“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jesse asked. “No way.”
I could have picked her up then. I should have. But I didn’t.
It took her another half-hour and maybe her life, but Lucy finally broke the bigger dog. When Tuna went cur and we pulled Lucy off her, Lucy was still clawing to get at the beaten dog.
Tough little bitch. Proud little warrior.
It wasn’t until later, while Jesse counted his money, that the adrenaline went away and Lucy collapsed.
*****
If she pisses, she lives. So I need to get fluids into her system. I take out a plastic bag of saline. I stick it under my armpit to warm it up for a minute. I hook the IV up onto the metal stand. I take Lucy’s leg in my hand and roll my thumb around it until the vein is visible against the bone of the leg. I wipe Lucy down with an alcohol swab. I get the IV needle out. I go to put the needle in. I stop.
My hand is shaking. Dumb animal panic. I stare at it for long seconds. I take a few deep breaths. The shaking subsides. I slide the needle in. I secure it with horse tape. I take the IV bag out of my armpit and hook it to the IV.
Next I give Lucy a shot of an anti-inflammatory drug, pre-measured out for 20 milligrams per kilogram of bodyweight. Next, penicillin, 1cc per twenty pounds of bodyweight. While the fluids go in her, I get back to treating her wounds. I trim the hanging skin to keep the flesh from going proud. I check her mouth to see if she has bitten through her lips. Her gums are the whitish-pink of fresh veal. Better. Not good enough.
I close the wounds. Some bites just get a little powder. I get out the staple gun for the worst of them. They bind the wounds together with a great loud CLICK. Lucy does not wince or whine while the staples snap down on her flesh.
Tough little bitch. Proud little warrior.
*****
I will not let her die. But there’s nothing I can do now. I have to give the fluids a chance to work. She sleeps. I can’t. I watch bad teevee, something with fat people sweating on treadmills. I switch channels. People screaming at each other, throwing glasses, throwing punches. I switch again. The news, nothing but lying politicians and pretty dead white girls.
A knock at the door. I check out the peephole. It’s Jesse. I open the door. A miasma of whiskey-stink comes in with him. He looks at Lucy. He whistles a low note.
“She still living?”
“For now.”
“Do what you can, man,” he says. “She’s hardcore. Me likey.”
“She’ll be a hell of dam,” I say. I’m talking too fast. I never was a salesman. “Let’s breed her with that brindle stud that Lopez has…”
