Page 2 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mountain Man

I stare at the screen.

This is not my number. I am not a Toronto vet. I am standing in a cabin in British Columbia eating day old elk stew in my socks, and a stranger just texted me in all caps about a golden retriever.

The phone buzzes again.

His name is Mango. He's the sweetest boy alive. Please answer.

My thumb hovers. The smart move is to reply wrong number, put the phone down, finish my stew. Not my dog, not my province, not my problem.

But the gums. Pale gums on a golden after a possible snake bite is a ticking clock. If she's in the GTA, it's likely a Massasauga rattler, and the window for antivenom is smaller than most people think.

I type before the reasonable part of my brain catches up.

Stop panicking. Breathe. Where exactly on the dog's body is the bite? Don't try to suck the venom out. Don't ice it. Don't tourniquet it. Keep Mango calm, keep him still, and tell me what the swelling looks like right now.

Send.

I stare at the message. Set the phone on the counter. Pick up my stew.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Oh my god. Thank you. Thank you. Okay. Breathing. The bite is on his front left paw. It's swelling and hot. He's whimpering. My friend is freaking out. I'm freaking out. You're the only one answering.

Something shifts. Low in my chest, somewhere I stopped checking for signs of life around year three. This stranger is scared, she's alone with a dog in trouble, and I'm the only voice in her ear.

I put the stew down.

Listen to me. Mango needs a vet. Not tomorrow. Now. Take him to the nearest emergency animal hospital. Call ahead so they can prep antivenom. Keep him below your heart level in the car. Don't let him walk. Carry him if you can. He's going to be okay if you move fast. Go. Text me when you get there.

I send it. Lean against the counter. My kitchen is quiet. The coffee is cold. The rocking chair on the porch is empty.

The phone doesn't buzz again for forty seven minutes.

When it does, I'm in bed. Boots off, flannel still on, staring at the ceiling with both hands behind my head the way I do every night while I wait for sleep to decide whether it's coming.

We're at the emergency vet. Mango is getting antivenom. The vet says we got here just in time. You saved his life. I'm literally crying in a waiting room right now. I don't even know your name. Thank you. Also I just realized you're probably not Dr. Patel's emergency line, are you.

I almost smile. Almost.

No. I'm not. I'm a wildlife vet in British Columbia. You texted the wrong number.

Three dots.

...

I'm sorry WHAT.

You're in BRITISH COLUMBIA??

And you just... helped me anyway? A total stranger? At 10pm on a Tuesday?

My thumb moves before I think about it.

Mango needed help. Go home. Get some sleep. Glad the dog's okay.

I put the phone on the nightstand. Face down. Like I always do. Annika's last text sitting at the top of her thread, and now a stranger's gratitude sitting at the top of mine.

The ceiling is the same ceiling it's been for five years.