He picked up a spent casing from a large-caliber rifle. The metal burned cold in his fingers. Victor slipped it into the pocket of his coat without a word, turned, and headed back home. Exactly one week passed. The cub was standing steadily on crooked legs now and loudly demanding food every three hours.
The milk supply was running low fast. Mary boiled the yellow nipple twice a day, carefully scrubbing off the greasy white film. The rubber had started to dull, crack, and change color. On Thursday Victor started up his old pickup.
The engine coughed out blue smoke and rolled heavily down the plowed track toward town. On the passenger seat sat a plastic laundry basket covered with an old down jacket. Inside, the cub slept soundly. The county veterinary clinic was in a worn one-story brick building on the edge of town.
The narrow hallway smelled strongly of bleach, wet dog, and cheap alcohol sanitizer. The fluorescent light overhead flickered irritably. Behind a battered desk sat Dr. Barnes, the local vet. He examined the animal in silence.
His rough work-worn fingers checked the belly, the teeth, the ears. The cub gave an annoyed grunt and tried to bite the sleeve of the doctor’s not-so-clean white coat.
— Healthy. Maybe a month old, no more, — Barnes said, drying his hands with a paper towel. — Buy puppy milk replacer at the feed store. But I’m not putting him on the books. No official paperwork.
Victor pulled a worn leather wallet from inside his coat.
— I’ll pay double for every shot. I need something official saying he’s clear of rabies.
Barnes pushed the bills aside. He stood up heavily, walked to the window, and lowered the dusty plastic blinds. The little office went dim.
— You’re not hearing me, Vic. By law, that animal belongs to the state. Wild predator. You’re supposed to turn him over to wildlife on a transfer form. Keep him, and you’re looking at charges for unlawful removal from the wild. Big fine, immediate confiscation…
