I snap on a pair of gloves. “I’m going to do my best.” Her little face crumples with concern, and I glance at Joy, silently asking for permission to let Evie participate. She nods. “Would you like to help me, Evie?”
“Can I?”
I smile at her eagerness. “You may. Grab that bowl and fill it with water. Small bowl, not toofull.”
She nods and darts off.
Joy leans against the counter, arms crossed, her eyes following Evie, making sure she manages her task safely.
“Whose dog is this?” I ask.
“Don’t know. But if I find out who treated him this way….” She shakes her head. “Found him behind the shop. Looked like he’d been there a while. Skittish.”
I run a hand down the dog’s leg, tracing bone, feeling the tremor in his muscles. “He’s dehydrated, underfed…used rough. Old scars, fresh bruises. No broken bones, though.”
Evie returns, sloshing water onto the floor, but sets the bowl carefully by the table. The dog lifts his head, tongue flicking weakly.
“Thanks, Evie. Now—see those rolls of bandages on the shelf? Hand me one.”
Her little boots squeak as she hurries over. She beams like I’ve just given her the most critical job in the world.
Joy watches, smiling. “She’s smitten with you.”
I laugh softly as I check the raw skin along the dog’s flank. “She’s a natural caretaker. Cade must be proud.”
Joy rolls her eyes, tucking her hands into her designer jeans pockets. She dresses like a rancher, but only if you squint—silk blouse, polished boots, curls usually loose around her shoulders. Today her hair’s tied back.
“That man’s wound so tight he squeaks. But his girl is pure sunshine.” She ruffles Evie’s hair.
I check the dog’s gums—slow capillary refill. He’s dehydrated and malnourished. Whoever owned him before is a bastard.
I clip the fur back from the worst wounds, the shears buzzing low, and Evie leans in, fascinated. The smell of infection rises sharp, and my chest aches for the poor creature.
He’s a scrappy little mix, ribs showing. One ear flops, the other sticks up, leaving him with a crooked, curious look. His eyes are what hold me—soft despite the fear and pain. A scar slashes his muzzle, half-healed, and his paws are too big for his thin frame, like he never grew into them.
He’s all rough miles and scars. But even weak, even hurting, his tail gives a faint twitch whenever Evie chirps at him, like he wants to wag but can’t quite manage it.
“Alright, buddy, I’m gonna clean you up, now.”
I flush the lacerations with warm saline, the pink runoff pooling in the tray. He trembles but doesn’t resist. Tough little soul.
I scrub gently with antiseptic until the wounds are clean, then reach for antibiotic ointment.
“Now the good part,” I murmur.
Evie giggles when the dog licks at my glove, and I grin despite myself. Hurt, yet still trusting.
I spread ointment, lay sterile pads, and wrap each wound with fresh white bandages—snug but not constricting.
Evie hovers, eyes wide. “How do you know how to help him, Dr. K?”
“Years of practice.” I tape off the last bandage. “Pain meds next. Animals heal faster when they aren’t hurting,” I explain for her sake, drawing up the syringe.
I set up an IV, sliding the needle under loose skin at his scruff, taping it in place. A bag of fluids hangs, dripping life back into him. I add a broad-spectrum antibiotic, then stroke the dog’s ear until the tension eases out of him.
By the time I’m done, his eyes are half-lidded, his breathing even. We spread a blanket on the floor, and I lower him down, tucking his paws close.
Evie crouches immediately, whispering nonsense into his ear, her hand is gentle on his back. His tail gives a barely perceptible thump against the blanket.
