by Ingrid King
Adventures in Veterinary Medicine:
What Working in Veterinary Hospitals Taught Me About Life, Love, and Myself
by
Ingrid King
While all the incidents in this book did happen, the names and personal characteristics of some of the animals and people have been changed. Any resulting resemblance to animals or persons living or dead is entirely unintentional and coincidental.
For Feebee, who led me to the wonderful profession of veterinary medicine, and for all the cats who have inspired me to follow my bliss.
Table of Contents
Introduction: Finding Your Bliss in Unexpected Places
Beast
Diesel
Virginia
Oliver
Jordan
Jake
Kennel Work
Finding a New Vet
Life after Veterinary Medicine
Acknowledgments
Introduction: Finding Your Bliss in Unexpected Places
I wasn’t one of those lucky people who knew from an early age what they wanted to be when they grew up. It took a lot of trial and error before I found my path.
I started my professional life by translating manuals for a computer manufacturer. Then I wrote and translated ad copy for a magazine about diesel and gas turbines. (Can you stand the excitement?) After that, I worked as a travel agent for a while. Eventually, I ended up at a financial services corporation, beginning as a receptionist and working my way up into middle management. After fifteen years in corporate America, I had had enough. At that point in my life, I was looking for purpose and meaning in all areas of my life, including my work. And that’s when I discovered veterinary medicine.
Feebee, my first cat and the love of my life for almost sixteen years, who got me through a period of great upheaval in my life in the mid-90s when my marriage of thirteen years ended and my mother died, all within a four-month period, developed bladder stones—most likely as a result of absorbing much of my stress. Cats are sensitive creatures, and cats and their humans often mirror each others’ physical and emotional states. Cats are natural healers and sometimes take on their persons’ problems, often in an attempt to heal them. Because of the shared energy in such a close relationship, energetic imbalances are shared as well.
Feebee and I ended up spending a lot of time at various veterinary hospitals while he was going through treatment and ultimately, surgery (he fully recovered and lived for several more years before succumbing to lymphoma at age sixteen). One afternoon, I was sitting in the waiting room of an animal hospital while they were taking X-rays of Feebee in the back, and I looked around and found myself wondering what it might be like to work in that type of environment. The thought wouldn’t let go. I started to do some research and saw an ad for an office manager position at a nearby vet clinic. I knew my business background more than qualified me for the position, even though I knew very little about the inner workings of a veterinary practice at the time. I applied and was invited for an interview. The clinic’s owner offered me the position. Sadly, I couldn’t afford to take it at the time. The one aspect of veterinary medicine I hadn’t researched very well was the pay; the salary offered was not enough for me to support myself. So I asked whether I could volunteer at the clinic instead. The owner laughed and said, “Sure, why not?”
My first day as a volunteer at the clinic arrived. I was so excited. I didn’t really know what to expect. I was introduced to the head technician, whom I was going to be shadowing all day. I was told that due to insurance restrictions, I wasn’t allowed to touch any of the animals, which was a bit of a disappointment. I had sort of figured that if I was going to be allowed to do anything, it wouldn’t be too terribly glamorous. I was prepared to do lowly things like cleaning cages and emptying trash, if that’s what it took. I just wanted to be in a clinic environment and learn as much as I could through observation and by osmosis.
The first thing the technician showed me how to do was to set up a fecal test. In retrospect, I think it was a test on her part to see how dedicated I was to this volunteering gig. She showed me how to separate out a small amount of stool from the (giant! smelly!) sample the dog’s owner had dropped off, and how to set it up in a small plastic vial with a solution that would allow any parasites that might be in the sample to float to the top. Icky, stinky, nasty work.
I was in heaven.
That’s when I realized it: I had found my bliss. If I could feel this happy playing with a fecal sample, surely I had found my calling!
It was the beginning of a twelve-year journey. I was eventually hired as a part-time receptionist at the clinic, and then I went to work part time at my own vet’s clinic, where I was trained as a veterinary assistant. I did everything from cleaning cages to answering phones to giving injections and monitoring anesthesia. I reduced my hours at my day job as a business analyst at a financial-services corporation to part-time status, and for the next three years I worked pretty much seven days a week at either the day job or the vet clinic. Being at the vet clinic never felt like work, though, no matter how many hours I spent there—another sign that I had found my passion! In 1998, I quit my corporate job and took a manager position at a vet clinic, in essence combining my business background with my newfound love for veterinary medicine.
You really can find your bliss in the most unexpected places!
This collection of essays features some of my experiences during the twelve years I spent working in the veterinary profession. From special cats and dogs that touched my heart to heroic veterinarians and staff who are in the business of saving lives every single day, I will give you a close-up and personal glimpse into the world of a veterinary clinic. I met some pretty amazing cats, dogs, and people during those years. The memories of some of these animals—as well as the lessons they taught—have stuck with me, and have influenced my life in big and small ways. I’m calling this collection Adventures in Veterinary Medicine because for me, that’s what my journey in this wonderful profession was: a never-ending adventure. No two days were ever alike, just like no two animals were ever the same.
All of the essays are based on true stories. In some cases, the names and some of the details have been changed, either to protect the privacy of the animals and people involved, or because my memory may be a little fuzzy after all these years.
Beast
Beast was a big bruiser of a cat. He was a brown-and-white tabby with a huge head, giant paws, and caution stickers all over his veterinary record. Most veterinary clinics won’t actually write “beware of cat” or “killer cat” in their records. Instead, they use a sticker system to indicate whether an animal may be challenging to work with: aggressive, fearful, a biter—you get the idea.
Beast’s chart had the highest number of stickers I’d seen in any of our charts.
Beast’s owners traveled quite a bit, and since Beast had some urinary tract issues, they were not comfortable leaving him at home with a pet sitter, so they boarded him at the clinic with us. Beast hated being confined in a cage. But even more than being in a cage, he hated it when anyone so much as approached his cage, and he made his displeasure known by hissing, growling and throwing himself at the cage’s door. It made taking care of him challenging, to say the least, but we did the best we could, and usually, we’d let our most experienced technicians, our “cat wranglers,” deal with him. But on weekends, whoever had kennel duty had to find a way to clean out Beast’s cage, give him fresh food and water, and change his litter box. At the time, I worked a lot of weekends as a kennel attendant, so the odds were good that I would have to deal with Beast at some point.
I had been trained in safe and proper
feline restraint techniques – techniques that made handling safe for both the cat being handled, and for the person handling the cat. But I’d never had to work with a fractious cat without another person to help me. Rather than using the restraint techniques I had been taught, I decided to try a different approach. I completely ignored Beast’s posturing, hissing and growling while I took care of the other animals in the kennel. Whenever I passed his cage, I quietly talked to him, but never acknowledged his aggressive behavior. When I had taken care of everyone else, I walked back to Beast’s cage and just stood and just quietly talked to him for a while. And much to my delight, he calmed down, and just sat at the front of the cage watching me with a puzzled expression on his face. Why wasn’t I afraid of him? Why didn’t I cower in fear like all the other people he’d so successfully scared off? Eventually I slowly unlatched the door to his cage and opened it slightly. Beast didn’t react. No hissing, growling, or lunging. What I felt coming from him, more than anything, was curiosity. I slowly opened the cage door wider, talking to him all the while. He stood up. I remained calm, trying very hard not to flinch. What happened next is not something I could have predicted in my wildest dreams. This big cat, who had terrorized our entire staff, put his paws on my shoulders and buried his face in the crook of my neck and started a rumbling purr. He rubbed his face against mine, never once letting go of his “hug” around my shoulders.
I was eventually able to pick him up and move him to an empty cage while I cleaned his cage and gave him fresh food, water, and a clean litter box. I was able to put him back in his cage without any fuss. He kept rubbing up against the front of the cage even after I had closed the door, purring all the while. The Beast had been tamed.
He was never this calm with any of the other staff members after this experience, but he also wasn’t as aggressive anymore. I often wondered what changed for him that day. Was it that someone didn’t expect him to be aggressive, so he didn’t act aggressive? Had he just finally reached a point where he was so starved for human affection after a few days at the clinic that he realized how counterproductive his behavior was?
Things aren’t always what they seem. A fractious, aggressive cat may simply be starved for attention. A big, intimidating tom with a name that is meant to inspire fear may be, in reality, a great big teddy bear.
The lesson for me in this story was to trust my instincts. It may not have been the smartest choice on a rational level, but it felt like the right thing to do. Intuition never lies.
Diesel
Diesel was brought into the animal hospital by a client who had found him by the side of the road, barely breathing and clearly in pain. His long black and white coat was matted, and he was covered in gasoline and motor oil. The fumes coming off of him were enough to warrant wearing a gas mask—and yes, you guessed it, that’s how he got his name. Veterinary clinic staff members sometimes have a warped sense of humor when it comes to naming strays.
When our veterinarian examined him, it turned out that he had a broken pelvis and multiple contusions. They gave him pain medication, and then the staff went to work with a mild detergent, washing the gas and oil off of him. Diesel was patient and didn’t resist any of these treatments; he simply seemed relieved that his ordeal by the side of the road was over.
He was set up in a cage with a soft blanket, plenty of food, and a warming lamp. Once his fur had dried from the bath he was given, he got a gentle brushing. The cat underneath all that gasoline and motor oil was a beauty. He was a bit emaciated and had clearly been living outdoors fending for himself, but he had a loving and affectionate disposition, which made us believe that at some point, he may have been someone’s pet. His wonderful personality got him plenty of attention, petting, and being fussed over by everyone on the staff while he was recuperating.
The type of pelvic fracture he had did not require surgery, he simply needed to be kept quiet to allow the bones to heal naturally, and he received supportive care during his recovery. No owner came forward to claim him during this time, so after a couple of weeks, he went to Casey’s House—coincidentally, the same private rescue group where Buckley, the subject of my book Buckley’s Story: Lessons from a Feline Master Teacher, came from. Given Diesel’s personality, we didn’t think it would take long for him to be adopted.
A few days after he went to Casey’s House, Diesel began to develop some disturbing neurological symptoms, so he was brought back to our animal hospital for observation and care. Since he initially came to the hospital covered in gasoline and motor oil, there was certainly the possibility that absorbing these toxic chemicals through his skin could have caused these symptoms. However, since his vaccine history was unknown and he had clearly been a stray, rabies could not be ruled out.
Rabies is zoonotic, which means it can be transmitted from animals to humans. The only way rabies can be diagnosed with 100% certainty is through a test on the animal’s brain tissue, and for this, the animal has to be euthanized. The thought of euthanizing a beautiful cat like Diesel without being sure that he really had rabies was emotionally challenging for all of us, but we also had to think of the risk to the humans who had come into contact with him. Rabies is transmitted by the saliva of an infected animal, and contact with even a minor skin wound on a human can present a risk. Rabies, once contracted, is always fatal if prophylactic injections are not started within 24 to 48 hours after infection. Our hospital had a policy that only staff members who were vaccinated against rabies could handle the occasional injured wildlife that was brought into our clinic, but we had not enforced this policy for stray cats, even though in hindsight, we should have. Almost everyone on our staff had at some point petted and touched Diesel, whether or not they had been vaccinated.
The thought of euthanizing this beautiful cat if there was even a chance that he could recover was devastating. Thankfully, Diesel made the decision easy for us. He declined so rapidly, and it was clear that he was suffering, so euthanasia was not only the right thing to do for the humans involved, but also for him. His rabies test came back positive. Almost twenty staff members had to undergo a series of rabies vaccinations.
This story will always stick with me not because it was a hospital manager’s worst nightmare—making sure that everyone who came into contact with Diesel was identified and appraised of the risk and the need to get the series of injections, reassuring scared and worried employees, arranging for the health department to schedule the injections for our staff, dealing with the insurance companies involved—but also, because of Diesel. Even though he had contracted this horrible disease in addition to being hit by a car, at least, thanks to the good Samaritan who brought him to our clinic, he was loved and cared for during the last few weeks of his life, even if it was at a shelter and a veterinary hospital. And in the end, he did not die alone.
Diesel taught me multiple lessons. On a practical level, I blamed myself for not enforcing our policy about not letting unvaccinated staff handle stray animals. But on a more important level, our experience with Diesel also illustrated how deeply veterinary staff care about their patients – often to the point of risking their own health.
Virginia
As those of you who read my book Buckley’s Story know, Buckley was my office cat at the animal hospital I managed for eight years before she came to live with Amber and me. She wasn’t the first one, though. Not the first tortie, and not the first office cat. Before Buckley, and even before Amber, there was Virginia.
I first met Virginia when I went for my first interview for the hospital manager position at the Middleburg Animal Hospital. The hospital was then owned by Drs. Jack Love and Janet McKim, a husband-and-wife team. I had spoken with Janet on the phone briefly before my interview, but really didn’t know what to expect. This was in the days before every animal hospital had a website. I knew what I was looking for in a potential employer as far as practice philosophy, and in addition, I was looking for a clinic that had that intangible right “feel.”
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sp; As soon as I walked into the waiting room of the hospital, I knew I had found the right place. There was an old-fashioned wooden bench and a rocking chair, and the walls were covered with photos of dogs and cats. A large freestanding cage held several kittens. When Janet came up to greet me, I was even more sure. I instantly liked her. She took me back to her office and began the interview.
After a few minutes, a beautiful tortoiseshell cat walked into the office. “That’s Virginia,” explained Janet. “She’s one of our two hospital cats.” Virginia proceeded to walk over to me; she looked up at me and then dug her claws into my legs and used them as a scratching post. I wondered whether that was part of the interview—a test, perhaps, to see how I would react? In hindsight, I realized that, of course, this was the moment she marked me as her own. I had dressed up for the interview and was wearing a skirt and pantyhose; I can honestly say it was the first and only time in my life I left an interview with runs in my pantyhose caused by kitty claws! The interview went well, and I left feeling hopeful that I would be offered the job.
A couple of weeks later, Janet called to invite me to go out to dinner with her and Jack. We sealed the deal over dinner, and I spent the next eight wonderful years working at the Middleburg Animal Hospital. And the fact that Virginia was part of the deal only increased my happiness.
She was estimated to be about ten years old. She was FIV positive. FIV is the feline version of the AIDS virus. It is contagious, but is primarily spread through bite wounds. Casual, non-aggressive contact does not spread the virus, and it is not zoonotic, which means it cannot be spread from cats to humans. However, Virginia’s owners were not comfortable keeping an FIV-positive cat and had left her at the animal hospital for euthanasia. Somehow, the hospital staff never got around to it, and by the time someone remembered, she had wormed her way into too many hearts for them to go through with it.
