Daily Life
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Dr. V | Monday | April 6, 2009 |
As everyone has probably guessed, I like animals. Animals are pretty cool. I enjoy them and I have a lot of respect for their place in our world. That being said, I also have a pretty healthy dose of wariness when it comes to certain animals who, on occasion, present less than benevolent faces to the world.
Take bees, for instance. When I was in high school, I remember talking to my father on the phone one afternoon about a strange buzzing noise that I couldn’t figure out the source of. “It’s so weird, Dad,” I said, “it almost sounds like bees.” And as I said that, I wandered into the kitchen, where they had that old school 80′s recessed panel lighting, and looked up. The other side of the lighting panel was crawling with bees.
That was fun. Especially since we had to spend the night in the house before the bee people could come out to attend to us. “Eh, they go dormant at night,” the guy told us. “You’ll be fine.” You try going to sleep while staring across the room at a vent full of bees hoping he was right.
That was in the early 90s, however, when killer bees- excuse me, Africanized bees- were just a distant worry, a horror film plot. It’s different these days. Just a couple of weeks ago, a construction worker in Las Vegas was critically injured when he disrupted a nest on the job. And not 10 days ago, a family quite close to my area was attacked by an Africanized bee swarm. That was pretty worrisome.
So keeping that in mind, let’s recap my Saturday, shall we? I was in the driveway, buckling my kids into the car for a trip to the park. My husband was in the side yard watering the plants. I heard a low hum, almost like a downed electrical line. But it got louder, and buzzier, very quickly. I paused, getting a sinking feeling as I realized what I was hearing.
As I did so, my husband yelled, “BEES! GET IN THE CAR!” By now the buzzing was extremely loud, filling the air. I slammed the back door and dove into the car, as my husband raced over to the other side to do the same. As we sat in the car panting, an enormous swarm swooped directly over us, passing the cars, over the grass, and down the hill. My husband, who wasn’t aware of the local attack, was laughing in a relieved way. I was just sitting there, shaking, so unbelievably grateful that nothing happened and simultaneously wondering at the odds that a huge swarm would come right over us, at the exact moment we were in the driveway.
I have no way of knowing if it was a swarm of Africanized bees or the more docile European bees. Both are in the area. I’ve seen many bee stings in the clinic, but no Africanized bee attacks- mostly over curious dogs getting one sting in the nose, and having an allergic reaction. I worry that this will change soon, though.
I’ve got plenty of tricks for dealing with aggressive domestic animals, and also learned over the years that you are supposed to confront mountain lions, poke a shark in the eye, and shuffle your feet in the water to avoid stingrays. I like to be prepared. No idea what to do about a killer bee swarm, though. The reports out there seem to indicate that if you are unfortunate enough to get attacked, you’re kind of stuck. I’d laugh at that horrible pun, but to be honest I’m still too traumatized to bee funny. Just thinking about it makes me break out in hives.
*Photo from stuntbear on Flickr.
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Dr. V | Thursday | April 2, 2009 |
Yesterday, we had a sick little puppy in the hospital with vomiting and diarrhea. While he was in the back, getting rehydrated and filled up with anti-nausea meds, I was putting my head on my arms thinking, oh no, I’m getting sick.
We were quite the pair, the two of us. While he was improving, I was declining. I envied him his quiet cage and his IV and I wondered if I crawled into a lower cage with a blanket and a hot water bottle how long it would take anyone to notice.
It’s amazing how empathetic being sick makes you. “Can you talk more quietly?” I whispered to the techs. “You’re probably making his head hurt.” “Don’t bang the door shut!” “Be gentle with him when you pull that catheter! He’s sick!”
They got sick of me soon enough and sent me home an hour early.
The good news is, by all accounts we are both much better today.
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Dr. V | Tuesday | March 31, 2009 |
“Room 2 is Freddie,” says the tech. “He’s been vomiting for a couple of days.”
I grab the chart of the door and take a peek as I go in the room. “Hi there, Mr….Krueger-” pause-
“Freddie Krueger?” I look at the dog, a wrinkly shar pei.
The owner grins proudly. “I was going to save that for my first born son, but I figured I’d use it on the dog.”
Good choice.
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Dr. V | Saturday | March 28, 2009 |
The CDC just released a report estimating 86,000 falls a year are caused by dogs and cats. I wonder if they do a similar report on the number of falls caused by roller skates, weak ankles, wet floors, and banana peels.
The report seems to infer that the majority of injuries are to the elderly, caused by tripping over little dogs out on walks.
Interesting, but I can’t quite figure out what they want to happen. The benefits of having a pet are well documented. Are we going to place warning labels on dogs- “May pose obstacle hazard”? Tell the elderly not to have dogs? Tell them not to take their dogs on walks since that is when the majority of injuries occur?
Is there anyone out there with a dog or cat who hasn’t tripped over them at one point or another? I just don’t get the point of these studies sometimes.
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Dr. V | Friday | March 27, 2009 |
I have a confession to make, and this one is hard.
Skippy is no longer with me.
This is painful. I feel like a failure, especially since I spend so much time talking about responsibility and how a pet is a lifetime commitment. I still believe that, which is why I also think you should be really careful about the hows and whens of bringing a new pet into the home, and that is where I really screwed up.
I knew after Mulan died that I would eventually want another dog, and I had a specific kind of dog in mind. Skippy was not that kind of dog, but he was kind of in the right range, and he needed a home. His owner came to my house to check it out and give Skippy a chance to meet everyone. I went over my ‘deal breaker’ questions, specifically, Is he housetrained, and Does he bark, and was given the answers yes, and no. He seemed to get along with everyone. I was planning on thinking it over for a couple of days, until the owner told me she was moving the next day and was really hoping he could stay, if I thought I was going to keep him.
And me being me, I said OK. The things she mentioned as issues- separation anxiety, and cat chasing, I was prepared for, and really were OK to handle. But. butbutbut.
It only took one day to realize he wasn’t housetrained. Not even close. Worse, he was a closet pooper, so he’d go run far away where no one could see him or correct him, and hide a treat. OK, I said, I’ll have to crate him. No problem.
The next day, I found out he was a barker, and not a little bit, but the worst kind of offender- yippy, hysterical, and to top it off he’d pee all over the place when he got excited. I was a bit miffed at this point, but still ready to try and figure it out.
On the third day, I realized he could squeeze through the bars on my fence and go running around the neighborhood, more specifically, into the neighbor’s yard with 4 large dogs. And because he hadn’t had any sort of training to respond to come or other commands, once he was gone, it was a wild chase. That is when I really started to panic. We spend a lot of time running around in our yard.
On the fourth day, I spent hours retrofitting the fencing with chicken wire.
On the fifth day, he dug right under it.
By necessity, Skippy now spent the entirety of his time attached to a lead. He was either in a crate, tied to a table, or tied to me. He couldn’t be trusted inside, where he’d either run off to take a poop or eat cat poop; he couldn’t be trusted outside, where he would run away. I consulted a trainer and a behaviorist to get some suggestions about what I would have to do to mold him into a model citizen, and the answer was, to put it mildly, daunting. And would probably involve methods far more intensive and aggressive than those I have ever used in the past.
His old owner was by now unreachable, of course, and wouldn’t have been able to help anyway. I spent the next two weeks conducting doggy boot camp, which worked as long as he was under constant surveillance, but he really didn’t have much desire to please so any slip of the guard, and off he would go to wreak havoc. One bright and sunny Saturday morning was spent trespassing through my entire neighborhood after my son accidentally let him dart through his legs. Off he went, through one fence and under the next, boom-boom-boom throughout the whole development, me in pajama bottoms and wild morning hair, waving a salmon strip at him, calling, “Oh Skip-py!” in my cheeriest voice since of course we can’t let him know we are fuming since he won’t come if you are, but it didn’t matter since he didn’t come anyway. I had to ambush him under a blackberry bush. I spent the next two hours pulling foxtails out of my hair, wondering how many neighbors saw me and how many knew what I supposedly did for a living.
My friends, my co-workers, everyone who knows me and how I am mentioned to me at some point or another that this was not the ideal match. I knew it, but I had made a commitment, and damnit, I wasn’t going to give up. I can’t give up. I made this decision to give him a home and I should abide by it. I seemed to be the only one who felt this way.
A couple of days later, a family friend came over, and I pre-emptively apologized for what she was about to endure. “Oh, it’s no problem,” she said over Skippy’s high pitched screeching. She picked him up and cuddled him while he peed on her. “I love poodles.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” she said as he licked her with his cat-litter breath. “I had one who passed away a few years ago.”
“Well, I really am sorry,” I said as he sunk his teeth into her pants leg and started to hump her. “I’m trying to make him better.”
“Oh, that’s just how they are,” she said and petted him affectionately. “He’s just young.” She looked at me intently. “If you don’t want him, I would love to give him a home. My chihuahua would love a friend.”
I said we were working on things, but I would for sure let her know. Another long week passed.
As I stood there, Emmett by my side hiding from Skippy’s aggressive ministrations, it hit me. Skippy was not, and would never be, the right dog for me. The words of my trainer friend echoed in my ear: “He really just needs someone who doesn’t care about all that crap.” I wasn’t so determined to make this work out of a deep bond and love for Skippy, but out of a sense of obligation. And was it fair to him to keep him with me because I didn’t want to seem like a bad pet owner for giving him away, to in essence save face, when there was someone right in front of me who would offer him a better life? My friend would love him as he was. I would not. I would be like that woman in Cosmo they always warn you not to be, trying to fix her man, dress him up, teach him some manners, when all he wants is to sit in a wifebeater with a Coors in one hand and his junk in the other.
I called my friend and asked her if she was still serious about Skippy. “Yes, absolutely,” she said. I told her very bluntly why I was willing/mandated to give him up, and all the issues he was bringing to the table. She said yes, she knew this, and was still ok with it.
Skippy went home with her on Wednesday. The first thing he did when she came in the door was take a poop right in front of her- a final sendoff to me, I suppose, and she laughed and cleaned it up. “Let me know if it doesn’t work out,” I said. “I have contacts in rescue.”
“Oh, I’m keeping him,” she smiled, poop bag in one hand, dog in the other. “Let’s go, Skippy.”
I guess I can tell myself that everything happens for a reason. I still feel like a failure.
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Dr. V | Thursday | March 26, 2009 |
I.e. trying to get a thicker skin.
Today I went into a room to give a little dachshund puppy his vaccine boosters. This was a cute dog. Seriously cute. I had seen him once before, 3 weeks prior, for his first vaccination and he was healthy and adorable then, as he was today.
I went in and gushed, trying to ignore the fact of the very stone faced owner glaring at me. Everyone has bad days and bad moods, right? She asked me a couple of questions that I started to answer, and she cut me off each time before I could finish. I did my exam, gave the dog a few extra pets, complimented him, and then got him his vaccine. It was a very standard visit.
The owner then went out and told the receptionist she wants to see “the other guy” next time. She saw “the other guy”- my colleague- one time, for a cough that she declined to do anything about. Nothing special.
Personality is a matter of preference, and I just can’t help whether or not someone likes me. It makes it easier, though, if there is something I can pinpoint that I did to make a person not happy, but in this case, there really wasn’t anything that went wrong. I was in top veterinarian form today. I even wore PEARLS to work, which I never do. My hair was perfect. I did the best I could but it was just me, personally, that she rejected.
Well, you know what? Her dog was UGLY. Ugly and goofy looking too. I’m glad I won’t be seeing him again, him and his dumb floppy furry ears and little brown nose….
*sigh* I lie. He really was seriously cute. Maybe she was afraid I was going to steal him. I could lie a second time and say I don’t get hurt at all, that’s life, but truth be told I do get a wee bit hurt. Much less than I used to for sure, but I prefer to delude myself into thinking my magnetic personality is utterly irresistible to all.
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Dr. V | Tuesday | March 24, 2009 |
As I was leaving the house this morning on my way to work, my phone rang. “Hi, it’s Carmen,” said my tech. “I know you’re probably just about to leave anyway, but I wanted to let you know Comet is here and he doesn’t look good.”
I grabbed my keys and shot out the door.
Comet is owned by one of my favorite clients, an extremely sweet woman who adores her cats. Not three months ago, she lost a recently adopted cat to a nasty virus that has been striking hard in the local shelters. It hit very fast, and despite all our efforts, he died. I spent a lot of time turning over in my head every decision I made, every diagnostic I did or didn’t do, and wondered what I might have done better. Would it have made a difference? Probably not, but still. His owner had nothing but thanks for me, which of course made me feel even worse because regardless of what I did, he was still dead.
Comet was in last week because he wasn’t feeling well. I did some tests, I was waiting for some results, and I called on my days off to follow up on his care. I didn’t want to drop the ball on anything because I got the feeling she had just barely recovered from her other pet’s death. I spent last night planning a course of action with my boss for Comet’s diagnostics today. We weren’t going to lose this one. I was worried about some recent results but I was still hopeful we could figure out what was going on with him.
Once I was on the road and had my Bluetooth hooked up, I called back to give the tech some things to start while I was driving. “Hey, it’s me,” I said to the receptionist. “Tell Carmen to get a PCV going and run him on O2 if he needs it. I’ll be there in 10.”
“On who?” she asked.
“Comet,” I said. “Carmen knows what’s going on.”
Pause.
“Comet just died.”
I spent a long time in the room with Comet’s mom, as surprised and unhappy as she was.
“Why did he die?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied, honestly. “We never got a chance to find out.”
We talked a bit about necropsies, what we could learn, what we couldn’t. She decided not to have one done.
“Thank you so much for everything,” she said between her tears, and all I could do was hug her back.
“I don’t feel like I’ve helped you very much,” I replied. Half of her household pets now, gone under my watch. And she thanked me.
She is a very kind person. What a way to start the week.
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Dr. V | Saturday | March 21, 2009 |
That was the headline CNN gave this story.
I admit I was a little disappointed to hear it was just a dog who just snacked on some Benjamins. Dogs eating stuff they shouldn’t it as newsworthy as “cat barfs hairball in shoe, live at 10.” I was hoping it was going to be a modern day Golden Goose, a dog who could miraculously generate currency in their colon. Need some gas money? Feed Fido some kibble and wait. Need a quick $100? Add in some fiber. If you’re really desperate and loan sharks are after you, give him some baked beans and wait for the cash to come rolling in!
Fortunately for this dog his owners were pretty understanding and had a good sense of humor about it. Emmett has fortunately never ingested anything of value necessitating such unsavory actions as sifting through poo like a prospector panning for gold nuggets. The closest I have come to similar tragedy is when a client dog managed to pull a diamond earring out of my ear during an exam (ironically enough, it was a guide dog in training. Good luck with that one, you klepto!) but I managed to fish it out of his mouth before he swallowed it. It was pretty astounding on his part- it was a stud earring with a safety post and he STILL managed to yank it out. I don’t think he ever graduated.
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Dr. V | Friday | March 20, 2009 |
Vets are more likely to be boozers.
Considering my vet school classmates, I shouldn’t be surprised. We were all pretty happy go lucky back in those days, but I imagine close to a decade of stressors has taken its toll on more than a few of us.
James Herriot sure made this profession look bright and shiny, bold and beautiful and whatever other heartwarming couplets float your boat. It is, sometimes. Other times it is all things smelly and stinky, green and abscessed, angry and litigious. Health care professionals are expected to be correct 100% of the time. In our case, we are also expected to be able to manage it with the minimum diagnostics and treatments to restore health without a single thing that a client might perceive as a waste of money.
For every time someone says thank you, another person accuses you of gouging them. For every person who takes your recommendation, another person tells you they won’t do it because their breeder said dogs only need 2 parvo vaccines, or someone on the internet said bulldogs should never be vaccinated for kennel cough.
If you got into this thinking every client would be a compliant, grateful little old lady with a bottomless purse, who did everything you asked without question and brought you cookies once a month, I can see why you’d be driven to drink. We live and practice in a more cynical world these days.
Trust is no longer assumed from the get go, though to be honest it’s not a bad thing. Even if it’s not assumed, you can earn it. There are crummy vets out there, ones with less than perfect ethics, and in these days of sensationalistic journalism and the internet, horror stories are a dime a dozen. From my own experience with a lot of vets, I like to think they are still far more the exception than the rule, though I can understand the savvy client’s wariness.
I don’t mind the questions. I don’t mind having to work a little to earn someone’s trust. And at the end of the day, I just need to reframe how I look at it, right?
For every person who accuses me of gouging them, another thanks me for being thorough. For every person who tells me they won’t do what I recommend because their breeder said dogs only need 2 parvo vaccines, another listens when I explain about maternal antibody interference and the AAHA recommendations on vaccination.
So far it’s kept me sober, even though I’m still waiting for a client, any client, to bring me some cookies.
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Dr. V | Thursday | March 19, 2009 |
I haven’t euthanized a pet in a couple of weeks. That is one of the things I like about day practice, as opposed to emergency, less of that sad stuff. But for whatever reason, this sort of thing comes in waves, and the tide came rolling in today.
First was a young cat who was horrifically sick. He was so jaundiced that you could see the yellow tinge from across the room. The owner had him euthanized. I never did find out what the cause was.
Next was an older cat, who was also horrifically sick. The owner agreed to all the bloodwork, and unfortunately he was in end-stage renal failure. She, too, was euthanized.
Be it a serious disease in a crappy economy or just a flat out end stage illness, some cases are pretty black and white. There just weren’t other realistic options.
I thought I was going to get through the day with just these two euthanasias, each sad, but ultimately understandable. Then Johnnie’s owner called.
I’ve been seeing Johnnie since he was born a year ago. Johnnie was a mutt of dubious origin, struck with affliction after affliction of the sort that ill bred dogs often develop. Giardia. Coccidia. Mites. Retained testicles. Funny eyelashes. A brush with parvo. But his owners love him, and each time he came down with a new and expensive problem, they rolled their eyes, sighed, and treated them. Another thousand dollar discount mutt.
Johnnie’s owners were recently flattened by some unrelated events in their life, so it was less than welcome news when he was diagnosed with a serious orthopedic problem that would eventually require surgery. Even still, they took home some Rimadyl and decided to start saving up. They put up with a lot.
Until today.
Today, he bit their son. Apparently, he has had some aggression issues they have been trying to work through, on top of everything else. I knew he had an occasional brush in at the dog park, but I didn’t realize it had gotten this bad. So we talked. She knew as well as I did, that with the glut of healthy dogs in the shelter there was no dog less adoptable than an aggressive mutt with orthopedic issues. The rescues had no place for him. She didn’t want him to languish in a shelter for a few days, confused and alone, just to assuage her own guilt that maybe someone might want to take him on. She knew as well as I did what the chances really were.
I used to say to myself, I would never euthanize a healthy dog. Never euthanize a dog who didn’t have a terminal disease. Wouldn’t consider it for behavioral issues, because after all, it’s the owner’s doing and why should I have to clean up after their mess. That was then.
I’ve learned a lot about black and white and shades of grey, about being a parent and making a commitment and sometimes even about getting in over your head. About judging people and situations by standards 95% of the population can’t live up to. It’s paralyzing sometimes, standing in a sea of grey trying to make out the shapes. Life is so much easier in black and white, one dimensional line drawings in perfect contrast. Simple, and not very realistic.
So we talked, and talked some more, and the one thing I can tell you is that Johnnie’s owner absolutely loves him. Her decision, that most people can’t/don’t make, was to spare him being scared and alone and let him go in her arms rather than in the back room of a shelter. It was, I think, the right decision. I support her in that.
Time for the tide to roll on out. I don’t like to tread water for very long.
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Dr. V | Tuesday | March 17, 2009 |
I saw a REALLY funny looking cocker spaniel today. He had a comb-over! He had the usual short cocker spaniel fur, save one long straight tuft that was swept back and feathered over his head Donald Trump style.
“I love his little toupee!” I exclaimed to the owner, before realizing it wasn’t intentional at all and the person had no idea what I was talking about. I really wanted to take a picture to put here, but based on his reaction to me I had a feeling it wasn’t going to happen.
Just imagine it for me. It was super funny.
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Dr. V | Saturday | March 14, 2009 |
Today we venture to the savannah in search of the elusive Goldenbeast.
His vibrant coat is in stark contrast to the lush greenery. He is better suited for camouflage in his native environment, the leather couch.
He settles down at the edge of the plains with the remains of his latest kill.
But the savannah is a popular destination for wildlife viewing, and it doesn’t take long for the tourists to swoop in to try and steal a hug.
Uh oh. There is a whole busload of them.
The Goldenbeast doesn’t stand a chance.
Truth be told he doesn’t seem to mind all that much, though. It is the nature of the Goldenbeast.
Look! A Poodleot is sneaking in from the side to try and steal the Goldenbeast’s well earned vittles.
He’s small, but canny. First: lure the hominids away from his target. A distracting dance usually does the trick.
Victory is his! The Goldenbeast slinks away to take solace on his couch.
