Part 2
Dr. Ortiz parted Scout’s fur farther, revealing a smooth blue-gray shape attached beneath his left ear. It was swollen to the size of a small bean.
Ethan leaned forward. “Is that a tick?”
“Yes.”
Claire’s arms went rigid around Scout. “A tick did all this?”
“It might have.” Dr. Ortiz checked his back feet again, then ran her fingers along his jaw and neck. “Some ticks release a neurotoxin that interferes with the nerves controlling the muscles. Weakness can start in the hind legs and move forward. Eventually it can affect swallowing and breathing.”
She looked at the unused syringes on the tray.
“I have enough reason to stop the euthanasia. That is not the same as saying he’s safe.”
The technician returned with forceps, an oxygen mask, and a clippers. Dr. Ortiz removed the tick in one steady motion and dropped it into a specimen cup. Its legs moved against the clear plastic.
Claire stared at it.
Scout had been dying, and the thing responsible was smaller than her thumbnail.
“We took him to three clinics,” she said. “How did nobody see it?”
“He has a dense undercoat, and it was tucked beneath the collar. Engorged ticks can feel like a skin growth if you aren’t looking for them.” Dr. Ortiz’s answer was calm, not defensive. “Right now, blame won’t help him. Oxygen might.”
She fitted the mask over Scout’s muzzle. He tried to turn away but lacked the strength.
“Do you have to shave him?” Ethan asked.
“We need to search every inch. If there’s another tick, leaving it could keep the toxin circulating.”
The technician lifted Scout onto the treatment table. Claire’s hands followed him until there was no room left for her arms. Then she had to let go.
Dr. Ortiz clipped the fur around his neck, beneath his front legs, and along his belly. A second technician examined between his toes and inside his ears. No other ticks appeared.
A pulse monitor was attached to Scout’s paw. The number on the screen climbed, fell, and climbed again.
“His oxygen level is eighty-six,” the technician said.
“What should it be?” Claire asked.
“Above ninety-five,” Dr. Ortiz replied.
She listened to Scout’s lungs, her expression tightening.
“He may have inhaled fluid when his swallowing muscles weakened. I want chest X-rays and a blood gas. We’ll begin IV fluids, but carefully. If this is tick paralysis, removing the tick stops additional toxin from entering his system. It doesn’t remove what’s already affecting him.”
“How long before it wears off?” Ethan asked.
“Some dogs improve within hours. Others continue to worsen before they turn around.”
Scout gave a weak cough beneath the mask.
Dr. Ortiz looked at the technician. “Take him to imaging.”
Claire stepped between the table and the door without meaning to.
“Can I go with him?”
“We need room to work.”
“He’ll think we left.”
“He can hear you from here.”
“I promised him.”
Ethan placed both hands on Claire’s shoulders. “Let them help him.”
The technician wheeled Scout into the hall. The red collar remained on the table beside the euthanasia tray.
Claire stared at the empty blanket.
Ten minutes earlier, she had been trying to remember the exact weight of Scout’s head in her arms so she would not lose it. Now machines were being moved in the treatment area, cabinet doors were opening, and someone called for a breathing tube.
Hope did not feel warm. It felt sharp enough to cut.
Dr. Ortiz returned twenty minutes later with a digital X-ray displayed on a tablet. A cloudy patch occupied the lower portion of Scout’s right lung.
“This is consistent with aspiration pneumonia,” she said. “It’s early, but combined with weak respiratory muscles, it makes his situation more dangerous.”
“You can treat pneumonia,” Ethan said.
“We can. Antibiotics, oxygen, airway care. The immediate problem is whether he can keep breathing long enough for the toxin to release its hold.”
Claire touched the red collar. Scout’s brass tag was scratched from weeks of dragging it through the yard.
“What are his chances?”
“I can’t give you a reliable number. We caught a possible cause, and that gives him a path forward. But he is critically ill.”
A monitor alarm sounded beyond the door.
Dr. Ortiz turned before the technician called her name.
They followed her into the treatment area despite being told to stay back. Scout lay beneath a clear oxygen hood. His sides pulled inward with each attempted breath, but his chest barely expanded.
“His carbon dioxide is rising,” the technician said.
Dr. Ortiz reached for a breathing tube. “He’s fatiguing.”
Claire pressed both hands to the glass partition. “Scout.”
His eyes opened, but he could not lift his head.
Dr. Ortiz came to them with another form and a pen.
“We need to place him on a ventilator now. It will breathe for him while the toxin wears off and while we treat the pneumonia. There are risks, and I still can’t promise he’ll recover.”
Ethan looked at Claire.
This time, neither of them asked the other to decide alone.
“Do it,” Claire said.
Ethan took the pen.
The same hand that had signed the order to end Scout’s life signed the authorization to keep him breathing…
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