“You’re not going to sue, are you?” Tom’s owner asked.
“I’m going to have to report him to animal control. Expect to hear from them.”
“He didn’t mean—”
“Please, just go.” She needed to get to the ER.
Even as that thought gelled, she realized she couldn’t drive herself. She wouldn’t be able to hold pressure on the bite and steer her truck at the same time, and she wasn’t sure how many spurts it would take before she passed out. Besides, she’d make an awful mess of her vehicle.
She let go of her wrist long enough to send Conrad a text with bloody fingers, blood spurting onto her jeans, the countertop, the floor.
Bitten by dog. Got an artery. Need help!
She set the phone down, grabbed more paper towels, and applied as much pressure as she could. Her phone buzzed, but she didn’t dare look at it. Then she heard a siren begin to wail at the firehouse.
There was a definite upside to knowing the fire chief—and having friends who were all EMTs and paramedics.
A few minutes later, Conrad burst through the door. He glanced at the blood on the floor and was there at her side in an instant. He pulled down more paper towels, folding them over and handing them to her. “Do you have a first-aid kit somewhere?”
She pointed toward the bathroom. “It’s in the cupboard there.”
“Keep up the pressure.” He disappeared into the bathroom, then returned with a stack of sterile gauze squares. “I called Hawke. They’re almost here.”
The sirens were on top of them now.
He returned to her side, pressed the gauze on top of the paper towels. “I’ve got it.”
She winced as he pushed down on the bite—hard. “That really hurts.”
“Sorry.” He reached out with one long leg, dragged a chair over to her. “Sit. You’re pale as a ghost.”
“I’m fine.” Okay, so she was a little dizzy, whether from blood loss or adrenaline, she couldn’t say.
“It looks like the dog got your radial artery. What kind of dog was it?”
“A basset hound puppy.”
“Seriously? I hope you’re going to hold the owner responsible.”
“This was my behavioral class. We work on behavioral problems. I do my best to weed out aggressive dogs, and offer their owners private classes or refer them to someone else. I guess this pup slipped through the cracks. It’s not the first time I’ve been bitten.”
It was a hazard of the job.
The bleeding had slowed, but the pain was worse.
How could a simple bite hurt like this?
Hawke hurried through the front door in his turnout pants, carrying an orange trauma kit. Jenny Miller, a member of his crew, following behind him, pushing a gurney. Hawke saw the blood on the floor, too. “Looks like Fido got an artery.”
“Easy does it.” Harrison helped Kenzie up onto the gurney, keeping up the pressure until Hawke took over.
“We need to get you to the ER. They’ll take care of this in no time.” Hawke turned to Jenny, his voice calm and professional. It was the same voice Kenzie had heard him use on dozens of rescues. “Get an IV going in her other arm.”
“An IV? Really?” Kenzie wasn’t a fan of needles.
“Just in case.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “They’re probably going to want to give you antibiotics, too. The IV will save you another stick.”
She turned her head, pressed her face into Harrison’s belly, while Jenny jabbed her in the arm with what must have been an awl. “Ouch!”
