Christopher Ransom - The Birthing House

Luther lashed out in a snapping bark that missed Conrad's hand (the one that had just finished healing) by inches. Conrad scooped up his dog and crouch-dragged him backward, and it was like dancing in a cave with a wet seal. Finally they were clear and Luther stopped fighting and then it was a half-blind spree up the stairs into the kitchen.

He spent half a roll of paper towels trying to staunch the flow before he realized the dogs, in their agitated state, were going to bleed out before he got them under control.

Compared to Alice, Luther looked as if he'd attempted to tightrope walk a fence barbed with concertina wire. Luther's legs and paws were cut in at least six places. The front of his chest just below the throat was a coin purse, and Alice's ear was still hanging halfway off her narrow marbled head like so much furry lunchmeat.

Conrad snatched the keys from the kitchen table, scooped Luther up and bolted for the car. He left the front door wide open and Alice did not need to be told to follow.

He opened the rear driver's side door with one hand and spilled Luther into the backseat; Alice brought up the rear. Then he was behind the wheel, weaving up the street, the blood spattering on the seats and doors and windows and up to the passenger visor as the dogs jumped from backseat to front and back again. He yelled at them to calm down as he blew through the first stop sign and floored it past the Kwik-Trip. He had gone a mile up the old Highway 151 business loop before he realized he didn't even know where the vet kept offices, or if the town even had one.

She answered the door dressed in jeans and a faded Abercrombie tee, and for once his eyes did not settle on her belly. Her face went pale when she saw the blood.

'My dogs are hurt. Can you take us to the vet?' For one agonizing moment he saw the hesitation, that moment of distrust even the best neighbors have before they decide to jump into the scene of impending tragedy. 'Please help me, Nadia.'

God love her, she nodded quickly and followed him.

'You drive while I try to get them under control.'

'Oh, shit!' She saw the inside of the car.

'Yeah. Come on, I don't know where the vet is.'

Nadia stared at the stick shift.

'It's just dog blood,' he said. 'Move!'

'I can't drive stick!'

'Just put in second and pop the clutch when I say go.'

The car rolled down hill a ways. 'Go!'

Nadia popped the clutch. The Volvo sputtered . . . then shot down Heritage Street. Conrad crawled in back and tried to still his pets. By the time they reached the small farmhouse on the outskirts of town - it didn't even have a sign, just a wooden figure of a horse next to the mailbox - Alice had her nose out the window like she was enjoying a Sunday drive. Luther was in Conrad's lap, heavy with a kind of gulping motion sickness, eyes droopy.

'Easy, boy. Easy.'

Fifteen minutes after his wife phoned from the front desk, Dr Michael Troxler came in from the field wearing a pair of muddy wellingtons and Oshkosh overalls over a bright madras shirt. He had a streak of mud on the wire-framed glasses standing over thick gray moustaches. Dr Troxler was at least seventy years old, reeked of manure and moved like an aging linebacker who could still open-field tackle an errant calf.

'What do we have here, young man?' Troxler bent to scratch Luther's head.

'My dogs are cut up,' Conrad said, fighting the urge to scream hurry up you old goat-fucker ! 'I think she's got just the ear cut, but Luther here is gonna bleed to death if we don't do something soon.'

'Okey-doke. Folla me.'

The examining room smelled of alfalfa and medicine. Conrad shot Nadia an evil look - are you kidding me?

'He bite?' Troxler had his back to the table, sorting bottles and syringes until he found the right combo.

'No. He's a good dog.'

'Get him up on the table and hold him. I'm gonna stick him pretty good.'

Conrad didn't know what he'd expected, maybe some doggy version of ER with IVs, latex gloves and scrubs. But Troxler didn't even bother to wash his hands. He just pulled Luther's hackles up with one huge mitt and rammed a large needle into the fold.

'That's not gonna knock him out, but keep a watch on him cause he might feel like falling over. And we don't wanna drop ya, do we buddy?' Troxler patted Luther on the head.

Conrad swayed on his feet as Troxler used a thimble and needle large enough to hook marlin to thread black cord through the many holes and slashes in Luther's legs and undercarriage.

'This breed's rambunctious, got to use the thick stuff.'

When he'd finished with Luther, Troxler said 'Next', and wound his pointer finger in a loop. Conrad set Luther on the barn-dirty floor and Nadia held Luther steady while Conrad heaved Alice up. Alice's turn came and went much faster, having just the one deep cut in her ear.

When he had finished with the sutures and was dabbing the outside of the wound with more gauze soaked in Betadine, the purple solution staining the doctor's thick fingers a morgue yellow, Troxler said, 'They fight like this often?'

Conrad became the defensive parent. 'They don't fight. I think they knocked some mirrors off the walls or something. There was a lot of broken glass when I came home.'

'They get into all kinds of mischief, don't they?'

'Yes. They do.'

'That'll do 'er.'

Despite his earlier misgivings, Conrad felt like hugging the lumbering veterinarian. Even without the usual shaving and sterilizing, all the bleeding had stopped. And the old man's calm through it all had helped.

Nadia led the dogs to the car while Conrad settled up with Mrs Troxler. At the front desk, he thanked the doctor profusely and offered to clean up the blood on the floor.

'Just get them critters home and make sure they drink some water when they come out of their stupor. The one lost some blood, and he's gonna be slow for a couple days. You bring 'em both back in ten days we'll pull the sutures out.'

Mrs Troxler was filling out an invoice. 'What's your name, young man?'

'Conrad Harrison. What do I owe you?' As she tallied the work he patted his pockets. 'Oh, hell. I was so worked up before we left the house, I didn't bring anything with me.'

'No trouble, dear. Bring it by anytime,' Mrs Troxler said. 'And tell your wife goodbye for us.'

'She's not--. Thank you. I will.'

When they were halfway to the house, Conrad said, 'Do you have any money?'

'Twenty bucks or so.' The car jerked as Nadia fought with the stick.

'Stop here.'

Nadia wheeled into the Kwik-Trip. 'What for?'

'I need a drink.'

Conrad was on the TV room floor, leaning against the wall, the remaining half of the Budweiser twelve-pack between his legs. He felt like he'd just passed some test and the beer might as well have been iced tea for all the buzz it gave him. Nadia was sitting crossways on the couch, the dogs sleeping soundly at her feet, as Troxler had promised. Nadia's suspicions and weariness of their ordeal seemed to have vanished. She was smiling more, talking him through it, helping him cool off.

'God, look at them,' he said. 'No idea it happened.'

'We saved them, didn't we?' Nadia said.

'Yeah, we did. I don't know what I would have done without you.'

'When you came to my house you looked like someone died.'

'I thought they were goners. Just fucked.'

'Oh, you're okay now, girl.' Nadia kissed Alice on the nose. 'You're not fucked.'

'I don't know what I . . . I wouldn't make it without them.'

'They're like your children, huh?'

'You have no idea how much.'

'I might,' she said. 'Some day soon, I just might.'

'Yeah, you might.' Conrad sighed, watching Luther. 'I'll tell you this. The woman from the rescue shelter found him tied to a street post on La Cienega when he was seven months old. Ribs like a xylophone, mange, broken leg. He was terrified of the endless honking taxis and banging trash trucks. You could tie a steak to the stop sign, he still wouldn't walk down a loud street.'