Page 25 of Butterfly

Sienna is concentrating on typing. “Do you know his weight?”

“One hundred and twelve pounds.” I turn onto Rodney Road. Almost there. What the hell is that car doing? Move, dammit. I take it over, and the burst of speed pushes Sienna back.

She doesn’t flinch. “I need your help in the theatre. Do you think you can cope with the blood?” Her tone is strong and professional.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really. Tyler is out of town, and Jack is somewhere with his girlfriend. I need to know if you’re going to faint because I’m not going to interrupt the surgery to help you.”

“Don’t care. Leave me on the floor.”

She points at a white building with wide windows. “You can park in the rear. We’ll enter through the back door.”

I’m breathing hard by the time we transport Dart inside, using a stretcher with wheels. Not because of the effort—I bench press three hundred pounds in the gym—but watching my dog scared and in pain is twisting a blade into my heart. The smell of disinfectant and lemon polish hits my nostrils when we enter the clinic.

She punches the switches in the theatre. The neon lights flash with their glaring power, and for the first time, I have a clear view of Dart’s neck. The blood soaks his fur, mingled with the caked powder. So much blood. The cut seems to slash him right in the middle of his neck. His droopy eyes are clouded with exhaustion.

“Dart,” I whisper his name just to hear it.

After twisting her hair in a bun, Sienna hands me a pair of overalls and a mask. I put everything on to have something to do, while she opens cabinets and takes out shiny tools and glass vials.

“Come here,” she calls from a sink. “You must clean yourself up.”

We scrub our hands with a stinging soap and hard nail brushes. The procedure helps me calm down and relegate the fear to some corner of my mind. The pungent-smelling soap keeps slipping through my fingers while Sienna scrubs herself with precise movements.

I slide a pair of rubber gloves on and stand next to the operating table. As she gets ready, I stroke Dart’s fur, feeling the warmth underneath. He glances at me, breathing hard, and my chest clenches all over again.

“I’m ready.” She opens his mouth and presses a finger to his gums. Her lips twitch in a frustrated snarl.

“Problems?”

“Nothing I didn’t expect.” In a moment, she clips the area around the wound and his front leg, exposing the pale skin underneath the fur. Then a drip slips into his vein. “If you feel sick, let me know.” Her voice comes muffled through the mask. “There’s a stool behind you if you need to sit down.”

I stand there and do as I’m told while Dart is under the effect of the anaesthesia. At least I can’t see his terrified eyes.

How much time has passed since we entered the clinic? I can’t tell. It seems like hours. A green blanket covers Dart’s body. A square hole in the middle leaves only the wound visible. The view isn’t as disturbing as seeing my dog soaked in blood, but when she uses two L-shaped tools to keep the sides of the wound apart, my stomach lurches. There are damaged muscles, white tendons, and blood vessels, a mess of soft grey tissues that makes no sense.

“He’s been lucky,” she says, twitching a pair of forceps inside the gash. “One inch to the left, and we’d be having a very different conversation now. Hand me that pair of forceps, the long ones.”

I do as I’m told, both fascinated and terrified. “Is he going to live?” My throat is so dry it hurts.

“I had to irrigate away a huge amount of blood to find the correct vein and then to clamp and stitch it. There’s always the risk of infection, but the wound isn’t as serious as I thought.”

“So he’s going to live?” I ask again.

She gazes up from her work for a moment. “He has good chances.”

Not the answer I was hoping for, so I don’t allow my shoulders to sag in relief. Too early. I need to see him healthy and happy again first.

My neck hurts and sweat soaks my shirt as she finishes stitching the wound or wounds. I’ve lost track of how many things she’s cutting and suturing. A hint of nausea sours my mouth at the squishy noises coming from her work. I still have to decide if I can deal with the blood, the gooey tissues, and the smell of antiseptic, or not. A long breath leaves me when the wound is closed, and she removes the blanket from Dart.

“Done.” The focus in her eyes doesn’t diminish though.

I help clean him up from the blood and something pasty-like that sticks to his fur. Bits of glass are nestled in his coat. Even in his ears. We brush his fur and remove the shards with a pair of tweezers and a comb until he’s clean and tidy.

“He’s lucky he doesn’t have any more wounds,” I say, checking his belly.

“He has a bruise here.” She parts the fur to show a dark area on Dart’s flank.

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