It’s evening and Neewa hasn’t eaten all day. She is exhausted, not herself at all, and she is not drinking her water either.
Her black nose is dry and she is coughing. On top of that, she has brown stuff in the corners of her eyes.
Panic grips me as I look at her. “Dad, we have to take Neewa to the vet right away.”
Dad has noticed the change in her too. He looks at me, then her again. Moments later we are carrying Neewa to the car. We jump in and drive to the veterinarian.
After waiting an hour, we are shown into the examination room. The vet enters and takes a quick look at Neewa’s eyes, ears, and nose.
He looks at her concerned. “She is very sick with a disease called distemper, a deadly canine disease.”
“There is nothing I can do for her, she will not make it. I’m sorry.” He shrugs his shoulders and walks to the exit adding, “Please see my secretary on your way out.”
My head falls into my hands and I burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably I’m unable to stop trembling.
“Dad, don’t let her die! Please!” I cry.
The vet stops, turns, and walks back toward us, “There is a remote chance she will recover but it is not likely. When dogs are born they must be immunized for distemper. It’s serious and can spread rapidly through a kennel, especially if unvaccinated individuals are present. Not all patients die, however a significant number do. Dogs of every age are susceptible, however, the very young and old have the highest death rate, as high as seventy-five percent. Patients that recover from distemper may suffer permanent damage to vision as well as the nervous system. Puppies can have severely mottled teeth, losing many of them due to abnormalities in the developing enamel.”
He leaves the room. Dad, Jackie and I carry Neewa to the van. Once inside the van, I weep all the whole way home.
“I can’t just watch her die, we have to do something.”
I look at her on my lap, motionless. “Neewa, don’t die.”
When we arrive home, Dad goes to the phone and calls everyone we know, most of whom are his Native American friends from work.
I sit crying in the corner with Neewa next to me. She looks at me pathetically as if she is about to die.
Jackie begins to sob and slams her door, locking herself in her room.
Neewa has more brown sand in the corners of her eyes and is coughing a high-pitched cough. Dad says she sounds like me when I was a baby. I used to have asthma attacks.
Dad exclaims, “Everyone I’ve spoken to is talking about a vet named Cuthberson. He’s the best one around, they say if he can’t save her, no one can.”
Dad finds his number in the old gray phone book in the kitchen drawer and calls. The office answering machine picks up the call and a voice says, “You have reached the office of Doctor Cuthberson. We have no appointments available. The doctor is at the county fairgrounds all week. Please call back after Saturday. Thank you.”
“He is the official county fair veterinarian. Tomorrow is the last day. The doctor will be there all day,” Dad declares.
I announce, “I’m going to find that doctor and he’s going to save Neewa.”
***
I wake up early Saturday morning. Dad and I are on our way to the fair to find the doctor. Jackie is staying behind with the Burns family for the day. She can take care of Neewa, look in on her, and give her water while I’m away. Though she hasn’t drunk any in a while.
Dad and I arrive at the fairgrounds not knowing where Doctor Cuthberson is. The circumstances look hopeless. I’m searching for a doctor I’ve never met, nor do I have any idea what he looks like.
Inside the razor wire topped fence that surrounds the fair’s compound, we try to comprehend the impossible task ahead. The fair is huge. You can’t even see the other end of it. It appears to be miles in every direction.
Dad and I go straight for the First Aid tent, he must be there. Upon arriving, the tent doesn’t appear to be busy at all, but with this heat wave we have been having, it will be.
I question the attendant, “Is Doctor Cuthberson here?”
“No,” he replies. “He spends most of his time by the stables. He works out of his mobile hospital parked at building number two."
Dad and I decide to split up, taking different paths to cover more ground. We look into each other’s eyes. My eyes are watering up, but he looks determined and I pull myself together as I hug him once.
“Meet me at the fair information booth,” he shouts, as we run off in different directions.
I’m going straight to the mobile hospital to check and see if he is there. Dad is going to try the vendor area and talk to some of his friends who are volunteering at some of the concessions.
The hot breeze swirls through the grounds laden with the smell of farm animals. There are barns full of cows; Guernsey, Friesian, and Jersey. Pigs too, of every variety and more, so much more. I pass corrals of horses: Arabian, American Quarter, Thoroughbreds and more. And 4-H club exhibits with sheep, rabbits, and chickens of every variety, size, and shape.
I’m walking aimlessly in ninety-degree dry heat and it’s only eleven o’clock. My clothes are sticking to my body like plastic wrap.
When I was little I loved to stop at the hatchery where you could watch the baby chickens hatching from their eggs right in front of your eyes.
Events like steer wrestling and horse jumping are going on in the two side arenas. Acres and acres of competitions, booths, games of chance, and even amusement rides surround me as the sun beats down from above as it approaches midday.
I stop to sit in the shade and sip my water bottle for a moment. In the background the roller coaster screams, and the Himalaya circles one way, stops, and then reverses, while the riders cry out for more. Those are my favorite rides. When I was little, Dad took us on all of the best rides back home in our county fair. We rode the highest and fastest roller coasters on the East Coast too.
Hours pass and I still haven’t found him.
Desperate, I ask a family sitting by their animals at a 4-H exhibit, “Have you seen Doctor Cuthberson?” I sigh.
“No, haven’t seen him,” someone in the circle responds.
Further down the dirt walkway at the end of the barn, I ask a group of trainers standing at the horse stables, “Can you tell me where Doctor Cuthberson is?”
“He hasn’t been around yet today,” one of them replies.
I would never ask strangers questions before this. I’m too shy to talk to people I don’t know. I would rather die that walk up to someone. But this is different. I have to save Neewa. And if it means asking people questions I’ve never seen before? Then I’ll do it!
Suddenly the loudspeaker blares, “Attention, attention, five minutes till the start of the chuck wagon race.”
The main arena for the race is just down this walkway, the sign says. Stopping near the pig-racing track, I look around to get my bearings. I have no way of knowing where he is in this gigantic carnival.
I catch a glimpse of the information booth out of the corner of my eye.
The man inside the booth begins another announcement, “Dr. Cuthberson, paging Dr. Cuthberson, please report to the chuck wagon race starting line.”
I sprint to the announcer at the booth.
“Where is he? Where is Dr. Cuthberson?” I screech.
The man points into the massive crowd of people walking in every direction. His finger guides my eyes across the huge public walkway packed with people.
Strollers are speeding everywhere—doublewides, tandems, and triples. Grandmothers cuddle crying babies. Vendors sell their wares up and down the pavement. Clowns with huge red, green, and blue balloons amuse the children. People rush in every direction.
“There he is, right there,” the announcer points.
“Where? Where?” I shout.
“The tall man with the black hat and red neckerchief.” The broadcaster holds his raised arm steady pointing in his direction.
I’m mesmerized, frozen as I stare at Doctor Cuthberson for the first time. The crowd seems to part for the six-foot tall lanky figure, a head above the rest. He strolls toward the arena dressed in blue jeans and a western shirt with the collar open under his stubby, unshaven chin. Suddenly he disappears into the crowd, swallowed up by the masses.
Scrambling into the mob, I push through the heap of humanity struggling to get to the opposite side of the pavement where he walked just a moment ago.
“Shoot! Lost him,” I moan finding myself standing where he stood.
I run in the direction he took, jumping up to see above the crowd, straining to locate him. But he’s nowhere to be seen.
I decide to race him to the chuck wagon race starting line. Zigzagging and crisscrossing through throngs of people, darting between bodies, I arrive at a dead end.
In front of me is a stadium full of people dressed in cowboy hats and multi-hued tops, waving colored bandanas, standing and cheering for their favorite teams. The roar from within is deafening as the crowd pulsates, forward and back.
At the starting line of the oval dirt track are chuck wagon teams lined up four across. Each team has six horses decorated with the team’s colors, matching blankets, and blinkers. Every horse is decked out with a classy harness, collar and bridle, and tethered by leather straps to its wooden wagon.
Horses are snorting and stomping their feet, anticipating the start of the race. Arabians, Paints, and Appaloosas stand side by side. Their brushed coats glisten in the sun, while rigging of polished golden wood, frames their grand physiques.
Seated behind each harnessed team of horses are a driver and passenger—adorned with color-coordinated bow ties and silks. They wear cowboy hats, vests, chaps that cover their blue jeans, and custom leather boots. They wait on the edge of their seats with reins in hand, listening for the starting gun to fire.
Behind each double wide seat is a fifteen-foot high covered wagon painted with the logo and the name of their ranch. The colors of the drivers’ shirts match the canvas covering the wagons.
The track reminds me of back home and the many trips to the horse races with my Grandma on Thursday nights. I loved those nights with grandma, cheering for our horse to win. Yelling for my team to come in first, just being with her. She hugged me so good.
I exhale a deep sigh and take a bench seat in the “no charge” viewing stands at the far end of the arena. The paid seats in the center of the stadium are packed, not an empty spot in sight.