The Gift of Pets: Stories Only a Vet Could Tell

by Bruce R. Coston

  I lifted him gently onto the table. He responded with an audible grunt and an indignant nip at my hand. My hands went first to his neck and back, where I expected a dramatically painful reaction to the manipulation along his spine. But he remained quiet. His back was not the issue.

  When I encircled his tiny abdomen with my fingers and gently felt his tummy, though, a firm tangerine-size lump was immediately detectable. It took up most of the space in his belly, just in front of his back legs. Its bulk took me by surprise. But what was even more startling was Gumbo’s frantically excruciating reaction to my gentle squeezing of the mass. He turned to me, a look of surprised offense on his face, and squealed once, loudly.

  “Wow, that really hurts!” I said without thinking.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Adler turned anxious eyes up to me, her hands covering her ears after the awful shriek of pain.

  “There is a large lump in Gumbo’s belly that hurts like anything when I squeeze it even the tiniest bit.”

  “A lump? What, exactly, does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure what the lump is yet, but it’s not supposed to be there. We’re going to have to do some things to find out. I think the first thing we need to do is an ultrasound of his tummy. If everything else looks okay, then we need to go in surgically and get rid of that lump. And we need to do that right away.”

  “You have permission to do anything Gumbo needs to make sure he’s okay.”

  Mrs. Adler left the office, and I took Gumbo to the back and had the technicians shave his little belly. I placed the probe of the ultrasound machine on his tummy and watched the shades of gray echoes coalesce to form an image of a large mass in Gumbo’s crowded abdomen, pushing his intestines and kidneys to the outer edges. A few twists of my wrist let me evaluate each of the organs. All else appeared normal, with no hint of spread to the liver, spleen, or kidneys. The growth appeared distinct and unattached to other organs. It did not appear to invade or encompass any large blood vessels. That was good. All indications were that whatever it was could be removed surgically.

  While the techs prepared Gumbo for the surgery, I went to the phone to report my findings to Mrs. Adler. Gumbo was placed back in his kennel, where he immediately assumed the head-down, tail-up position that I had never seen any other patient exhibit. He maintained this stance even after pain medications and sedatives were administered.

  I did not know quite what to expect as I entered Gumbo’s belly that afternoon. Once I had opened the abdomen with my scalpel, though, a large reddish purple growth practically jumped through the incision of its own accord. The growth had originated in an undescended testicle; invading it and replacing the normal anatomy with an angry tumor that had grown, unchecked, to enormous proportions. It was a simple thing to place a quick ligature around the engorged blood vessels that fed the ugly growth and to snip them beside the sutures. The whole thing was deposited onto the tabletop within just a few minutes.

  A little searching exposed the opposite testicle, only about an eighth the size of its cohort, hiding just behind the kidney. It, too, had failed to migrate from its embryological location down to the scrotum during gestation. Gumbo had never been neutered at all! Since he had come to the rescue organization and Mrs. Adler as a stray, it had been a reasonable assumption to conclude that he had already been under the knife. Unfortunately, retained testicles like Gumbo’s have a much higher rate of tumors in them than testicles that descend as nature intended them to.

  As a man, my heart went out to this brave little dog, who had been suffering the equivalent of a swift kick to the groin for weeks unending. It was about all I could do to continue to stand at the surgery table to complete the procedure. Only the knowledge that Gumbo would feel better upon recovery from anesthesia than he had for more than a month provided me the necessary fortitude to continue.

  Fortunately for Gumbo, most testicular tumors in the dog are benign. Surgical removal, therefore, is usually curative. Still, to be sure this one was benign, it was necessary to send it off for a pathologist to look at microscopically. To be thorough, I directed the technician to include the smaller testicle along with the cancerous one. The size of the mass precluded using one of the small containers that the pathologist provided for such a purpose. I realized this as I watched the technician search through the cabinet in which the miscellaneous jars for oversize biopsies were stored, holding in my hands both the shrunken tiny testicle and the grossly enlarged and angry tumorous one.

  As she stood and removed the lid to the jar that she had selected, she unexpectedly broke into a helpless belly laugh that continued with absolutely uncontrollable mirth. Failing to see the humor in the situation, I waited, dumbfounded, and watched her as she continued to guffaw.

  “What in the world is so funny?” I asked. Her laughter continued despite the confused look on my face. In response, she stood and turned the label of the jar so I could read it.

  It said MIXED NUTS!

  The Sugar Glider

  Every profession has its disadvantages, those unpleasant or disturbing tasks that must be done as part of the job. They come with the territory. For veterinarians, it is the all too frequent chore of performing euthanasias. While it is true that these are almost always done in the context of a long-term loving relationship between a heartbroken family and a sick or dying pet, it is an emotionally draining task nonetheless.

  On the flip side, every profession also comes with its array of benefits that are available in no other line of work. There are myriads of such positive rewards for me as a veterinarian. Among them are the opportunities to develop long-lasting and meaningful relationships with a host of wonderful families—relationships that often outlast the life span of the first animal I have treated.

  I suppose the most exciting professional perk for me is the chance to see and interact with a huge variety of cases and patients. Not only are the types of cases ever new and exciting but the species of animal continually changes, as well. Mine is perhaps the only profession where a doctor can be presented with a patient that is the first individual of that species he has ever seen. This has happened to me on many occasions, and each time the thought of it has sent shivers of anxiety through me. But it has also always kept my practice fresh and stimulating.

  Such was the case the first time I saw a sugar glider. What, you may ask, is a sugar glider? And a good question it is—one that I asked of my receptionist, who was not able to answer the question for me. She came to me one day, asking if I would be willing to see a sugar glider with a tail problem. I told her to tell the caller that I would be more than willing to see a new patient. Then I went straight to my computer, where I looked online at one of the many veterinary forums to learn what I could about the species I was about to treat.

  Sugar gliders, it turns out, are small marsupials from Australia and are about the size and shape of a flying squirrel. I read that they are quick, curious, and fun little pets that are gaining surprising popularity for their energy and responsiveness. I was about to find out for myself.

  Later that day, I was introduced to Perky, a small brown-and-tan-striped mammal with a pouch like a kangaroo and astonishingly large brown eyes and round ears, weighing in at under half a pound. Most gliders have a full, thick, and ever-active bushy tail, which provides balance and is a failsafe barometer of their attitude. Perky’s, though, bent almost double on itself about an inch from its tip and hung, sadly still, beyond that spot.

  Even with an obviously injured tail, Perky was a bundle of nonstop activity, climbing up and down his owner’s torso with bursts so rapid that it was almost difficult to see his little legs moving. Despite the hanging chad of a tail tip, he still flicked his tail when I entered the room, making it clear, even to one who had never seen the species before, that my presence stressed him. Sugar gliders are beautiful and incredibly engaging little animals, and I was immediately enthralled by him.

  “He’s the most beautiful sugar glider I have ever seen. We don’t see
many of these, so I don’t know that much about the species,” I said. The first sentence was absolutely true. The second obfuscated the fact that I knew absolutely nothing about them. “Are they gentle?”

  “Perky is really gentle with people,” said Jeanie, a tall, pleasant woman in her late twenties who was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. “I have five gliders, and Perky is by far the friendliest.”

  With that endorsement, I reached over and snatched the little squirmer from Jeanie’s back, where he was surveying me with wide, intense eyes. Without a moment’s hesitation, he turned and bit me on the finger—not hard enough to draw blood but enough so that my reaction was to jerk my hand away, sending him flying onto the tabletop. Clients always seem to derive sadistic pleasure from any pain their pets inflict upon the doctor. Jeanie was no exception. Laughing appreciatively, she reached toward the tabletop to pick up the little nipper. Perky dodged her and jumped instead onto her shirt again, running around to the side farthest away from me, like a squirrel circling a tree trunk.

  “They do tend to nip a bit,” Jeanie said unnecessarily. “You’ve just got to expect it. Luckily, they don’t bite hard. It’s mostly just a surprise when they get you.”

  “Well, it sure did surprise me,” I responded. In the few seconds I had held the glider, I was amazed at the whipping-cream softness of his dense coat and how light he was in my hand. I had expected there to be more substance to him, but he was only a few ounces of mostly soft fur. “What happened to his tail?”

  “I really don’t know. He was fine when I put him in his cage for the evening. But when I came to get him this morning, his tail was like that. I think he’s broken it.”

  “It sure looks like it. But I’ll need to get him to stay still long enough for me to feel it before I’ll know for sure.”

  I reached and grasped the glider again, this time by the scruff, on the assumption this would allow me to control his mouth. It is a technique that works like magic with fractious cats. For the record, though, it doesn’t work at all for sugar gliders! The scruff was so loose that the little devil was able to turn with his skin still in my grasp and bite me again, this time on the base of my thumb. I did not let go. Fortunately, this time he did. There was hardly room for me to use two hands on him, but two hands were what it took to still him enough for me to feel quickly up and down the length of his tail.

  There could be no doubt that the tail was broken. At the spot of the bend, I could feel the stump of a bone end poking into the skin. There was also a spot of blood left on my finger after palpating the injury—a compound fracture. Surprisingly, Perky hardly reacted to my probing, though I’m sure it must have been painful. His only response was to turn and sink his little teeth into my hand again the instant I released him.

  Gamely, I grabbed the little demon again. My enchantment with the species was waning in proportion to the number of times Perky had tagged me. And Jeanie had said he was an especially friendly glider! I placed my stethoscope on his heaving little chest. The head of the scope was so large, it covered his entire left side. His heart was racing at a speed I could not count—probably over 350 beats a minute. He turned and bit again, but this time he latched onto my stethoscope.

  With gentle fingers, I probed his tummy next. But his torso was too small for me to be able to differentiate internal structures. Besides, in an instant he had turned and bitten me a fourth time on the finger. I had examined everything I was able to, so I let the little animal jump back over onto Jeanie’s shirt.

  I had to give the animal its due. I had handled him a total of less than a minute and already he had bitten me four times—five if not for one poorly aimed attempt. That was one bite every fifteen seconds. No other animal had ever been that successful in prosecuting their aggressive tendencies with me. It was true that the bites did not seem malicious. They were more Perky’s inquisitive attempts to explore the boundaries and assess the resolve of the white-coated monster who was annoying him. Nor did they hurt that much. Really, they were just a nuisance and an insult to me, when I meant him no harm. But the habit was not one that endeared him to me. In fact, with four bites in rapid succession, this machine gun–like biting menace flat ticked me off.

  “So, is it broken?”

  “No question about it. And it’s a compound fracture, too,” I responded. “But as active as he is, there is simply no way to stabilize the tail enough for it to heal. He’d never tolerate a bandage or cast of any kind.”

  “I expect you’ll just have to take it off, right?”

  “I don’t see any other way around it. We can’t leave the tail like it is. And we can’t repair it. I think the only option is to snip it off. He’ll still have enough of a tail that neither you nor he will miss it much.”

  “Can you do that today?”

  “Yes, it shouldn’t take too long. Why don’t you leave him with me and pick him up later in the day.”

  I placed Perky in his little transport cage and took him to the treatment room. I would not be able to administer any intravenous drugs to him because of his size and explosive activity level. Instead, I slid his whole head into a mask, through which I pumped oxygen and isoflurane, an anesthetic gas. Isoflurane is a wonderfully safe and effective gas that can be used to anesthetize most anything. Within a minute or less, the frantic struggling of the tiny legs stilled and the breathing slowed. Carefully, I dissected the end of the broken vertebra free from the overlying skin and snipped it off, leaving enough skin to place two quick sutures to close the wound over the stump. The whole procedure was completed in less than three minutes.

  Then the excitement began! I pulled Perky’s head out of the anesthetic mask and watched for the respiratory movements of his chest wall. There were none. I felt a cold sweat pop up on my face. I reached with my fingers and felt the chest wall for the heartbeat. Though I felt no heartbeat with my fingers, I did feel my own pulse rise as panic began to set in. The mantra of one of my veterinary school professors flashed instantly through my mind: “In an emergency, take your own pulse first.” Mine was definitely rapid at that moment.

  I snatched the inert form up in my hands, inserted his mouth and nose between my lips, and gave him several quick, short bursts of air, feeling his little chest rise as I did so. With my fingers, I quickly administered a few chest compressions before repeating the artificial respiration. With a wave of relief, I felt Perky’s body stiffen and his legs give a quick jerk.

  How that animal went from dead to running around the treatment room in less than ten seconds, I will never know. But before I knew it, he had jumped from my hands onto the surgery table and then climbed under the stainless-steel grate covering the sink. I had to throw a towel over him like a fishnet to gain enough control to place him back in his carrier, pleased with myself for successfully bringing him back from the clutches of death.

  But my revelry was short-lived. No sooner had Perky been placed back into his carrier than he turned his attention to the tip of his now-shorter tail. In the span of ten seconds, he had snipped the sutures with his sharp incisors. With nothing now closing the wound, his obsessive licking quickly opened it enough so that it started bleeding.

  I scooped him up again and replaced his head in the anesthetic mask. When his movements slowed, I quickly placed a couple drops of tissue glue onto the tip of his tail and held the wound closed until the glue had sealed. I then had my technician apply pressure on the tail tip until Perky had once again woken up enough to scamper out of her grasp and back into his carrier.

  The glue seemed to stymie him. It was clear that the shortened tail held a fascination for him, since he immediately pulled the amputated stump up to his mouth and licked at it. Fortunately, the glue must have had a bad taste because, though he tentatively tasted it, he did not open the wound again. Putting a makeshift Elizabethan collar on him was out of the question. He was simply too amped to tolerate such an indignity.

  And that was my first introduction to the highly charged and caffeinated wor
ld of sugar gliders. In the course of one short interaction, I had been introduced to a new species, been bitten by it four times in one minute, anesthetized it twice, performed an amputation on it requiring two methods of surgical closure, and successfully resuscitated it with mouth-to-mouth respirations and chest compressions. I was exhausted.

  Perky, on the other hand, seemed none the worse for wear. He went home that night, and though his tail was shorter, he seemed as eager for trouble as he had been when he came in. The Energizer Bunny has nothing on sugar gliders. Cats are supposed to have nine lives. I was not sure how many lives sugar gliders are given. At least one of Perky’s had been consumed that afternoon. As for me, the stress of the afternoon came pretty close to exhausting my own supply. I do know that the stress of treating that sugar glider took a toll on me. Sure, variety is the spice of life, but sometimes spices can get just a little too hot!

  Denouement

  Lisa’s passing left us weak and drained. So much emotion had been invested in the process, so much energy in the fight. So much had been stolen by the disease and its treatment. So unfair had been the indifferent election of Lisa by Death himself, piled, as it were, on top of the other sweeping inequities Lisa had known. It was just too difficult to explain to two remaining orphans and a grieving mother; too overwhelming on the tenuous emotions of the reeling team of people in the office. The loss was too much to contemplate, too much to accept.

  Lisa’s funeral came and went, and still the sheering strain of grief persisted. My mind fought against the enormity of the loss. Surely, I thought, there must be something productive, something meaningful that will emerge from the aching chasm of sadness and frustration left by Lisa’s death. But nothing came to me except new waves of sadness.

  Dave, apparently, experienced some of the same thoughts. Unlike me, Dave had more motivation. Three or four weeks after Lisa died, he came to me with the idea of establishing a scholarship in her honor at the college where she had trained to become a veterinary technician. A few quick phone calls to the school provided the details of how to go about getting such a fund started. We learned that a permanently endowed scholarship could be established in Lisa’s memory with a principal amount of ten thousand dollars. We could have five years to build the fund to that amount. But if the minimum endowment of ten thousand dollars was not reached in that five-year span, the money donated would be awarded in scholarships only until the principal was exhausted.