Deciding I needed to block out the distraction of the gurgling creek water tumbling over rocks toward the lake, I stood as still as a statue and took several calming breaths. Then I let my gaze sweep slowly over the grass and leaves, as far to the right as I could see, then to the left where a fence separated Tom’s yard from his neighbor’s, then to the right again.
Fear rose again to take a choke hold on me. I felt paralyzed. Dashiell lay, unmoving, maybe twenty feet away on the steeper bank leading to the creek.
He couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t.
I crept toward him, whispering, “Dashiell, baby. It’s Jillian. Are you okay, buddy?”
No response. Even when I knelt and stroked his head, he didn’t move. I lifted his limp body and held him close, willing him to be okay.
He was not okay. But despite the cold air, he felt warm. I remembered Tom’s description of the first time he knew something was wrong with his cat. He’d found Dashiell unconscious.
I moved his paw aside and pressed my hand on Dashiell’s chest.
And smiled.
I felt his heart beating. Felt the rise of his abdomen as he breathed.
I unbuttoned my jacket, carefully tucked him close to me and raced back to the house. Bob was still standing in the doorway, watching me with what appeared to be amusement.
I ran through the living room into the kitchen. The syrup was sitting on the counter next to the scrawled note Tom had left for his neighbor.
I laid the nearly lifeless cat on the counter and opened the syrup bottle. Then I stopped for a second to think this through.
Tom’s words came back to me: “You can never be sure with Dashiell. He can pass out from low sugar or be halfway to a coma because his blood sugar is too high.”
If I used the syrup and his sugar was high, I could kill him.
I sensed Bob’s presence behind me. Standing way too close. “Please leave us alone,” I said through clenched teeth.
He backed up and said, “Sure. Just like seeing you playing cat rescuer. It’s kind of sexy.”
Ignoring him, I glanced around on the cream ceramic tile counter, looking for the black leather case holding the equipment to test Dashiell’s blood sugar. There, an arm’s length away.
With shaky hands I removed the small blood sugar meter, picturing how I’d seen Tom test Dashiell. There were little needles and a cleansing pad inside the case. Like I’d remembered Tom doing, I cleaned the outside tip of Dashiell’s ear and stuck him with a needle. I winced when the small drop of blood appeared, but Dashiell didn’t even twitch.
At first I put the test strip into the meter the wrong way, but finally got it right and the digital display appeared. I pressed the test strip against that tiny bit of blood. The meter beeped and after a few seconds the display showed the number twenty.
I swiped my index finger around the inside rim of the syrup bottle. Then I rubbed the sticky stuff along Dashiell’s gums and repeated this about three times.
Slowly, Dashiell’s eyes opened.
He blinked and tried to meow, but no sound came out. I decided another dose of syrup couldn’t hurt, so I repeated the gum rub. Then I gathered Dashiell into my arms again, picked up the Karo bottle and hurried out of the house, passing the man with the stupid smile.
I’d called Mercy’s only vet as I sped to his office. The white-haired Doc Jensen met me in the waiting area and immediately took the half-conscious Dashiell from my arms. He headed through a door to the back of his clinic. Tom’s cat was in expert hands now and I felt my shoulders slump in relief.
“Where’s Tom?” the receptionist, Glenda, asked.
She was a fairly new employee, always cheerful—a caring, sweet lady with highlighted hair who wore colorful, pet-themed scrubs and always had manicured nails with painted-on paw prints.
“I—I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’ll pay, if that’s what I need to do. I left my purse in my van.” I started toward the exit.
“Wait, honey,” Glenda said. “You don’t have to be concerned about money now. First we have to get our Dashiell shipshape. Then we’ll think about the bill. I was just wondering why Tom couldn’t come. Work, I suppose.”
“Yes,” I muttered. “Work.”
Maybe that’s all his absence was about. A PI or a security installation job outside of Mercy. But he left without fully explaining to Kara? Nope. He wouldn’t do that. The worry, temporarily replaced by Dashiell’s emergency, settled into the pit of my stomach again.
I sat down on the built-in Formica benches lining the wall and realized for the first time that Martha, the owner of Mercy’s quilt shop, the Cotton Company, sat in a corner with a quilt square in her lap. She was appliqueing what looked like a Baltimore Album flower. An empty pet carrier sat on the tile floor next to her.
“Hi, Martha,” I said.
She looked up and her kind smile relaxed me at once. “Hey there, Jillian. Didn’t see you come in. I was so engrossed in my stitching they could have dropped a bomb in the parking lot and I wouldn’t have noticed. Did you sell a lot of kitty quilts on your trip?”
“Yes—but is Crazy Quilt okay?” I glanced at the carrier. She’d recently adopted another calico cat fittingly named Crazy Quilt not only because of her wildly patterned white, gold and black fur, but because she’d been known to shred bolts of fabric in minutes—that, and tear other things to bits. Crazy Quilt never visited Martha’s shop anymore.
“Crazy’s had her teeth cleaned and I’m waiting to pick her up. But where are
I smiled, almost forgetting my distress. Almost. “I brought Tom’s cat in. He’s sick.”
“Ah. Tom left town in a hurry and I guess he’s not back. You watching Dashiell, then?” She refocused on her handwork.
“Sort of,” I said, surprised. “How did you know Tom left in a hurry?”
“Saw him in his cute little car racing down Main Street a couple days ago. Had some man with him. Thought surely he’d get stopped for speeding.”
“Do you remember what time you saw him?” I asked. Urgency colored my question and made Martha look up from her work.
She cocked her head. “Something wrong, Jillian? You seem… upset.”
“Just worried about Dashiell,” I said. “You say Tom was speeding. What time of day?”
“I was walking down Main Street to get my morning fix at Belle’s Beans. Always buy my coffee right before the quilt shop opens. Tom didn’t even wave. Not like him to be impolite.”
“No… not like him at all,” I murmured. I shouldn’t have been surprised she knew more than I did. This was Mercy, after all. Small-town America doesn’t need the Internet or Twitter to get the word out.
Doc Jensen’s vet tech, Anthony, appeared and waved to Martha. “We’re gonna need your carrier, Miss Martha. And your help, I’m thinkin’.”
Martha planted her needle in her quilt square, folded her work and put it into her bag. Carrier in one hand and purse in the other, she walked toward Anthony. As she passed me, she said, “You need to get you some rest, Jillian. Your trip looks like it’s taken a toll.”
