"Okay," I say, walking backward, hands out, trying to make a plan. "You warm up. Okay? I'm going to call a vet."
I grab the phone and the phone book in the other room and bring it back to where the dog has slumped down on the floor by the front door. I sit down next to him. He puts his head on my lap. I lean down and kiss his nose. It is black and dry. He shivers.
"Oh, doggy, it's going to be okay," I murmur as I flip through the phone book. There is only one veterinarian listed, but it has an emergency number. I dial it.
An annoying tone comes through my phone. "Your call cannot be completed as dialed."
I hang up. Actually, I smash the phone down because I take my anger out on inanimate objects. Which is better than taking it out on people, right?
I pull in a breath and try to calm down and think. Okay, so I must have dialed the wrong number. I do that sometimes, flip the numbers around. I try again and get the same damn recording.
"Your call cannot be completed as dialed," the computerized voice tells me in a condescending way.
How can something that's not alive be condescending? I have no clue. But it is.
The dog whimpers as I hang up again. I forget about the phone and examine the arrow that's sticking out of his sweet doggy self. It's made of some sort of black wood and has green leaves etched on its thin shaft. It would be beautiful if it wasn't stuck into flesh and muscle.
"Who did this to you?" I whisper.
The dog snuffs out a breath of hot air almost like he's answering. He seems hurt. Really hurt. Anxiety starts to take over, hyping me up like I've had eight cups of espresso. I rub my head. Think, Zara. Think.
I sink my hands into his fur.
The answer comes.
"I'll call my grandmother," I tell him. "Betty will know what to do. She's really practical. You'd like her."
I punch in the numbers to her cell, which I'm not supposed to do. I'm supposed to call Josie. But this is really important, and the amazing thing is, she actually picks up.
"Gram, there's a dog here. He's hurt. Someone shot him with an arrow. I called the vet but it's not going through. And I can't find Nick but his MINI is here. You've got to come home," I rush out.
"Zara, slow down, honey," her voice comes through the phone all steady. "Tell me that again."
I tell her again. As I speak the dog snuggles his sweet doggy head on my lap. He shudders. Oh God.
"He's shuddering," I tell her.
His breath speeds up to something fast and shallow. His eyes turn up to gaze into mine, trusting. He trustsme to save him. For a second I blink back to when my dad's heart attacked him, to when he clutched his chest, crumpled on the floor. I hadn't been able to help him. Who am I fooling? I can't help anybody.
"Gram," I insist. "Youhave to come home."
"I am on my way, sweetie, but the roads are bad. It's going to take me a bit."
"But the dog? He's really really hurt, Gram. And Nick… Nick is missing."
"What?"
"Nick drove me home and we heard something in the woods and then he raced off and told me to stay inside and he hasn't come back."
"And he hasn't come back? But there's a dog there now?"
"Yeah. I went out and looked for him and I heard a man in the woods and he was saying my name."
"Zara!" she interrupts. "Are the doors locked?"
I check. "Yeah. But he's missing and the dog is so hurt and…"
"First, calm down. Take a deep breath. You aren't going to be any help to Nick if you're panicking.
Okay?"
Embarrassed, I take a deep breath and say, "Okay."
I stroke the dog's head. He opens his eyes. Something about his gaze makes me feel calmer and stronger. He trusts me. I can trust me.
"Good," Betty's voice takes a hard, calm official tone. "I have just had Josie dispatch a unit to the house, okay? And I am on my way."
"Tell me what to do."
"First you've got to go wash your hands with hot water and the antibacterial soap. You don't want to cause an infection."
I gently lift the dog's head off my lap and place it on the floor. Stepping around his great bulk, I rush back into the kitchen and scrub my hands.
"Done."
"Good. Get a towel and put some water on it and get the Neosporin. It's in the bathroom cabinet."
I race back into the kitchen and wet a towel and grab the Neosporin. The oven is still on. I don't turn it off. There's no time. "Okay."
"The first tiling you're going to have to do is pull the arrow out."
"Oh, Gram. I don't know-" "You have to. You can do this, Zara. Be strong and steady. I'll be right here."
I stare at the arrow and touch it with my finger. The dog moans softly but doesn't open his eyes.
"I have to put the phone down," I say.
"Go ahead and put it down, honey."
I put it on the oriental carpet on the stairs that are next to the front door. Then I wrap my hands around the arrow. It's thin and hard, cold against my hands. I give a tiny tug. It doesn't move. It doesn't move at all, but the dog shudders and makes a little moan. I swear, my heart is breaking.
Something acidic moves up into my throat.
"You can do this," I tell myself.
I tighten my grip and pull slowly, trying to apply even, smooth force. The arrow fights against me and the dog shivers again, moaning in such a horribly sad way that tears start to tumble down my face. It must hurt so much. I must be hurting him so much.
"Almost there," I say. "Almost done, doggy. You're a brave, brave doggy."
There's this horrible sucking nose and the arrow squinches out, bringing with it a burst of blood. The dog gives a massive shudder and stops moving.
"Doggy!"
He doesn't move. Blood pulses out of his wound.
I throw the arrow out of the way and grab the phone, shoving one hand against the hole.
"I did it but now he's bleeding. He's bleeding a lot. I'm so sorry, puppy."
"That's okay," Gram answers. "Is it squirting?"
"No," I stare at the horrible red blood. "It's slowing down."
"Good, you don't have to apply a tourniquet then. Just apply gentle pressure with a bandage. Do you have a bandage?"
'I think so," I rummage through the first-aid kit, smearing blood all over the tape and the aspirin and the scissors with the funky ends. "Yep. I found it."
"Okay, Zara. Don't worry. The worst is over. I'm going to tell you what to do. When the bleeding slows down, you have to clean the wound with water. If there's any dirt or anything left in there, you've got to dip those tweezers in alcohol. They are in the first-aid kit. Okay?"
She's talking super fast, but I think I'm following her.
"Okay."
"Then you cut away any fur that's near that wound so it doesn't mess with it. Shaving it is better, but that might be too much. Then you put on some Neosporin and bandage it. Okay?"
"Okay."
"You've done a good job, Zara. I'm on my way. The police might get there first, okay?"
"Okay," I swallow hard. I wish she could come home and help me. I wish I wasn't alone. "Thanks. Do you think Nick will be okay?"
"Don't you worry about him, Zara. He's a special breed, that one. And the police will be there soon."
"Thanks, Gram," I say, pushing on the dog's wound.
"You're welcome, honey. Good job. I like it when you call me Gram."
She hangs up and the world is suddenly way too quiet. Special breed? Is that what she said?
I lean down and kiss the dog's cheek, by his jowls. "Are you thinking she means what I'm thinking?"
He moans.
"Looks like it's you and me, guy," I tell him. "But you sleep it off, okay? Do you think you like mashed potatoes?"
The dog doesn't respond. Of course he doesn't. I snuggle against him.
The dog and I are alone. But the thing is, I saved him-with Grandma Betty's help, of course. But I saved him. Me.