I knelt. “It’s okay, Bill.” My fingers found a spot behind his ear that seemed to elicit calm.
I looked up at the firefighter. “This is her service dog.” I gestured toward the ambulance. “He needs to stay with her.”
Sybil hadn’t shared that with me, but it was obvious. Bill had a certain way about him that wasn’t your average pet.
I looked at her townhouse—or what was left of it—and saw flames gutter under the gallons of water pouring in from all sides. Soot blackened the top two floors, the roof gone. Her townhouse must not have sprinklers, which many of the historical townhomes in New York still weren’t required to install.
“Nash!” I heard my sister’s voice, and my head oscillated in that direction. She was running toward me, her hot pink robe fluttering around her, and fuzzy slippers soaking up the wet ash.
Despite the disaster, firefighters looked at her far longer than they should have. I suppressed the need to let my already growing anger boil over.
She reached me as I stood from a crouch. “Nash, is she okay?” she panted.
Without words, I pointed toward the EMT. They were now loading her into the ambulance. I took Bill from the firefighter, motioning that I was taking him to Sybil. The firefighter allowed it. Bee pulled me in that direction.
“Wait!” Bee yelled before the EMT shut the door. “Her dog needs to be with her! Service dog!” she added.
The EMT took one look at Bill, then at me. “You’re coming too. I can’t handle a dog in here by myself!”
Bee urged me forward, and I climbed in. Bill went immediately to Sybil’s side, trying to lick her hand through the muzzle. I sat to the right, squeezing Bill between my knees before unlatching the muzzle and removing it. It clattered onto the floor of the ambulance.
Reaching out, I wrapped my hand around Sybil’s slight wrist, wanting to feel her pulse. The sleeve of Sybil’s sweatshirt was loose and large, her pulse a rapid flutter.
As the doors of the ambulance slammed shut, I watched the cat lump on her stomach move. Mr. Beans took advantage of the large sleeve, crawling up her arm and toward the frayed opening at her wrist. I could see his eyes glowing in the darkness—large and round.
“Does the cat like you?” The EMT asked in a stern, loud voice.
I didn’t know what to say. I shrugged.
She looked away. “Cats don’t like anyone, especially me.” She was adjusting some tubing. “What’s the patient’s name?” she asked.
“Sybil,” I yelled over the siren, the ambulance now moving.
She nodded. “Let’s see if we can get Sybil out of this sweatshirt, and trap the cat inside. Will you help?”
I nodded.
“Great, take the sleeve, and I’ll try to slide Sybil’s arm out. Try to keep the cat in the sleeve.”
I did as she instructed, easily fitting my hand over the terrified little body and holding him there as the EMT slid her arm out. She then slid Sybil’s arm out the other side and pulled the sweatshirt up and over Sybil’s head.
Cat scratches covered Sybil’s arms, but a tank top protected her stomach and chest. With my other hand, I caged the cat in the sleeve, rolling the end down until his fluffy tricolor head popped out. I wrapped the sweatshirt around him like a swaddle, hoping to both calm and restrain him.
“Hey Mr. Beans. It’s okay,” I tried to soothe.
I didn’t know the first thing about cats. He hissed at me, his chest rumbling under the fabric. I held him against me, his head trying to find refuge under my arm; I let him.
Bill bumped his nose against the bundle, licking it with affection before turning back to lick Sybil’s hand again.
“What’s the service dog for, sir?” The EMT asked.
“Anxiety,” I replied.
She nodded. “Makes sense. Her blood pressure is elevated, and her heart rate is pretty high. She likely passed out from panic. It’s a good thing her cat burrowed in with her or we’d have missed him, I’m sure.”
I nodded in agreement.
“When we get to the hospital, I’ll call a vet to come checkthem both and bring a kennel for the cat.”
