Teacher's Pet by Laurie Halse Anderson

say.
    â€œAre they always like this?” Mr. Carlson asks. He has one hand on each dog.
    â€œOnly with the people they like,” I say. “I think they can tell when someone is hurting. And you might think this is silly, but I think they can make you feel better, too.”
    â€œThat’s not silly at all,” Mr. Carlson says. “In fact, it makes sense.”
    He scratches Sherlock’s floppy ears. “A strange thing happened to me, right after we were hit. It shocked me, actually. My first thoughts were about Scout—was he alive, was he hurt, how could I help him...”
    â€œThat’s not shocking,” I say. “That’s normal.”
    â€œNot for me, not until now. I had been thinking of Scout as another tool, like a replacement for this cane or my computer. That’s not what they taught us at the guide-dog school, but I couldn’t help it.”
    His cheeks redden. “Maybe that was the real reason I was thinking about returning him. I didn’t feel connected to him.”
    â€œThe accident changed that?” I ask.
    He takes a sip of water and sets the glass back on the table. “I realized how much he means to me. He’s not a tool. He’s my companion.”
    Mr. Carlson’s voice cracks a bit, and he stops to clear his throat.
    â€œHe’s my friend. In the ambulance, and then in the emergency room, I kept reaching for him. Not so much because I wanted him to guide me—they wouldn’t let me walk anywhere until they took some X-rays—but to feel him near me. I wanted to know he was OK. I need him. I think he needs me, too.”
    I can’t say anything. What will Mr. Carlson do if Scout dies?

    â€œHe’s waking up,” Gran says from the doorway.
    â€œHow is he?” Mr. Carlson asks.
    Gran hesitates. “He lost a lot of blood, and there was internal damage. We’re having a hard time getting him to wake up. I’m afraid he might be slipping into a coma.”
    â€œCome on,” I say, tugging Mr. Carlson’s hand. I’ve seen animals in this situation before. I think I know what to do.
    I lead my teacher down the hall to the recovery room. Scout is lying on a heated pad on the floor, covered with a thin blanket. He still has an I.V. bag connected to his catheter and is hooked up to the machines that monitor his heart and lungs.
    I guide Mr. Carlson to his dog. He kneels down and gently strokes Scout’s head. He bends close to the dog’s ears and whispers so softly that I can’t hear him.
    In the background, Gran and Dr. Gabe talk quietly. They have done everything they can with surgery and medicine.
    I can see only my teacher and his dog. Mr. Carlson smooths Scout’s face, his soft ears, the dark fur that sweeps away from the corners of his eyes.
    Mr. Carlson talks a little louder. “Come on, Scout, fight it, come back to me. We’re a team. I can’t let you go.”
    I glance at the monitor. The heart rate is slower. Scout is nearly motionless, his chest barely rising and falling. Dr. Gabe steps out of the room. Gran studies the floor. The heart rate slows a bit more. We’re losing him.
    I remember Mr. Carlson’s diagram of the chambers of the heart. I think all four of my chambers are breaking.
    â€œScout, come back,” Mr. Carlson pleads. “We’ve got things to do, places to go. I need you, buddy.”
    I can’t stand it. I look away to where the tip of Scout’s bushy tail pokes out from under the blanket. I’m waiting for the heart monitor to stop beeping, the silence that means the end.
    The tail swishes an inch.
    It swishes again, a little more.
    I blink. I rub my eyes.
    â€œI’m right here, Scout,” Mr. Carlson murmurs. “I’m not leaving you.”
    The tail swishes back and forth. I glance at the machine. Scout’s heart rate is up, and his blood pressure is rising.
    â€œLook! I shout.
    Gran crosses the