Trapped Read Free Page A

turns back to me. “Let’s see,” he says. “We’ll need a chain cutter to get the trap off. And a first-aid kit, and probably a litter to transport the poor guy...Gloves... Something to muzzle him with.”
    He’s thinking out loud. He walks through the shop, grabbing things and handing them to me. Then we head over to the critter barn to get some more supplies. Sage meets us there.
    â€œWhat’s up?” he asks. “I called Dr. Mac. She’ll be ready when we get there.”
    â€œDog in a trap,” Dad says.
    Sage curses.
    Dad doesn’t even blink at the swear word. “Come with us,” Dad says. “We may need help carrying the animal.”
    Our neighbor, Mrs. Piper, comes to pick up Jayvee, and we take off. As we head back down the path into the woods, I look at Sage, trotting next to me. His mouth is a tight line and his eyes are dark and intense. I barely recognize him. He’s not saying a word, but he doesn’t have to. I know what he’s thinking. He is furious.
    So am I. How could someone hurt an innocent animal that way? I picture the dog running along, nose to the ground and tail wagging, happy and free. Then I imagine the sickening snap of the trap, the metal jaw springing closed and clamping around his leg, and the fear the dog must have felt when he realized he was caught. Ugh. I shake my head to clear the image away and concentrate on leading Dad and Sage to the dog.
    When we come into the clearing, the dog doesn’t even move. His eyes are open and he’s still panting, but he has no energy left to react. Sage squats down and shakes his head in disgust.
    Dad moves slowly, gently. He talks to the dog in a low voice as he pulls on his gloves. Quickly, Dad wraps a soft piece of gauze around the dog’s muzzle. That will keep the dog from biting. Then Dad reaches for the chain cutter and slices right through the chain that holds the trap to an anchor buried in the dirt.
    â€œWe’ll take that off at Dr. Mac’s,” Dad says, sighing at the mess the trap has made of the dog’s foot.
    I don’t look too closely, but what I do see turns my stomach. The wound around the trap is raw, and I think I can see bone.
    â€œLet’s lift him onto the litter,” Dad says to Sage.
    The litter is a piece of canvas slung between two wooden rods. Dad and Sage get in position, one on either side of the dog. I stand by. “On my count,” Dad says. “One, two, three.” They lift, I move the litter beneath the dog, and we’re ready to go.
    Dad and Sage carry the litter and I walk behind, carrying the chain cutter and first-aid kit. We’re moving more slowly now, since they have to be careful not to jostle the dog. It seems to take hours to get back to the house, even though it’s really only minutes.
    I open the gate of Dad’s pickup, and Dad and Sage ease the litter into the truck bed. I hop in next to the litter while the two of them get into the front seats. I’m not usually allowed to ride in back, but this time Dad doesn’t try to stop me. He starts up the truck and takes off. We’ve barely spoken a word.
    I study the dog lying next to me. His eyes are glazed, and he’s panting harder than ever. I check the second hand of my watch and try to count his respirations, his breaths. Dr. Mac will need that information. But the road is bumpy and I can’t concentrate. And I know better than to reach over and take his pulse, even though he’s muzzled. I don’t want to make him any more stressed than he is.
    He’s wearing a worn leather collar. It has no tags that I can see, but the collar means he must once have been somebody’s pet, even if he’s a stray now.
    I talk to him in what I hope is a low, soothing voice like the one Dad was using, but I can’t hide how upset and angry I am. “It’s gonna be OK, boy,” I say, even though I’m not so sure.
    He