Lying on his side, torn, shredded, was a blue-gray pit. Breathing shallow, blood . . . so much blood. Eyes mostly rolled back, but still aware.
Without knowing what I was doing or a thought to the consequences, I climbed over the plywood railing, landing next to the dog. He was in such bad shape that he didn’t even flinch, which meant he needed help fast.
Tearing my sweatshirt off, I wrapped him as best I could, and struggled to lift him. As he whimpered once more I began to talk to him, and to myself. “Okay, buddy, let’s get you some help, okay? Come on, sweet boy, let’s get you out of here.”
He weighed at least fifty pounds, and as carefully as I tried to balance him in my arms, he slipped a few times, making me readjust my carry. He whimpered each time, and it was taking everything I had not to lose it.
I kept talking to him as I moved through the warehouse, not seeing the blood trickle down onto my legs or seep into my tank top, not seeing the other dogs that were still barking and pulling at their chains. I kept my eyes on the eyes staring back at me. I was undoubtedly hurting him—didn’t they always say when someone is really hurt, don’t move him? But I couldn’t help it; I couldn’t leave him there. I needed to do something, anything.
I could hear the sirens approaching as I made it out to my car. I knew the other dogs would be okay, and I’d be at animal control the very next morning lobbying for every single one of them—the ones that were still alive—and I’d bring all of them back to my ranch.
But right now I had this guy in my arms, and I was going to take care of him myself. Not even bothering with the cage, I managed to get the SUV’s front passenger door open and pull a blanket from the backseat. Setting him down carefully, still wrapped in my sweatshirt, I made him as comfortable as I could, and then I drove like a bat out of hell for the Campbell Veterinary Hospital.
Five minutes before we got there, he stopped whimpering. One minute before I pulled in, he stopped breathing. Screeching into the parking lot, I pounded on my horn, taking up the two emergency spots by the entrance. Miguel saw me through the glass door and immediately ran out to help.
“Get Lucas! Right now!” I yelled, running around to the passenger side.
“Do you need some help with—”
“Just get him!” I leaned across the dog, who still wasn’t breathing. I tried shaking his collar, to get a reaction—nothing. Just limp. “Come on, come on, sweet boy, we’re here.”
I picked him up like he weighed nothing and ran into the waiting room, searching, looking for . . . there he was, coming out of the back room with Miguel hot on his heels. His face went white when he saw me, wild, covered in blood and shit and now tears, because he wasn’t fucking breathing anymore!
“Chloe, what happened to you—”
“Lucas, you need to do something, you need to do something! I can’t, he can’t, you need to do something, he’s not—” I rambled, tripping over my words as I held the dog close.
“Miguel, tell them to set up in the OR and clear exam one. And tell my father to meet us in there,” Lucas directed, guiding me toward the exam room. He slipped his hands under the dog’s head, cradling him as he took him from me and laid him on the table.
“He was . . . there was this compound . . . outside of town . . . and I got this call and . . . so many dogs . . . and then I heard . . . in a ring . . . and he was crying, and I got him . . . I got him out . . . but then he . . . he stopped—”
“Honey, I need you to breathe, okay? You did so well, but I need to listen to this guy now, okay? Shhh, Chlo, shhh. You did great,” Lucas said, his voice soothing, moving swiftly around the table, talking fast now to Miguel. My sticky hands clenched open and closed as I watched Lucas begin to do CPR, listening to his chest, trying to clean off some of the blood. Bite marks, gash marks, all along his flank, the side of his mouth was torn, and . . .
Marge was pushing me down into a chair, handing me a Dixie cup as I watched them wheeling the dog down the hall, Lucas and Miguel and his father. They disappeared behind a swinging door into a room where there was a stainless steel table and some bright lights and instruments and . . .
I threw up all over my shoes.
“Oh, sugar,” Marge murmured, and handed me a towel. I wiped off my mouth, and she held me against her. And we waited.
Blunt-force trauma to the head. Heavy blood loss and internal hemorrhaging. Multisystem failure. Dead.
I stayed until they finished working him over. I stayed while Lucas and his father filled out a report to file with animal control. I stayed while Lucas finished up the last little bit of his shift—and then I stayed the hell away from my SUV. Even walking by it with Lucas guiding me through the parking lot, I saw the crazy parking job, the bloodstained blanket on the passenger side, and I let his hand in the small of my back tell me where to go. His truck. My house.