Page 2 of High Density

I prefer getting consent before administering any medications, especially sedatives or anesthetics, because they always come with risks.

“Whatever you need to do, Doc.”

Once the sedation starts taking effect, I quickly don a disposable long-sleeve glove with shoulder protection, and set to the fun task of rooting around the poor animal’s gut.

“I can feel an impaction,” I report, retrieving my arm and disposing of the glove.

Luckily, there is no fluid build-up in her stomach, but I leave the tube in to hydrate her. With the help of the portable ultrasound, I confirm there isn’t anything else going on aside from the impacted stool she has trouble moving.

The fluids will help, as will the pain medication I give her, and after waiting to see the first signs of improvement, I leave Starla in Lucy’s good care. Nature will have to take its course.

Bo walks me to my truck.

“Thanks for coming out, Doc.”

“No problem. Call me if there’s any change for the worse. I’ll check in tomorrow to see how she is.”

I smile and wave as I pull away from the barn, but as soon as I’m out of sight, I grimace with hunger pains. My stomach feels like it’s eating itself.

Rather than driving all the way home to get to my leftover lasagna, I pull into the first place I come across I know has food; Foxy’s Bar. It’s less than two miles from the rescue. I’ve grabbed something here once before, so I know it promises greasy bar food.

Just what the doctor ordered.

It’s not crazy busy, just a couple of bikers sitting at the bar, a few locals playing pool, and only two tables occupied with families.

“Find yourself a spot,” I’m told by a waitress toting a tray full of drinks to one of the tables.

I grab a table near the back. I’m not up for socializing and plan to dine and dash; I’m exhausted.

“What can I get you?” the waitress asks when she finds me.

“What is fast? Food-wise,” I quickly clarify.

“Five minutes for a pulled pork sandwich and fries.”

“Sold,” I tell her with a grin. “And half a pint of whatever pale ale or lager you have on draft.”

“Coming right up,” she promises, before walking straight through what I assume is the door to the kitchen.

As I watch her disappear to the back, I can feel a rush of cool air when someone opens the front door. When I turn around, I’m unexpectedly met by a familiar pair of dark-brown eyes locked on me.

JD

“Are you heading out, son?”

I turn around to find Thomas sitting on the porch.

Thomas is my boss Jonas’s father and old as dirt. I swear he spends most of his days out here on the porch just so he doesn’t miss a damn thing that goes on at the High Meadow ranch. He’s in his nineties and may be frail, but his mind is still sharp as a tack.

My ma runs the ranch house here at High Meadow, and she and Thomas have a special bond. They bicker like siblings, but everyone can see they adore each other. For Ma—who grew up in the foster system—Thomas is more of a father figure.

The old man sits on the porch and doles out his wisdom to anyone passing by—whether you want it or not—and is about as subtle as a two-by-four between the eyes. My mother doesn’t mince words either, so in that respect they’re peas in a pod.

“Yeah, it’s been a long day.”

We rode out early this morning to take a herd to pastures close to the ranch’s boundary lines, where they’ll graze for the summer months. Unfortunately, when we got there, we found a lot of the fences damaged and ended up spending the rest of the day fixing those.

By the time we got back it was almost dark. Dan went straight home, but Jackson and I grabbed some dinner here.

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