Hawke was in the kennel room, dispensing food--odd dog food they had here, dried rocks and stew in cans, but the dogs quite liked it. Then again, dogs quite liked any food, didn't they? Dog had been known to eat the rinds off Orleasian cheeses, and Hawke knew those were horrid.
When she heard the door slam open, she startled, amid a sudden barking from most of her canine charges, but it was the man's voice that made her drop the canned dog food and run into the clinic room. The other staff were nowhere in sight--maybe on breaks, in the back, walking dogs in the woods, who knew--but Hawke wouldn't have hesitated even if actual vets had been there. She was entirely familiar with injured dogs; she was the owner of a war dog, after all.
"Here, put him down, on the table, I can help," it was all quick and together, but calm enough. Hawke tried, at least, to help the tall man get the dog to the nearest flat surface, no cares in her mind for getting blood on her clothes or anything like that. "Sh, it's going to be alright."
Whether that was meant for the dog or the man might have been ambiguous.