusty and taking the kids on a hike. The dog had disappeared; he had never taken off like that before.

Rusty’s unmistakable barking arose again, fifty yards or so ahead. Dieter jogged deeper into the woods, moving off the path toward the bark. He pushed aside tree branches and ran through knee-high grass as tree limbs and thorn bushes scratched his face and arms. He paused to catch his breath.

Rusty was gone. He knew the dog would likely make his way back home, but he couldn’t be sure. How would he ever explain this to the kids? It was stupid to let the dog out when something strange was around.

A bark came from the distance, followed by a yelp. Then another bark… growling… a shriek. Bellowing Rusty’s name, he sprinted in the direction of the gut-wrenching sounds as briars tore at his shirt and neck.

His flashlight caught two glowing eyes that grew brighter when he approached. Rusty lay half-buried in a deep thicket by a scrub oak—blood covered his shoulders and belly. Dieter rubbed his hands through the soft coat until he located puncture wounds and abrasions near the throat and upper back. He stripped off his shirt and wrapped it around Rusty’s neck and shoulder, tying it firmly to stop the bleeding.

The dog’s eyes were open, but his breathing had stopped. Dieter placed his fingertips against the chest near the sternum and picked up a feint heartbeat. He quickly opened Rusty’s mouth and pulled his tongue and jaw forward. Closing the dog’s mouth again, he cupped his hands over the nose and gently blew into it, twisting his head to watch Rusty’s chest rise and fall.

An eternity passed until Rusty began to breathe on his own. Dieter then cuddled all sixty pounds of fur and muscle in his arms and headed for what was his best guess as the direction of the cabin. Everything from that moment on was a blur. He acted only on instinct as he ran, occasionally stopping to lay Rusty down in the weeds and stretch his aching arms. When he finally found the familiar path, he jogged without stopping until he reached the cabin. He carefully placed Rusty upon the woven throw rug on the living room floor and grabbed a clean shirt from the bedroom closet.

After he awakened Michael and Megan, they gathered around their pet. Tears filled Michael’s eyes while Megan bawled as Dieter explained that Rusty was attacked by some kind of wild animal, but he would make Rusty okay again. That was a promise. They’d have to come along with him in their pajamas to the clinic. No time to change.

Thank God Amy was at her bungalow in town. After receiving the startling call, she was waiting for them when they arrived at Dieter’s clinic. Michael and Megan huddled with her in the reception area as Dieter prepared Rusty for surgery. He hung a bag of Ringer’s on a stand beside the table and adjusted the drip, then injected a morphine epidural followed by a brachial plexus nerve block. Palpable hematomas had formed beneath the skin, so he stuck a catheter into a vein then carefully shoved the intubation tube down the trachea and connected the dog to the anesthesia circuit.

After Rusty went under, he cut away the blood-soaked shirt he’d wrapped around him. Puncture wounds on the scalp penetrated into the skull and throat—possibly only the tip of an iceberg of damage. He clipped the fur from around the neck and flushed the wound with sterile saline and surgical scrub. As he sewed up the deep lacerations, he kept palpitating the area. With a sigh of relief, he could find no severed muscles or tendons. Someone on High had to have been looking out for Rusty.

The surgery lasted thirty-five minutes. Afterwards, all stood watching Rusty as he lay sleeping on the table. Packed red cells hung from a clear plastic bag above him and flowed into a vein. A clean bandage was around his neck; his breathing, rapid and shallow. Dieter had no idea how much blood the dog had lost, but it would take at least twenty-four hours to see if he had a fighting chance.

Dieter placed both arms around Michael and Megan and reassured them again that their dog was going to be okay. If it turned out he was wrong, he’d deal with it then, but he couldn’t bring himself to leaving any doubts in their minds. Right or wrong, there was no way he was going there.

After the kids reluctantly agreed to return home, Dieter gave them another extended hug while Amy gently squeezed his shoulder. When they were gone, he pulled up two chairs beside the table for a makeshift bed and lay down, trying to remember how long it had been since he’d prayed.

Thenext morning Amy had to knock twice before Dieter made it to the back door of the clinic. She thrust in his face a large coffee and fast-food bag with the aroma of breakfast as she made her way to Rusty’s cage. An antibiotic dripped from an IV into a vein in the dog’s front leg. She leaned down and stuck two fingers through the wire and wiggled them as she whispered to the dog. Rusty didn’t move, but his eyes lit up as he quietly whined. She straightened up and wiped at her eyes.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” she asked.

He brushed back his hair and stifled a yawn. “I’m sure I dozed a few times.” He toasted her with his coffee cup. “You didn’t have to do this, Amy.”

“Rusty is going to make it, isn’t he?”

“I did a blood check this morning,” Dieter said. “His white count is going down. A lingering infection is my biggest concern. But I just can’t tell how much trauma there was to his vitals.” He opened the bag and unwrapped the fried egg sandwich. “I’m taking Rusty up to the Livingston vet hospital today. I’ve already talked with them. They’ll keep him this weekend and check him out. Could you take care of the kids after school today?”

“Of course. You look terrible. How do you shower around here anyway?”

“Where there’s running water and a sink, you can always make do. How are the kids?”

“They stayed up too late and this morning. Megan couldn’t find her art bag again, but we got to school with a minute to spare.”

“How late were they up?”

“Maybe past midnight. They were both more upset than I’ve ever seen them, Dieter. They needed to talk. To talk about what they saw and how they felt.”

He paused and took a bite of his breakfast as she sat watching Rusty.

“Have you heard the news yet about the hiker’s death?” she suddenly asked.

He spoke as he chewed. “I picked it up on the radio but really didn’t know what to make of it. They said it was a Grizzly attack?”

“Pay no damn attention to the radio. They got it totally wrong.” She explained that the Judge had called her and given her a rundown on what he’d learned from Molly. She told him that a wolf had stalked the hiker. It charged and brought him down. Brutally killed him on the spot. It was no Grizzly attack.”

“How did Molly find out about all of this?”

“The Judge said she’d gone looking for a missing woman—turned out to be one of the Loudermilk women from Duck Creek. Evidently she was hiking with the victim. Molly found her clinging to a branch high up in a tree.”

Dieter closed his eyes and rammed his head into the back of his chair.

“Is Michael still going on the Scout Camporee tomorrow?” she asked.

Exactly what he was thinking about. “Believe me, Amy, I’ve been tossing this around in my head since Michael signed up for it. But I keep thinking how torn up he is over Rusty. And if I called this off on him as well…”

“Where’s the outing taking place?”

“Center of the Park. Indian Creek campground, between Norris and Mammoth.”