After the tech and I wrestled Edward into his travel kennel and the tech left to bring some of the equipment out to the car first, Mrs. Heinzel turned to me and said, “I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be around, or, from the looks of things, how much longer Edward is either, so I wanted to tell you this now while I have the chance.” She paused, looked me in the eye and then chuckled one of her trademark chuckles. “Edward and I were made for each other. When I was a baby, they couldn’t figure out whether I was a boy or a girl. I had both parts until they decided to make me a girl. So, we’re a real pair, Edward and I.”
I cannot overstate how extraordinary this sounded coming out of the mouth of a someone who looked like a sweet old granny from a vintage television show. It was yet another occasion in my life when I was left fumbling for an appropriate response. “Oh my,” was the best I could come up with. She just smiled and patted my arm.
Edward’s problem ended up not being immediately life threatening, and they both lived for a little while yet. He hated me until his dying day. After Mrs. Heinzel died, her family gave me a lovely pencil sketch of Edward, which hangs above my desk to this day, glaring at me. I think he’s trying to teach me something, although I’m still not sure what.
Sniff the Teddy
Ms. Baker was a great client — one of those you wish you could clone. She always asked intelligent questions, always listened carefully to my advice and was always cheerful. Moreover, her dog, Rumpelstiltskin — Rumpel for short — was a very sweet little poodle cross who was a pleasure to look after. I would guess that Ms. Baker was in late middle age, and I knew that she lived alone. She lived in a small apartment not far from the clinic, one of the few that still allowed dogs. And Ms. Baker was absolutely devoted to Rumpel. It was obvious that he was the sun around which the planets of her life revolved, yet she managed somehow not to spoil him either. In any case, it was a true love story, so when Rumpel eventually died, she was absolutely stricken with grief.
About four months after Rumpel’s passing, I saw that Ms. Baker was my next appointment, but without a new pet, so I assumed that she had come to ask my advice about when and how to consider getting another dog. When I came into the exam room I could see that she had a laptop and a large plastic shopping bag. We greeted each other warmly, and I expressed my condolences again on Rumpel’s passing. Ms. Baker then told me that she wanted to show me some pictures of him and proceeded to start up a slideshow on her laptop. There must have been close to a hundred photos of Rumpel, slowly and artistically fading one to the next, set to soft piano music. It was heartbreaking, but honestly, after the first 30 or 40, I was becoming a little anxious about how long this was taking and, moreover, I was starting to steal sideways glances at the shopping bag. Home baking for me? Big box of chocolates? Bottle of wine? It’s a terrible thing to admit, but it’s true.
The slideshow eventually ended, and I told her what a lovely tribute it was. Then she reached into the bag. I leaned forward. She pulled out a battered old teddy bear with one button eye dangling from a thread and an ear missing. More or less the opposite of a bottle of wine.
“Dr. Schott, I have to ask you something very important.”
“Yes, please do.”
“Can you tell different species apart by the smell of their urine?”
This was not what I was expecting. Wondering where this could possibly be going, I answered cautiously, “Um, well, I don’t think I can tell neutered and spayed cats and dogs apart that easily, but the smell of an un-neutered cat’s pee is quite distinctive.”
“What about rodents?”
“Oh, well, that’s not so hard.” Warming to my subject, I went on, “Rats and mice have unique urine odours, as do guinea pigs and rabbits, although rabbits are not technically rodents.”
“That’s terrific!” Ms. Baker was beaming. I was still completely baffled. Then she held the teddy bear out towards me. “This was Rumpel’s favourite toy. Can you sniff it for me please, and tell me if you smell mouse pee?”
OK, a little odd to be sure, but she’s upset that mice might be peeing on her beloved dog’s teddy. Fair enough. I gamely took the bear. It was a bit damp all over. “That’s a lot of mice,” I thought. I took a cautious sniff. Faintly urinous. But definitely not rodent urine. Then I blotted the bear with a piece of paper towel. Yes, it did look like pee.
“It does seem to be urine, but I’m sure it’s not mice, Ms. Baker.” I was proud of my deduction.
“That’s wonderful! Thank you so much! I’m so relieved!”
I clearly looked perplexed, so she went on.
“See, Dr. Schott, I was really hoping that it wasn’t mice because that means that it was Rumpel!”
“Ah . . .” was all I could manage.
“He’s come back! Rumpel used to pee on his teddy all the time. He loved it so much. It makes me feel so good that he’s back! Now I can lay in bed at night and know that Rumpel is down there enjoying his teddy like he always did.”
There really is no way to respond to something like this. I made a few “oh” and “huh” noises and then gently guided the conversation to how she was doing and whether she had looked into grief counselling. She left, smiling and visibly elated. I shook my head sadly and thought, “Poor woman, she’s snapped.”
That evening I told my wife, Lorraine, the story. She listened attentively, appropriately astonished at the right moments, and then when I was done she looked me square in the eyes and was quiet for a long moment. “Philipp, you know who was peeing on that teddy.” It was more a statement than a question.
“No, funny, I hadn’t actually thought about it because the whole scenario was so bizarre.” But now I began to feel a faint tingle of unease run through my brain.
“It’s obvious. It was her.”
I used to tell this story a lot, and I enjoyed telling it because it invariably got a strong reaction — gasps of horror or shrieks of hilarity or both, depending on the crowd. But as time goes on it somehow makes me sadder. I don’t tell it very often anymore.
He Ate What?!
Dogs and cats, but especially dogs, will eat all manner of bizarre things. I have already introduced you to Billy the Lab, who on three separate occasions ate rocks exactly the right size and shape to go down into the stomach and then no further. He had three surgeries. Then there was Happy, the Edwinsons’ dachshund, who ate a piece of lingerie that on removal was determined not to belong to Mrs. Edwinson. Awkward!
But the most recent entrant into the “He Ate What?!” Hall of Fame was Bouncer Rodgers. Bouncer was an aptly named young black Lab cross who was actually seen by one of my colleagues in the practice rather than by me, but I was there, and I know she won’t mind me telling this story.
Bouncer was rushed in by Mrs. Rodgers one otherwise quiet Monday afternoon. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him! He was fine this morning, and then just now I found him staggering, barely able to stand!”
Sure enough, although Bouncer could walk, he was extremely wobbly and kept falling over. His pupils were dilated, and he had a facial expression that could only be read as pathetic confusion. As Bouncer was young and otherwise healthy, my colleague immediately suspected poisoning and told Mrs. Rodgers that the next step was to induce vomiting. Mrs. Rodgers readily agreed, and the hapless Bouncer was taken into the treatment area to have his stomach emptied.
It’s not always that easy to induce vomiting (nor is it always recommended — check with a veterinarian before trying to do it yourself), but with Bouncer, it was gratifyingly easy and gratifyingly productive. Out came an enormous wad of green plant material and a small shiny tan coloured object.
Marijuana.
And a condom.
My colleague debated briefly how to present this information to Mrs. Rodgers, a conservative-looking middle-aged woman, but decided that the direct approach is always the best. There was a moment of silence a
s Mrs. Rodgers processed it. After being reassured that Bouncer would quickly make a full recovery, her facial expression changed from concern to bewilderment to dawning realization to anger in a matter of seconds. It was like watching time-lapse video of weather systems.
“My son! My son’s room is in the basement. Bouncer was down there this morning.”
An hour or so later, a very tall, very skinny, very ashen-faced red-haired teenager came in to check on Bouncer. He didn’t say anything to his mother, and he studiously avoided making eye contact with any of the staff.
About a Duck
His name was Puddles. His photo still hangs on the wall above my desk. Our relationship began, like so many, with a phone call from a client.
“Philipp, Mrs. Wickland is on the phone. She wants to know whether you’ll see a duck.”
This immediately got my attention. To be honest, I sometimes only half tune in to what I’m being told as I attempt to catch up on my office work by ineptly multi-tasking. I put down my pen and turned to face the receptionist. “Did you say duck?”
“Yup, a duck.”
I picked up the phone. “Hi there, Dr. Philipp Schott speaking. I understand you have a duck now?”
“Yes! His name is Puddles! I got him from my daughter. The house was so empty after Al and Bandit died.”
Al was her husband and Bandit their dog. Al had been an interesting guy and was always one of my favourite clients. He was short and round and had a gravelly voice. He was probably in his sixties, and you could tell he used to be quite muscular. He told me that he had once been a biker and that if I ever needed help dealing with a difficult client, I should ask him because he “still knew some guys” who would straighten things out. I limited my response to a smile and a nod. He also wanted to know whether he could volunteer to walk dogs for us at Christmas. We didn’t have any patients stay over that Christmas, and then Al died of cancer the next year.
It turned out that there was nothing wrong with Puddles, and that Mrs. Wickland just wanted him to get a check-up. So I read up on ducks as best as I could in advance, and then on the appointed day Puddles waddled in the front door, herded gently by Mrs. Wickland. Puddles was a standard white farm duck. Have you ever been up close to one? They are surprisingly large. He was easily ten pounds, and when he stood tall he reached halfway up my thigh. Now imagine the scene in the waiting room. A half dozen clients, a couple dogs, a couple cats, and in walks a duck. You could pretty much see the pupils of the cats’ eyes dilate from across the room. One dog was indifferent while the other, a little Cairn terrier, began barking furiously until the owner settled him down. Puddles was as cool as a proverbial cucumber. He ignored everyone, let out a few soft quacks, strutted (a waddling kind of strut, mind you) about the waiting room and generally assumed the air of having claimed the place.
The examination went well, despite Puddles’s clear indignation at aspects of it, and I was able to pronounce him healthy, although I was at pains to make it clear to Mrs. Wickland that I was far from being a duck expert. The years went by, and Puddles came in regularly for his check-ups and once or twice for relatively minor foot and skin issues. I always looked forward to his visits. I shouldn’t play favourites among my patients, but he was definitely a favourite. He was treated like a rock star by the staff and the other clients, and his arrival never failed to spark delighted gasps.
Then one day Mrs. Wickland called to say that Puddles wasn’t well. He had been eating less and less, and his bowel movements were much wetter than normal. When I looked at him it was obvious that he had lost weight, and he wasn’t nearly as feisty as he usually was. Also, it became clear that it wasn’t watery stool she had seen, but excessive urination mixing with the stool. We ran some tests and determined that his kidneys were failing. He was eight years old at that point, which is elderly for a duck. We struggled along with a few attempts at treatment as Mrs. Wickland wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet, but nothing made any difference. With tremendous sadness, one blustery March day, we let Puddles go.
Spring is a busy time, so despite his celebrity status, I soon stopped thinking about Puddles until six months later when Mrs. Wickland phoned. I hadn’t spoken to her since the day of the euthanasia. She had trouble keeping the emotion out of her voice, but she wanted reassurance that she had done everything she possibly could for him. She missed him terribly, and she always would. Love is blind. It is blind to gender, colour, age, shape, religion, and it is absolutely blind to species.
Epilogue
Haiku for My Dog
Barker at the dawn;
Thief of snacks and foul tissues;
Soft brown eyes meet mine.
We have cats whom we love dearly and who deserve to have their stories told as well, but this is about my dog — my first dog, so many years after my boyhood dreams. His name is Orbit, and it’s his birthday today.
I didn’t think we were ready for a dog. We were busy people with two young children and two dog-averse cats. We both worked, and we travelled a lot. But my daughter changed our minds. “When will I ever get a dog?” she sobbed. This woke something in me that had been sleeping for 40 years.
As intended, Orbit was my daughter’s dog. She loved him so much. She brushed him and fed him and helped train him and walked him at least some of the time. But then, in almost imperceptible increments, this changed. Did the novelty slowly wear off for her, as everyone said it would? Did he grow on me in soft, stealthy steps, as everyone said he would? Yes, both, I think. My daughter still loves him very much, of course, but I love him now too, fiercely even. I brush him and feed him and walk him and spend a ridiculous portion of the commute home looking forward to his greeting. And the hilarious thing is that he isn’t even objectively a “good dog.” He’s actually a bit of an idiot. But he is a lovable idiot, and, naïve as I know it might be, I manage to believe that his heart is pure. And this is really all that matters.
So now when I enter an exam room and see a dog sitting beside their human companion, I have a more personal and immediate sense of what can pass between the two of them.
Thank you for this, Orbit. And for those greetings and dawn walks and everything else. Happy birthday.
Acknowledgements
I could go one of two ways in thanking people. I could craft an exhaustive list of family and friends and teachers and professors and bosses and mentors and colleagues and staff and clients and patients who have positively influenced my career or my writing and have thereby contributed to this book. This list would quite literally go on for pages. Nobody wants to read that. And I would inevitably forget someone.
So instead, I will go the second way and just highlight the ones who have made the largest difference.
I am the veterinarian I am today in large measure due to the mentorship of two extraordinary colleagues: Dr. Barb Deviaene and the late Dr. Bob Brandt. School teaches the science of veterinary medicine, but you need to work with people like Barb and Bob to learn the art of veterinary medicine.
And I am the writer I am today at least in part due to my mother. Praise was scarce in my house when I was growing up. The unspoken default expectation was that we would do well. No need to talk about it. Consequently, I was floored when one day after seeing an A+ on an essay my mother told me that she thought I had always had a knack for writing. I’m sure she doesn’t even remember that stray remark, but it stuck with me and became my lodestone.
I also would like to thank my publisher, Jack David, for making what I had assumed would be an arduous process so easy and even enjoyable.
Finally, I do have to thank my clients and their pets. There is no way to pick out a few, so I will thank all of them together. With their trust and patience, they have made my career and they have made this book. These are their stories.
About the Author
Philipp Schott practises in Winnipeg, Manitoba, where he manages one of the largest pet hospitals in t
he province. He blogs frequently and travels extensively.
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Copyright
Copyright © Philipp Schott, 2019
Published by ECW Press
665 Gerrard Street East
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4M 1Y2
The Accidental Veterinarian Page 16
