A Shiloh Christmas Read Online Free PDF Page B

rub behind the ears, then lift him carefully and pull out the blanket beneath him, put in a clean one and change his water.
    â€œOh no, not you again,” I say when I see the striped tabby hissing at me, cage around the corner. Been in a couple times before, after a fight. “You don’t never change, do you? How you expect to have any friends, you’re so crabby?” And I remember the scratch he left on my arm last time he was in.
    I pass him by and go on to the little kitten, got some kind of stomach sickness, mewing pitifully. Pen’s a mess. “Hello there,” I say, and pick her up, cradle her in my hands. Mews like a little squeak toy, and I rub the side of her face with one finger. Make a little bed for her in a box while I clean up her pen.
    â€œGood work, Marty,” Dr. Collins says when he comes in. Tells me that Chris, his assistant, won’t be in until eleven today. “Could you assist me in surgery?” he asks, and I am at that sink scrubbing up so fast you wouldn’t believe.
    What we’ve got, though, is a turtle—a large terrapin, actually, a land turtle. Dr. Collins says a neighbor brought it in early that morning—found it alongside the road with a cracked shell.
    I’ll bet this happens a lot—people find things and bring them in. Dr. Collins always does what he can, even though the turtle’s sure not going to pay any bill. He turns the terrapin upside down to check it more closely—make sure there aren’t internal injuries—and I help hold it.
    â€œProbably hit by a car, that’s my guess,” Dr. Collins says. “Turtles can’t breathe when they’re upside down, so we don’t want to keep him this way very long.”
    I didn’t know that, but I just nod, and Dr. Collins shows me how to tell male from female. We got a he-turtle here. The crack’s not so thin and fine we can push it back together and brace it, but not so wide that it’ll take fiberglass filler and epoxy to fill it up.
    â€œI think I’m just going to clean it out real well so it doesn’t get infected, wrap it in sterile gauze, and let it heal,” he says. “We’ll keep this fella around awhile and check on him. You could clean out that terrarium back there in the corner, and we’ll make him comfortable.”
    From the time I come in this morning to the time I leave, we have this turtle to mend, a new puppy for shots, a cat to keep for a couple days while her owner goes to a wedding, and a dog with a broken leg. When Chris comes in later—he and Dr. Collins are busy in the surgical room—I get to answer the phone. This is wherethe kind of soft, lazy language we use at home don’t—I mean, doesn’t—work. I know that if I’m going to be a veterinarian someday with a good job, I got to use good grammar, and I better start practicing now.
    Dad comes, picks me up at twelve thirty. We find a Wendy’s and pick up a few burgers, then eat them in the Jeep while we start delivering the rest of the mail. Dr. Collins is always glad to have me, but I think Dad likes to have me along too. He can deliver the mail a lot faster with somebody helping, and I like to think I’m good company. He pulls up to each mailbox along the road, I reach out, open the flap, stuff the mail inside, and we’re off again, hardly even come to a full stop.
    There are some roads I’ve never been on at all way up in the hills. New houses being built some places, old houses that should have been torn down in others; a new little restaurant on one corner, another shop going out of business—my dad knows ’em all. Signs along the way, TURKEY SHOOT, EVERY SUNDAY, 11 TO 3 , says one. JESUS SAVES AND HEALS , reads another. And then there’s WHERE WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY? HEAVEN OR HELL?
    I was thinking of starting a conversation about that last one, but if Dad says there’s a real hell, I