Fight for Life by Laurie Halse Anderson Page B

into his head. That means he’s dehydrated—he doesn’t have enough fluid in his body. His coat is a dull black, dusted with white flakes. He probably has some kind of skin condition, too.
    Gran works quickly. She uses a stethoscope to listen to his heart and lungs, then feels his abdomen with her hands. She tries to stand him up, but the little pup just collapses on the table. She peers into his mouth and eyes with a penlight. When she turns his head to examine one of his ears, he looks up at me with sad brown eyes. He’s in pretty bad shape. I get a lump in my throat, but swallow it quickly. As Gran says, getting upset won’t get the work done.
    “When did you notice something was wrong?” Gran asks the owner.
    The owner dabs a wet tissue at her eyes. “I’ve only had him two days. I bought him at the farmer’s market on Penn Street. His name is Shelby.”
    When she says his name, the tears start again. I hand her a box of tissues.
    “He was skinny and acted sleepy, but I thought he just needed some love. I went home an hour ago to check on him, and he was lying on the floor. He couldn’t even lift up his head.”
    “Shelby’s a sick pup, no question about that,” Gran says. “I need to get some fluids into him and run some blood tests.”
    “Is he going to be OK?” the owner asks while shredding another tissue.
    “He’s malmourished, and he probably has worms in his intestines. I suspect he hasn’t been vaccinated either. I’ll know more about what’s bothering him after I see the results of the tests.”
    “That doesn’t sound good.”
    “Let’s take it one step at a time. He’ll have to spend the night here. I’ll call you in the morning.”
    The owner runs her hands over Shelby’s back. She bites her lip to hold back more tears.
    “Don’t worry,” I say, leading her out of the exam room. “Gran is the best vet around. She’ll do everything she can to save Shelby.”
    The woman nods, jots down her number, then leaves.
    As soon as the door closes behind Shelby’s owner, it bursts open again. A man rushes in holding a small cardboard box. Twin toddler boys clutch his pants, howling like someone stuck them with a pin.
    Two identical black Lab puppies lie on a blanket in the box, fighting to breathe. They look just like Shelby.
    “Please help us,” the father says. “Something is terribly wrong.”

Chapter Three
    T he father and his wailing twins follow me into the exam room. Gran lifts an eyebrow. She doesn’t mind loud animals, but she can’t stand it when kids cry.
    The father places the box on the table, and Gran looks in. “Take Shelby,” she says to me. “I don’t want him too close to these pups until we figure out what’s wrong with them.”
    I gently pick Shelby up and carry him to the far side of the room. I make a safe, soft bed out of clean towels for him to rest in.
    Gran squats in front of the crying twins. “Hi, guys. I’m Dr. Mac,” she says. “I’m going to try to help your puppies. You can stay in here if you’re quiet. If you need to cry, you have to wait in the other room. Fair?”
    The twins nod their heads solemnly and blink away their tears. Gran is a magician.
    After settling Shelby into his bed of towels, I wash my hands with antibacterial soap. I have the cleanest hands of any eleven-year-old I know. Gran is a fanatic about fighting germs.
    Gran quickly cleans the exam table with disinfectant and dries it off. Then she takes the two little Labs out of the box. It’s like Shelby all over again. The pups are scrawny. Their fur is matted and dull, and their eyes are crusty. The little one is breathing too fast, like he can’t get enough air. Gran asks questions as she checks the pups.
    “When were they born?”
    “I don’t know,” the father says. “I bought them at the farmer’s market last weekend. The boys saw them and fell in love. I didn’t have a choice. The guy who sold them said they were old enough to be