Treading Water (3 page)

“What kind of whine do boys make?” David asks.

“A whispery whine,” Dr. Gabe says. “Like this.” Dr. Gabe makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a frog and a pouting toddler. We all laugh.

I continue with a few more duck facts. Yesterday, Dr. Mac, Zoe, and I talked about how ducklings weren't water repellent. I share this information with the others. They need to know about the dangers of drowning for little ones like this.

Dr. Gabe points out that the ducklings are starting to form wings. There is a definite angle or elbow to them. I don't remember seeing that yesterday.

Dr. Gabe leans on the table and looks closely at the birds. “They look pretty good, don't you think, Dr. Mac?”

Dr. Mac says, “They do, indeed. They've made a fairly rapid recovery.”

Sunita shakes her head and asks, “Are we sure they'll be okay? That whatever killed the one duckling won't kill them?”

Dr. Mac looks at Sunita and then down at the ducklings. “We can't be sure, yet. That's why we'll keep them here a little longer. But the one duckling was severely dehydrated. And of course we know it had ingested some plastic grass. The combination was just too much for one so young.”

Sunita nods.

Dr. Mac pats her shoulder and says, “It's always hard to lose a patient, Sunita. We'll be watching the other three carefully.”

Everyone is quiet for a moment. And then Dr. Mac hangs the ducklings' chart up.

“Do either of you know what breed they are?” Dr. Mac looks first at me and then at Dr. Gabe.

I shrug my shoulders. I didn't find out enough about ducks last night to figure that out.

“I'm just taking a guess here,” Dr. Gabe begins. “We won't know definitely until they feather out. But I think they're Pekins.”

“Perkins?” David says. “Like the pancake place?”

“Pe-kins,” Dr. Gabe enunciates. He straightens and leans back. “They're non-native ducks. Naturally flightless. Often sold at feed stores and tractor-supply places. So it's not like they'd be separated from their mothers. They would have hatched in a brooder and shipped. Of course, we can't know for sure yet. But since Dr. Mac found the Easter grass in this one's throat,” Dr. Gabe gestures to the covered duckling and continues, “I would guess somebody bought them for their kids without thinking about the care they would need.”

“And then decided they were too much work and dumped them!” I say, a bit too loudly. The German shepherd with the leg wound barks.

Maggie goes over to comfort the dog. She pets him and says, “Shh, shh, shh.”

Sunita slowly shakes her head. “The people who abandoned them most likely did not know what kind of work they were getting themselves into.”

“That's no excuse,” I say. “They were careless to buy them. And then to dump them! They could have brought the ducklings here. Or the Ambler animal shelter. Or to us. My family would have cared for them. This one did not have to die!”

The shepherd barks again. Maggie sits down on the floor beside its cage and pets him. The ducklings stop peeping. I think I scared them, too.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Well, it's about time to open. Josh, Jules, and Zoe, you're on today. I'll see some of you tomorrow and the rest of you during the week when you're scheduled.”

“Do you want me to stay a little while and file?” Sunita asks Dr. Mac.

“Oh, could you? You wouldn't mind?” Dr. Mac replies. I swear they go through this every week. Sunita offers, and Dr. Mac always accepts and thanks her over and over again. Dr. Mac hates the paperwork part of running a vet office. Sunita loves putting things in order. It all works out.

I take a picture of the remaining ducklings. I thought Sunita would have liked that. But instead, she looks at me curiously and walks out the door.

Dr. Gabe pats me on the shoulder. “I heard your folks agreed to take the ducklings. They look almost ready to go. Couple days, I'd say.”

“We'll be ready,” I say.

“Hey,” Zoe says at the door, “I hear you're doing another talk at the high school. I'll come along and help. Just tell me when. I can hold things up like the game-show girls do.”

Zoe demonstrates by running her hand down the doorframe like it's a prize. She smiles extra big and bats her eyelashes. She kicks her foot behind her and says, “Or I can pass things out, serve refreshments, whatever.” Zoe bounces out the door.

Maggie is petting the shepherd back to sleep. She shakes her head at her goofy cousin. With her pinky and her thumb, she forms a pretend phone and puts it to her ear, mouthing,
Call me.

I nod. But I don't really want to call Maggie when I get home. Because as much as I'd love to have her help me at the high school, I know Zoe will get on and want to talk about helping. And I don't want to have to say one more
I'm sorry
today.

A
t our rehab center, Mom and I prepare a duck enclosure in the critter barn. We haul out a stock tank. It's a six-foot-long, flat-bottomed, oblong basin of galvanized steel. It's about two feet high. This might seem like a lot of room for three little ducks, but they'll need room to grow. We use stock tanks for baby chicks and young turkeys, too. We secure—as best we can—a screen of chicken wire on top to keep raccoons and other animals out.

Mom brushes back the hair from her face. “We'll have to take the ducklings out of this tank a few times a day for exercise. We'll walk them around the barn, but we'll need to keep them clear of our little fox family. We wouldn't want the foxes to frighten them. Oh, and we'll need to steer clear of our raccoon, too.”

We set up a heat lamp but keep it turned off. We put plenty of wood shavings in the bottom of the tank. Mom sets a big flat stone in there as well.

“What's that for?” I ask.

“We'll put their water jar on it. Setting it up higher will help keep the shavings out. A little. They are such messy birds.”

“That's putting it mildly,” I say. “They sure go to the bathroom a lot.”

“A whole lot, plus they're energetic drinkers,” Mom says and laughs. “Come on, we're done here. Let's check on our other critters.”

I follow Mom around the critter barn, cleaning and feeding. We have five bunnies that are not from the wild. More abandoned Easter pets, I'm sure. They all showed up on different days this past week. At least people didn't dump them in a parking lot. But still, what are people thinking? What's wrong with giving your kid a fuzzy toy bunny instead of a live one that they aren't ready to take care of?

We check water bottles and the tiny hayracks for the bunnies to be sure they're filled. The bunnies are so cute. Mom and I pick up each one and handle it. Since they're pet bunnies and won't be released into the wild, it's important that we keep them tame by petting them.

Mom nuzzles the little Polish bunny in her hands. It's a soft gray bundle of fluff with tiny sticking-up ears. “Originally, I was going to take them to the animal shelter on Monday,” she says. “But the manager tells me they're overrun with rabbits right now.”

Some years we've had as few as three after-Easter rabbits dropped off here. And the shelter has been able to take them. But other years—like this one—the shelter has too many of its own and can't take ours. In the past, Dr. Mac has called some of her patient families to see if they wanted to adopt a bunny. I wonder what we'll do this year.

When we're finished with all the animals inside, we do a quick check on the outdoor animals. The fox family appears to be napping. The healing, tail-less raccoon on the far side of the rehab center is also sleeping. Everything and everyone seems A-OK.

We walk by my dad's quiet workshop. He's delivering and installing a whole kitchen's worth of cherry cabinets. He's been working on them for months, and everyone is glad his long hours have finally come to an end. The money will be nice, too. After all, Sage is in college, and college is expensive.

We continue on into the house—it's really more of a cabin. It's cozy and beautiful. I know that when I grow up and have a place of my own, I'll want a cabin like ours.

My little brother, Jayvee, is lying on his belly in the middle of the kitchen floor, partially under a chair. He has a stack of small square papers and a half dozen or so origami dinosaurs strewn beneath the table and chairs. He is roaring so loudly for his dinosaurs that he doesn't hear us come in. I swoop down and pick up the closest one and “Raaarrrrhhh!” at him.

Jayvee startles and bumps his head on the underside of the chair.

“Oh dear, sorry, buddy!” I say.

He stands, blinks quickly, and rubs his head. I think he's trying not to cry.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I repeat. I start to hand him the dinosaur, until I notice that I've crushed it. I must have damaged it when he got hurt. I guess that startled me.

“Sorry. Let me fix it,” I say. I try to smooth and flatten the parts that look like they should be flat, and re-crease a couple other spots.

“You've ruined it,” Jayvee says. He takes it from my hands and refolds.

“You know I didn't mean to do that, right, Jayvee?”

“This is a Dimetrodon. It was really hard to make. You should be more careful,” he says.

“You're right. I was just trying to have some fun with you,” I say.

He looks at me suspiciously.

“Really,” I say. “Looks like you've fixed it. Good as new.”

He holds it up for me to see. It's obvious it's not good as new.

Mom ruffles his hair. “She didn't mean to wreck it. Now, let's get this cleaned up.”

Jayvee shoots me another look.

“Sorry,” I say, one more time. This sure has been a sorry-full day.

“Hey, Jayvee, how about if we set up your dinosaurs outside in the grass and rocks, and I'll take pictures of them?” I suggest.

“Why?”

“Well, if I take close-ups, it'll look like your origami dinosaurs are life-size. You could make a book of them. Or just hang the pictures up in your room.”

“Okay!” He gathers all the paper quickly, and then he gently places each dinosaur in a decorated shoebox. “Let's go,” he says.

Jayvee and I arrange his dinosaurs behind our property in the Gold Hills Nature Preserve. A couple of the fallen logs have prehistoric-looking fungi growing on them. The dinosaurs look great in this setting. The light is dappled, and I am getting some great shots. If Jayvee hadn't forgiven me already, I was sure he would when he saw these pictures.

“Jayvee, can you move that blue dinosaur a bit closer to the fiddlehead ferns?”

“Like this?” he asks.

“Exactly, and maybe bring the pink dinosaur closer to that mint green one?”

“That's a Pteranodon. It's supposed to fly. Want me to hold it in the air so it looks like it's flying?”

“No, that'll ruin the effect. I wonder if we can string it up and hang it from one of these bushes?” We could use fishing line,” I suggest.

“You'd poke a hole in my dinosaur?” Jayvee asks.

“Just a little one. And if we used fishing line, it'd be hard to see it in the pictures. It would really look like it was flying.”

“I don't want you poking holes in my dinosaurs. That's as bad as when you squished my Dimetrodon.” He scowls at me a little.

“Okay, we'll make do.” I am about to suggest that we could perch and angle it on a log so it looks like it just touched down from flying, when through my viewfinder, I see something white and fluffy. Something that does not look as if it belongs in these woods.

“Jayvee,” I whisper. “Try not to move much, but turn slowly, and tell me what kind of little animal is behind your right shoulder.”

Jayvee's eyes grow wide, but he does as I ask. Growing up here, Jayvee is as used to animals as I am. So when he sees it, he quietly answers, “It's a bunny. Not a wild one, looking like that. Fluffy white with blue-blue eyes. It's gotta be someone's pet.”

“Not again,” I say. “We should rescue it, buddy. What do you say?”

Jayvee stays in crouched position and says, “I can probably get it if you go wide around me in case it gets scared and tries to run that way.”

I do as he suggests. I circle wide, keeping an eye on the tiny thing. When I'm in position, I tell him, “Go ahead, Jayvee.”

He moves slowly, and then—quickly. He swoops the bunny up before it even knew what was happening. Definitely not a wild rabbit.

“You have some fast hands there, my man,” I say.

Jayvee beams. He holds the bunny firmly but gently. “Let's take it to Mom.”

“Want me to gather your dinosaurs?” I ask.

“Be careful,” he says. And I am.

Mom examines the bunny thoroughly. Jayvee and I prepare another cage in the critter barn for this new occupant.

“It's a female lionhead,” Mom says. “Certainly not native. And I'd say only a little over eight weeks old.”

“Lionhead?” Jayvee asks. “How do you know? It doesn't look like it has a lionhead.”

“It will,” Mom replies. “See this little ruff between its ears? As it gets older that ruff will extend right around its head. It'll look like a lion's mane. This will be a very cute rabbit.”

Mom puts the bunny in the cage that Jayvee and I have prepared. She gives it a little pat on its head, closes the tiny door, and then sighs.

“What's wrong?” I ask. The bunny's water bottle is dripping a bit. I tap it.

“We are getting overrun by rabbits,” Mom says.

“But they don't eat a lot,” Jayvee says. “Do they?” He looks as if he thinks he's done something wrong.

“No, son, they don't. And I'm glad you found this little girl and were able to catch her. It's just that I thought we were going to have an easy post-Easter census. But it's climbing. One more animal means more work, and there's only so much time in a day.”

“Do you need us to help out more?” I ask. I fiddle with the bunny's water bottle to make it stand up straight. The dripping slows. Then stops. Good.

“You kids have school.” Mom rubs her forehead. “Sage is busier than usual with his classes this semester. We're all just spread a little thin right now.”

“Oh,” Jayvee says. “Do you wish I hadn't caught this bunny?” Jayvee does not look at Mom. He faces the bunny, but I can see his eyes glancing sideways.

“No, no, no,” she says. “I am very happy you were able to rescue her. And we're fine here. We always manage.”

Mom looks at me and smiles a funny smile: half smile, half frown. I shrug my shoulders and smile back at her.

Mom ruffles Jayvee's hair and pulls me into a hug. “I've raised such talented animal rescuers. Hey, I think I have a few oatmeal cookies left in the jar. What do you say we polish them off?”

Walking back to the house, Mom and Jayvee trade job title suggestions:

“Rabbit Wrangler.”

“Bunny Buckaroo.”

“Hare Herder . . .”

Meanwhile, I wonder how I can help Mom and our rehab center. There must be some way to get these bunnies adopted.