Page 4 of High Density

“Morning, Doc.”

Logan is already feeding the patients when I walk into the clinic.

Although, clinic is a big word for what once was simply a barn.

Doc Evans—my predecessor—converted half of it into a clinic space with a waiting room, an office, bathroom, examination room, and a combined surgical and recovery room. The other half is still a barn of sorts, and it’s where we keep any overnightguests. The old tack room barely holds the full-sized bed we sometimes use when a patient needs closer monitoring.

Logan slept there last night, keeping an eye on a pet goat that was brought in yesterday with a perforated gut. I did the best I could fixing him, but the shard of glass that had pierced his bowel had done quite a bit of damage. Miraculously, the animal came through surgery, but we have to monitor him closely for any signs of infection.

“Morning, Logan. How is our patient?”

“Hanging in.”

I poke my head over the stall door and notice the animal is still pretty lethargic.

“Any sign of fever?”

Logan shakes his head, his floppy blond hair hanging in his eyes. He is one of my assistants, at least he is for the summer until he returns to college in Bozeman, where he is a third-year veterinary student.

“Not so far.”

“Good. Let’s hope he perks up a little over the next twenty-four hours.”

It had been my recommendation to euthanize the animal, given the damage done and the questionable chance for recovery. Surgery would be expensive, and I ended up having to resect a substantial portion of his small intestines. Best-case scenario is the goat will need a special diet for the remainder of his life, or else he’ll have ongoing digestive problems. However, the owners insisted I do whatever possible to save the goat, since their nine-year-old daughter is very attached to him.

Hey, I wasn’t going to argue with them, but I won’t stand by and watch any animal suffer unnecessarily. If he starts going downhill, I will strongly urge them to put him down.

“How did he end up with glass in his bowels anyway?” Logan wants to know.

I’m curious myself. I know there’s a preconceived notion out there that goats will eat anything, and I guess some of them eat weird stuff, but I can’t see one picking up a piece of glass and eating it. Unless, it was stuck inside food of some kind.

“I asked the owners to look around his pen, see if there are any broken light bulbs, make sure there is nothing in his feed, but I haven’t heard anything yet.”

“I don’t think that glass came from a broken lightbulb, it was too thick for that.”

He probably has a point. It was more the thickness of a clear bottle or a mason jar.

I do a quick check on our one other patient; a shepherd mix found on the side of the highway, probably hit by a car. She’s not microchipped and I don’t know her. I had Frankie—my full-time assistant—contact the other two small animal clinics in town to see if they were familiar with the dog, but no one knows who she is.

It’s possible she was actually tossed from a car. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. For whatever reason, some idiot owners think that’s a valid solution when they can no longer keep the animal, instead of dropping it off at a rescue or even a clinic like mine. I don’t run a rescue, but I wouldn’t turn my back on an animal. Most people here in Libby know that.

She seems to be a sweetheart. Her tail is wagging when I sit down in the straw with her. The poor thing looks like she was dragged a ways, with deep abrasions along one side of her body. She also suffered a broken hind leg, some cracked ribs, and a fractured orbital bone. She must be in quite a bit of pain but still manages to be loving to anyone who gives her attention.

“Do we have a name for her yet?” Logan asks, hanging over the stall door.

“I don’t know. What does she look like to you?”

“How about Ginger? She’s got a bit of a reddish coat,” he suggests.

“Yeah, we can call her Ginger. Do you like that name, girl?”

Her tail wags even faster at my voice.

“Let’s see how she does eating, and maybe after try to coax her into a little walk outside.”

“Will do.”

I get up and brush the straw off my butt, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s the High Meadow Ranch number.

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