He doesn’t open his eyes or lift his head. I rush over to him—and step in something wet. Vomit. Now I notice the other piles of vomit on the rug. I place my hand on Angus’s rib cage, and feel a surge of relief when his chest rises. I press my fingertips under his armpit, remembering something about that being where you check for a dog’s pulse. It seems really fast, but I’m not sure what a normal heart rate is for dogs.
“Angus?” I give him a gentle shake. When he still doesn’t wake up, I grab my cell out of my pocket, look up the number for the emergency vet clinic, and describe his symptoms. “He’s thrown up everywhere.” I take a closer look at one of the piles. “There are hunks of meat.” I crouch down and notice a tiny white fragment. “I think he ate some pills.”
“Better bring him in right away—and the vet will want to see the pills.”
“He’s huge. I don’t know how I’m going to get him into my car.”
“Can you make a stretcher on a blanket? Or ask a neighbor for help?”
“I’ll try a blanket.” I run into the kitchen, grab a plastic bag, and collect a few spoonfuls of vomit. Then I take a quick check around the house. What did he get into? No cupboards are open. Someone had to have drugged him. Not someone. Andrew.
It takes all my strength to slide Angus onto my homemade stretcher and drag him outside, then down the stairs. I wrench my back trying to lift him into the car. I sprint to my neighbor’s house through the woods. I’m hot and sweaty and frantic. I imagine poison spreading through Angus’s body every second, flowing into his liver and kidneys and brain. I can’t let him die.
My neighbor, a retired schoolteacher named Tom, has a passion for fishing and is thankfully outside installing downriggers on his boat. When he looks up, I shout, “I need help!” over the noise of his tools. He follows me back to my house and we load Angus into my car.
I drive fast on the snowy roads, too fast, but we make it to the clinic ten minutes later. Dr. Langelier checks Angus over, gently opening his mouth, examining his gums, lifting his eyelids. There was a different doctor when I brought Angus in for his post-adoption checkup. I’d felt like she was too young, too unsure of herself, but I’m soothed by this doctor’s snow-white hair, his calm manner and deep voice. My pulse settles and I take some breaths. It’s okay. Angus is in good hands. I glance down at his sweet face. Just get through this, buddy, and I’ll take you for all the walks and swims and car rides you want for the rest of your doggie life.
“Do you know what he got into?” the veterinarian says.
“I saw bits of pills in his vomit.” I hand him my little bag and he surveys the contents. “My daughter and I don’t take prescriptions—and we don’t have any pills like this. He also had hunks of wieners or sausages in his vomit. I think someone tossed them into our backyard.”
“How long ago do you think that might have been?”
“I don’t know. My daughter was home until around one.”
“Did she notice anything wrong with his behavior?”
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to her yet, but she would have told me.”
“He probably ingested the substance in the last couple of hours—it would’ve hit his bloodstream fast. Let’s get this guy in the back right away and get him on an IV and run some tests. We’ll give him activated charcoal to bind what’s in his bowels so it gets passed out.” He picks up the plastic bag. “We’ll see if we can figure out what he was given.”
“Will he be okay?”
“Hopefully you found him in time, but we’re going to have to monitor his kidney and liver function to make sure they aren’t damaged. We’ll give him IV fluids to flush his body and treat his symptoms as they appear. I want to run a CBC—complete blood count—to see if it affected red to white cells, and monitor clotting time.”
I look down at Angus, stroke the soft fur around his neck. “I hate leaving him.”
“We’ll take good care of him. Someone will be in the clinic all night.”
I fight back tears. “He’s such a great dog. He doesn’t deserve this.”
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “Try to go home and get some rest. We’ll call as soon as we know what he was given, and then you can report it to the police.”
“Thanks.” I lean over, whisper in Angus’s ear. “I’ll come back and get you really soon.”
When I get home, I call Parker and tell her what happened. “I know it was Andrew. He’s angry because Sophie isn’t seeing him anymore.”
“I’ll do a trace on his phone and see if he was near your house today. Did you keep any samples from the vomit? Any of the meat pieces?” Parker sounds just as furious as me, her voice tight, but her thoughts are more focused. I feel my grip on the phone loosen. She believes me.
“He threw up everywhere in the house, but I haven’t looked in the yard yet.”
“I’ll come over and check it out.”