say.
âAre they always like this?â Mr. Carlson asks. He has one hand on each dog.
âOnly with the people they like,â I say. âI 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
âThatâs not silly at all,â Mr. Carlson says. âIn fact, it makes sense.â
He scratches Sherlockâs floppy ears. âA strange thing happened to me, right after we were hit. It shocked me, actually. My first thoughts were about Scoutâwas he alive, was he hurt, how could I help him...â
âThatâs not shocking,â I say. âThatâs normal.â
âNot for me, not until now. I had been thinking of Scout as another tool, like a replacement for this cane or my computer. Thatâs not what they taught us at the guide-dog school, but I couldnât help it.â
His cheeks redden. âMaybe that was the real reason I was thinking about returning him. I didnât feel connected to him.â
âThe accident changed that?â I ask.
He takes a sip of water and sets the glass back on the table. âI realized how much he means to me. Heâs not a tool. Heâs my companion.â
Mr. Carlsonâs voice cracks a bit, and he stops to clear his throat.
âHeâs 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 meâthey wouldnât let me walk anywhere until they took some X-raysâbut to feel him near me. I wanted to know he was OK. I need him. I think he needs me, too.â
I canât say anything. What will Mr. Carlson do if Scout dies?
âHeâs waking up,â Gran says from the doorway.
âHow is he?â Mr. Carlson asks.
Gran hesitates. âHe lost a lot of blood, and there was internal damage. Weâre having a hard time getting him to wake up. Iâm afraid he might be slipping into a coma.â
âCome on,â I say, tugging Mr. Carlsonâs hand. Iâve 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 Scoutâs head. He bends close to the dogâs ears and whispers so softly that I canât 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 Scoutâs face, his soft ears, the dark fur that sweeps away from the corners of his eyes.
Mr. Carlson talks a little louder. âCome on, Scout, fight it, come back to me. Weâre a team. I canât let you go.â
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. Weâre losing him.
I remember Mr. Carlsonâs diagram of the chambers of the heart. I think all four of my chambers are breaking.
âScout, come back,â Mr. Carlson pleads. âWeâve got things to do, places to go. I need you, buddy.â
I canât stand it. I look away to where the tip of Scoutâs bushy tail pokes out from under the blanket. Iâm 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.
âIâm right here, Scout,â Mr. Carlson murmurs. âIâm not leaving you.â
The tail swishes back and forth. I glance at the machine. Scoutâs heart rate is up, and his blood pressure is rising.
âLook! I shout.
Gran crosses the
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