The Accidental Veterinarian

by Philipp Schott

  I stroked Loverboy and considered the options while asking a few more routine questions about his diet, his litterbox use, his general habits and so forth. He was clearly anemic, but the problem was that there were at least a half dozen possible causes that all needed different tests and all had different treatments. That being said, given that he had been outside before and was unvaccinated, I quickly formed a presumptive diagnosis: feline leukemia. This is a virus often transmitted between cats by fighting. One of its many potential effects is life-threatening anemia. I explained this to the owner, but she told me that no, he never fought — that’s why his name was Loverboy. Also, when he had been going outside, it had always been supervised. Undeterred, I then explained that he could also have gotten the virus from his mother. The owner shook her head again and said that Loverboy’s mother had been a very well looked after, fully vaccinated cat owned by her aunt.

  Sometimes a diagnosis is so compelling and fits so neatly with what we see in the patient that our ability to process contrary information is impaired. Sometimes we are not as fully objective as we need to be. Fortunately this gets better with experience, especially after we have been burned a few times. But I was relatively new to this, and I insisted that my theory was correct and asked that she try to borrow another 30 dollars for the leukemia blood test to prove it, promising her that I was confident that this was the right thing to do. She reluctantly agreed and returned a few days later to have the test run. It was negative.

  I was stunned — really stunned — and at a loss as to what to do next. She told me that she could not borrow any more money. Loverboy was still purring, still head-butting, but looking even weaker than the last time. I sent her home and told her I’d give her a call later that day after I’d had a chance to do some reading and to figure something out. But I didn’t read. I just sat at my desk and stared at the wall. I was going to have to ask my boss for help. Dr. C. had a reputation for having a sharp temper, and he definitely kept a very close eye on the practice financials, grumbling when we used disposable surgical needles rather than the ones that could be re-sterilized.

  I explained the situation to him in detail. Dr. C. sat back in his big brown swivelling armchair and smiled at me. “Well, Philipp, you have a problem. You promised this young lady something when you should not have done so, and you did not listen to her very well. You’re going to have to eat some crow now.”

  I nodded.

  “I think this cat is probably bleeding internally, so give her a call back and apologize to her. Tell her that you’ve spoken to me and that I have approved an X-ray at no charge to her.”

  For the second time that day I was stunned. He never gave services away. Perhaps he was mellowing with age.

  A few hours later Dr. C. and I were looking at the X-ray up on the viewer. I was stunned for the third time, and he for the first. There was a crisply defined oval object in the stomach, as bright white as bone. Squinting, you could make out something that almost looked like writing on it.

  Dr. C. chuckled. “I guess I’m going to have to eat some crow too! This is a good opportunity for you to learn how to do a gastrotomy, Philipp. Tell the young lady that her cat needs surgery, and that we will do it at cost. She can pay us back at 20 dollars a month.” Yes, he was definitely mellowing.

  And so it came to pass that I was gowned and gloved and making an incision into Loverboy’s stomach. I could feel the object, hard and flat. I eased it out of the stomach, wiped it off and held it up to look at in the strong surgery light. “It’s copper!” I told Linda, the anaesthesia tech. “That explains it! He had copper poisoning causing the anemia! This will cure him. And there really is writing on it . . .” I handed it to Linda to wash it off more thoroughly.

  She came back in in a minute, laughing. “It’s one of those medallions you make in those machines that squash pennies. And it says — are you ready for this? It says, ‘Good for a hug and a kiss, anytime, anywhere.’”

  But possibly not in the stomach.

  Finnegan vs. the Pot Roast

  Humans divide everything they encounter in the world into categories. Dogs do so too. The difference is that humans use multiple sophisticated categories, slicing and dicing the world in the finest detail and then applying a bewildering array of hierarchical labels. Dogs, on the other hand, just use two broad categories: “food” and “not food.” And I am here to tell you that the “food” category is breathtakingly wide. Now, to be honest, the “not food” category does have a few subcategories, such as “things to bark at” and “people who provide food,” but really it is the distinction between edible and non-edible that they are most interested in. Food is everything. It is their passion. It is their god. This is especially true of puppies, and it is especially true of certain breeds.

  Labrador retrievers and beagles are perhaps the most notorious of these breeds. The first time this principle was vividly demonstrated to me was with Billy Singh, a young male black Lab who came into the clinic one day a year or two after I graduated. He had been off his food for a couple of days, which was absolutely shocking to the owners. Billy would normally materialize out of thin air if they so much as lightly rustled a plastic bag, or if they even touched the drawer they kept the can opener in. But now he was just lying around looking sad. He would sniff at the treats they tried to entice him with, but then he would look away with an even sadder facial expression.

  The diagnosis was gratifyingly simple for a relatively new graduate. There it was on the X-ray: a very dense, irregularly shaped object, about the size of a ping-pong ball, sitting in the small intestine. I showed the X-ray to Mr. Singh, who sighed and said, “That’s a rock. Billy likes to eat rocks.”

  I didn’t try to disguise my astonishment. “He likes to eat rocks?!” Since then, I have come to learn that rock eating is not all that unusual, but at that point, it was the first time I had heard of it. “Like, actually eat them? Not just play with them and then accidentally swallow them?”

  “No, he eats them. Usually they just pass. I thought we had gotten rid of all the rocks in the yard, and we watch him like a hawk when we’re on a walk, but I guess he found one somewhere.”

  “Wow, that’s bad luck. It’s a very specific size of rock that they can get down but then not easily pass all the way through. It looks like it’s stuck there now. “

  Mr. Singh didn’t reply. He just sighed again and nodded.

  The diagnosis was straightforward, and the treatment was straightforward too — Billy would need surgery. The surgery went well, and Billy recovered nicely. But none of this so far is the interesting part of the story. The interesting part of the story is that he did it again and had a second surgery a year later. And then about a half year after that, I got a phone call from Mr. Singh. (I’m sure you know where this is going.)

  “Dr. Schott, you’re not going to believe this, but Billy hasn’t eaten in about three days.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I think he did it again. We’re so careful, but I swear he’s addicted. He must be able to smell those rocks a hundred yards away.”

  “It’s unbelievable . . .”

  “Look, we can’t afford to keep doing surgery like this. And it can’t be good for him either. Is there anything else we can do? Can you put a zipper in him?” Mr. Singh was chuckling, but it was a rueful chuckle.

  “Ha! Good idea, but, um, no. I’m really sorry, but it does sound like surgery again.”

  These days it might be possible to consider using an endoscope, but none were available in Winnipeg then, and trying to drag large, rough objects back up the esophagus is probably not an ideal solution anyway. So Billy had a third surgery. Afterwards we decided that he would only be allowed outside, regardless of how well supervised, if he was wearing a basket-style muzzle that allowed him to pant, but not get his mouth around anything. And this did the trick. He went on to live a healthy, happy life with no further surg
eries, although I’m sure he dreamed of tasty rocks to his dying day.

  But as unusual as Billy’s eating habits were, I have to give the crown for creative gluttony to dear old Finnegan Connolly.

  Finnegan had demonstrated his mania for food early on. After he ate an entire loaf of bread, including its plastic bag, and then vomited it all up on their living room carpet, the Connollys became extremely careful about leaving food anywhere that might conceivably be accessible to him. But Finnegan was not discouraged. Finnegan worked diligently to broaden the definition of “accessible.” Finnegan learned to open the refrigerator.

  One Sunday morning he pawed it open, pulled the pot roast out and ate an astonishing proportion of it before anybody noticed. He vomited it up again, like with the loaf of bread, but this time he didn’t stop vomiting. He kept on vomiting through the day, even when all that was left to come out was a bit of froth and bile. The Connollys became concerned and took him to the emergency clinic. There he was diagnosed with pancreatitis, which is inflammation of a major digestive gland. Pancreatitis has a variety of causes, but a common one is when the digestive system is confronted with a sudden load of fat. Three-quarters of a pot roast is a lot of fat. It’s probably the amount he would otherwise see in a month of kibble. Finnegan was hospitalized for several days on intravenous fluids and multiple medications.

  The Connollys installed a latch on the fridge door.

  Billy and Finnegan must have been soulmates. Both were persistent in their desire to eat what they shouldn’t, and both were cunning in their persistence. Not long at all after what was widely referred to as “the fridge incident,” Finnegan was back in the hospital again. This time he had managed to open the oven door, somehow knock the roast out without burning himself and then scarf the whole thing down. Open. The. Oven. Door. There are clients where I would have thought to myself, “Sure sure, the dog opened the oven door! You just don’t want to admit that you left the roast out where he could reach it, but whatever.” But the Connollys were serious people, and I had to believe them, as bizarre as the mental image was. It’s not just the opening of the oven door, but also the maneuvering around the open door and then the getting of the pan and roast out. Maybe he used his mouth and paws? The mind truly boggles. A genius dog. A mad genius, though. Finnegan was hospitalized on intravenous fluids again, this time for even longer.

  The Connollys installed a latch on the oven door.

  There was no third pot roast incident, but Finnegan was a “frequent flier” for the rest of his life, continuing to regularly find trouble, usually driven by his breathtaking appetite. The basket muzzle idea didn’t work for him because he would howl and carry on any time they tried it, and as most of his indiscretions were indoors, he would have had to wear it constantly. Somehow, though, despite his self-destructive instincts, he managed to live a long time, gradually getting fatter, never losing his passion for food. In fact, while I don’t remember why or how he died, I do remember being told that he kept on eating to the very end.

  “Nasty, Big, Pointy Teeth”

  Yes, another Monty Python reference. The Python fans among you will immediately recognize from the title that I’m going to write about rabbits today. And not just any rabbits. Not the fluffy, gentle, innocent rabbits almost everyone imagines. No, I’m going to write about the vicious ones. Vicious rabbits? How is that possible, you ask? Remember this — the rabbit has no idea that he looks cute and cuddly and harmless to a human. He may seem a nervous, timid creature much of the time because he is a prey species after all, but in an environment where he has learned to become confident, his true warrior self may emerge. As evidence, I offer the following telephone conversation I had with a client a few years ago:

  “Dr. Schott, thank you for coming to the phone right away. I’m calling from my bedroom,” said Ms. Fitzsimmons.

  This seemed like an unnecessary detail. I became faintly alarmed. “Yes?” I offered cautiously.

  “It’s Mr. Cuddles, I don’t know what’s wrong with him!”

  Mr. Cuddles was a small floppy-eared grey rabbit that she had had for about a year. Relieved, I asked, “What symptoms are you seeing?”

  “He’s gone crazy!”

  “Oh? What is he doing that seems crazy?”

  “My bedroom is at the end of the hall where his little house is. He won’t let me past his house!”

  “Won’t let you past?”

  “Yes! He attacks me and bites me!”

  “Um . . . how long has this been going on?”

  “All morning! He just gets madder and madder every time I try! I don’t know what to do! I need to get out! What’s wrong with him?”

  What was wrong with Mr. Cuddles? Nothing really. He was just a highly territorial male rabbit, allowed to roam free, whose “lair” had been set up in the hallway. With time he became confident enough to defend his lair. I told Ms. Fitzsimmons to come out of her room holding a blanket in front of her and then to toss the blanket onto Mr. Cuddles so that she could quickly sprint past. I told her that once things settled down, she should wait until he was sleeping in his house and then scoop him up with a towel, put him in a cage and bring him in to be neutered. Neutering doesn’t always help, but in this case, taking the testosterone out of him plus moving his house to a far corner of an unused room seemed to do the trick.

  The words of Leo Tolstoy come to mind: “It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness.” Or, in case of killer rabbits: “It is amazing how complete is the delusion that cuteness is innocence.”

  Petty Chew

  Before I begin, I want to emphasize that this is very much a “don’t try this at home” scenario. What happened here was unique, and I don’t expect ever to see this work again. Not only was the outcome unique, but so were both the patient and the owner. Actually, I should call him the guardian, not the owner. You’ll see why.

  It was a sunny September afternoon maybe 15 years ago. I spotted an older gentleman in the crowded waiting room, wearing a battered, grease-stained parka despite the relatively warm weather. He was holding a cardboard mandarin orange box on his lap. According to the appointment schedule, his name was Ray Thibodeau, and he was bringing me a rabbit named “Petty Chew” to examine. The receptionists were busy, so I got an exam room ready and ushered him in.

  After hellos and introductions and handshakes I asked, “So, who have we got in the box here?” The name seemed odd, so I wanted to be sure.

  I couldn’t make out Mr. Thibodeau’s answer as he spoke very quietly with a thick Franco-Manitoban accent and had, as his smile revealed, quite a few missing teeth muddling his enunciation. “Pardon me?”

  He smiled a huge gap-toothed smile, laughed and said the name again, louder this time. This time I heard “Petit Chou.” Mr. Thibodeau added, “Sometime I call ’im PC.”

  “Ah, Petit Chou! Little cabbage! The receptionist put it down as ‘Petty Chew.’ That makes more sense now. That’s a great name! But PC might be easier. Let’s have a look at him then.” I opened the box and peered inside. PC was not an ordinary pet bunny. PC was a wild rabbit. To be precise, he was a young Eastern Cottontail. To be even more precise, he was a young Eastern Cottontail with his left hind leg wrapped up in a big gauze and tape bandage.

  “’E break ’is leg,” Mr. Thibodeau said.

  “I see,” I said quietly and began to move my hands over the surprisingly calm-looking rabbit. Wild rabbits never survive in captivity. As a prey species they are programmed to be terrified of potential predators, so close interaction with humans leads them to have a non-stop interior monologue of “OMG! OMG! OMG!” And then they actually die of the stress. All of them. Usually pretty quickly too. PC was obviously still in a state of shock from having been picked up.

  “Can you give ’im an X-ray?” he asked after I had finished my cursory examination and closed the box.

  “Well, I suppose, but I’
m sorry to tell you that this is not going to end well. It’s wonderful that you want to help him, but the poor little bunny is not going to survive. They never do. He is still in a state of shock that masks his extreme distress. The kindest thing is to put him to sleep.”

  Mr. Thibodeau considered this for a moment and then, speaking slowly and loudly so that he was sure I would understand, said, “But I ’ave ’im a mont’ already. I fix ’is leg. But I want to know ’ow it look on de X-ray now an’ if de bandage can come off.”

  One of the great things about this job is its seemingly boundless capacity for serving up surprise. This was a surprise. I looked at him blankly. “A month?”

  “Yes, a mont’ an’ a few day.”

  “And you put this splint on yourself? And he’s eating and pooping normally and moving around?” I still couldn’t wrap my head around this.

  “Oh yes! Petit Chou is doing very well! We are big friends now. I ’ave to talk wit’ ’im gentle an’ quiet at firs’ so ’e will let me ’elp ’im, but then ’e understan’ me an’ ’e let me.”

  I blinked rapidly. “Um, OK then. Well, sure . . . let’s do an X-ray. Just so you know, it’ll cost about a hundred dollars.” He nodded and began pulling a roll of twenties out of his shirt pocket. “No, no, it’s OK, you don’t pay me now! Pay at reception after.”

  In the X-ray room the technologist and I marvelled at PC’s bandage splint. It was thick enough to provide support, but not so thick that it was excessively cumbersome. It wasn’t perfect, but to be frank, it was better than many of the ones I’ve seen applied by newly graduated veterinarians. And then we further marvelled at the X-ray. There it was — a clean fracture of the tibia, nicely aligned and showing excellent signs of healing. I called Mr. Thibodeau in, showed him the X-ray and congratulated him on doing an excellent job. I told him that the splint could come off in a couple weeks, and then he should look at releasing him back into the wild.