Chapter 7 - Night Vet
I stayed on the floor with him until the vet came through the side door with a black bag and wet shoes.
Emma had already cleared the utility room off the kitchen. She'd laid down two folded moving blankets and a clean white sheet over the tile, and set the space heater humming in the corner. The room smelled like detergent and damp concrete. It was too bright under the overhead bulb after the low light of the dining hall, and I could see every rib when Bruno breathed.
His head was in my lap. I didn't move it. I kept one hand on the side of his neck where the pulse ran thin and fast, and I tried to match my breathing to his so I wouldn't hold my own breath without realizing it.
"He's here," Emma said quietly from the doorway. "Dr. Patel, this is Mr. Moretti."
The vet was a woman in her forties with her hair pulled back and a rain-spotted coat. She didn't waste time on the room or on me. She knelt on the other side of Bruno and put her bag down.
"Hi, big guy," she said. Her voice dropped low. "Let's take a look at you."
She worked with her hands first. She lifted his lip to check his gums and pressed a finger to them, watching the color come back. She pinched the skin at his shoulder and watched it settle. She listened to his heart and lungs with the stethoscope, then took his temperature. She wrote numbers on a small pad without explaining them yet.
Bruno didn't lift his head. His eyes stayed half open, fixed on nothing. When she touched his paws, he flinched once and then went still again.
"How long has he been like this?" she asked.
"He came out of the garage tonight," I said. "I hadn't seen him in three days. I was told he was gone."
She glanced at me, then back at the dog. She didn't ask what gone meant.
Emma knelt near his hind legs, her hands folded tight in her apron. "His water bowl was empty when I found him," she said. "There was no food."
Dr. Patel nodded and pulled out a bag of fluids and a line. She hung the bag from the handle of a wall cabinet with a strip of gauze and worked quickly, shaving a small patch on his foreleg. Bruno whined low in his throat when the needle went in, and I pressed my palm flat against his chest.
"I know," I whispered. "Stay with me."
He leaned the smallest weight of his muzzle into my wrist. It wasn't much, but I felt it.
The vet taped the catheter and started the drip. Then she wrapped him in the second blanket from the dryer Emma had brought in, tucking it around his body but leaving the IV site clear. She set a thermometer mat beside him and checked the heater distance with the back of her hand.
"He's severely dehydrated," she said, matter-of-fact, not looking up. "And underfed. His temperature's low from exposure. His heart rate's elevated trying to compensate. The skin tenting, the tacky gums, the weakness in his hind end — that's consistent with being locked without water and food for days, not hours."
I heard Emma draw in a breath. I kept my eyes on Bruno's side moving up and down.
"Is he going to make it?" I asked.
"He's stable enough to treat here tonight if we keep him warm and get fluids in him," she said. "But he's fragile. Senior dogs don't have much reserve. The next twelve hours matter."
She showed Emma how to watch the drip chamber, how to check that the fluid was running and not pooling under the tape. She laid out packets of bland recovery food and said not yet, just small sips of water for now. She put a syringe on the counter for later.
"No stairs, no cold floor, no excitement," she said. "If he tries to stand, help him but don't push it. If he vomits, if his breathing changes, if he can't stay awake when you touch him — you call me. I'll be back at six to recheck him."
I nodded. "I'll stay with him."
"You should," she said. She packed the rest of her bag and stood. "You're doing the right thing keeping him warm. Body heat helps. Just keep talking to him normal. He knows your voice."
Emma walked her to the door while I stayed where I was. I could hear their low voices in the hallway, the zip of the bag, the door clicking shut. Then Emma came back with a bowl of lukewarm water and set it down near Bruno's nose.
He didn't move at first. Then his nostrils flared. He lifted his chin an inch off my leg and lapped once, twice. Water dripped off his gray muzzle onto the sheet.
"Good boy," Emma whispered. Her voice broke on the second word.
I shifted so my knees wouldn't go numb and tucked the blanket tighter around his shoulders. The fluid dripped steady in the chamber. The heater ticked. His breathing stayed shallow but even.
Emma sat on the tile across from me, her cap a little crooked now, her cuffs damp. She didn't try to take over. She just watched his face the way I did, like if we both watched close enough he'd stay here.
"We'll take turns," I said. "You sleep first."
May you like
She shook her head. "I'm not leaving him."
I didn't argue. I put my hand back on his side and felt the slow rise under my palm. The night stretched out in front of us — checks every hour, water, warmth, waiting — but for now the drip was in, the room was warm, and he was still breathing against my leg.
