The Gift of Pets: Stories Only a Vet Could Tell

by Bruce R. Coston

  By putting up signs in the lobby of the hospital, we were able to collect in the first months a few hundred dollars from clients whose pets had benefited from Lisa’s skills. Staff members contributed several hundred dollars more. The bulk of the funds contributed came from Dave and from the hospital, which pledged a sizable donation each year for five years.

  But as time went on, it became clear that the ten-thousand-dollar figure would not be reached. Life for others had continued after Lisa’s had been truncated, and the flow of time had carried Lisa’s memory from the loud, tumbling rapids of frenetic action to the slow-moving, deeper, and more shadowed backwaters of nostalgia, where fondness is sweet but quiescent. The momentum for the scholarship waned, and in the fifth year of the campaign, I received a letter from the college, informing me that the languishing moneys in Lisa’s scholarship fund would not be enough for a permanent memorial. I let a long sigh of regret whistle through my lips as I read it. It seemed that, once again, Lisa’s potential had been squandered.

  Life in the office moved on, as well. There were still patients to be seen and animals to be helped. Plunging headlong into work—in my case, the fray of animal illness—helps to dim the effects of emotion, even emotion intensely felt, and my own and the emotions of the staff subsided with time. New people joined the team after Lisa was no longer there. New receptionists, a new technician or two, new assistants, and even a new veterinarian joined the team. They came and went according to the whims of their circumstances. Many of them contributed greatly to the efficiency of the team and the care of the patients and developed interesting and moving personal stories of their own.

  One of the new team members was Krystal Finns. Krystal first joined the staff as a receptionist. She was fairly young, one of the few people I hired soon after she had graduated from high school. She was pleasant and eager, though a bit shy and unsure of herself at first. She had dark hair and eyes and a self-deprecating humor, which accentuated her lack of confidence. I was not sure at first if Krystal would be able to manage the rigors of being a receptionist. Receptionists must be polite and engaging while at the same time maintaining a thick skin and proactive control of their environment. They must be confident in their dealings with a fickle public and have a back bone of steel to handle the onslaught of indifferent and sometimes rude people in a hurry to attend to their companions. They must be clever and witty and armed with an intimate familiarity with a broad range of animal minutiae with which to answer an amazing array of questions. I wasn’t sure Krystal, with her inherent shyness, could master these tasks.

  But she surprised me. As her training progressed, she demonstrated a remarkable ability to deal with all kinds of people, putting them at ease in emotionally stressful situations. She quickly learned the information about the patients that made her credible to clients and invaluable to the practice. Her skills with the computer and her grasp of the functions of the office made her the go-to person when technical glitches arose with the computers or the accounting systems in the office. And as time went on, it became clear that Krystal possessed a gift with the animals, as well.

  There is an evolution that takes place in many veterinary hospital team members. When someone is hired as a receptionist, it takes some six or eight months to learn the role thoroughly. By the time the person becomes proficient at the task, she develops an interest in the medical aspects of the work that we do and the animals we treat. Inevitably, this evolves into a desire to move into the role of a veterinary assistant. This, I suppose, is natural and to be encouraged. But it creates a constant flow of personnel from one role to another and leaves a frequent hole in the receptionist pool that requires filling.

  Krystal soon began to show signs of disquiet in her role as a receptionist and approached me about becoming an assistant. When a need arose for an assistant, I moved Krystal to the position. In this role, too, she showed similar prowess in learning the tasks and quickly became indispensable.

  There was another reason Krystal became a popular member of the staff. We quickly learned that, as an only child, she possessed an amazing power over her parents. This power, though she did not display the typical characteristics of a spoiled child, made it possible for doughnuts, pizza, and other such goodies to materialize in the break room when Krystal placed a quick phone call to her mother.

  I suppose it was inevitable that Krystal would take the next step of evolution for a veterinary hospital team member. Just about the time she had become invaluable as an assistant, she approached me with a new goal. She wanted to go to school to become a technician. This, too, was predictable. Over the years, I have seen the same progression in no fewer than five or six other employees who have gone back to school to complete their vet-tech training.

  Krystal had it all planned out. Her parents were willing to help with the cost of books and gas for the ninety-minute round-trip daily. Her boyfriend had a good job that would support most of their living expenses, though she would still need to work part-time at the office. And tuition would be covered by student loans and a little help from her parents. It would be a sacrifice financially, but she had decided to make it work.

  I was proud of Krystal. She had identified her passion and was taking steps to turn her avocation into a vocation. I knew she would be a very good technician, just as she had been a good receptionist and assistant. It would be difficult for her, but she had demonstrated an ability to complete difficult tasks already, and I knew she would be successful. I wrote a glowing recommendation to include with her application and then waited to hear the results. Krystal was as sure she would not be accepted into the program as I was sure of the opposite. I was not surprised to hear in June that she would be entering school in the fall. Krystal was excited, but edging her enthusiasm was a palpable fear, almost a dread, as the fall term approached.

  When school started, I discovered the reason for her fear. For Krystal, school had never come as easily as learning the myriad tasks in the hospital had. She was one who excelled at hands-on learning, but she struggled with taking copious notes, reading textbooks, and taking tests. The stress that these activities built in her was evident as she came to work in the evenings. Fortunately, in the office she could see how the facts she was learning applied to actual cases in the hospital, and this connection to real patients grounded her classroom learning.

  Then one evening I noticed that Krystal’s demeanor was suddenly and decidedly sullen. I was immediately concerned about her academic status, until she confided that her boyfriend had lost his job. This threw their finances into disarray and threatened her ability to continue in the vet-tech program. She was heartbroken as she contemplated the death of her dream. I tried to console her with platitudes about how things would work out and allow her to continue, but my words rang hollow.

  Krystal slogged through her first semester with rising panic about how she would afford the tuition once the semester had ended. Though she still performed her clinical duties well, I noticed diminishing enthusiasm about her studies and a strikingly pessimistic approach to her future. Her grades began to dip.

  Just before the semester ended in December, there was a sudden change in her attitude and Krystal became the same exuberant person she had been before. I was unsure of the reason for this change until a day or two later as I was opening the mail. Among the bills and the odd Christmas card from an appreciative client was a formal-looking letter with the logo of the community college where Krystal was a student. It was addressed to me, and I opened it with interest.

  Inside was a letter that thanked the hospital for its commitment to donations toward the Lisa Spalding Scholarship fund and proudly announced the first recipient of a sizable scholarship awarded to a deserving student in the technician-training program. The first student to receive the scholarship would be Krystal Finns. The scholarship would make it possible for Krystal to remain in the program.

  There was a catch in my throat as I held the letter in my hands and reread it quickly. M
emories of Lisa flooded my thoughts: the utter transformation of a young girl from quivering insecurity into a settled woman of education, skill, and accomplishment; the sadness of a malignant diagnosis in a person so young; the months of wasting illness, of frantic treatment, and of noble acceptance. All of this sped through my consciousness. But for the first time, there was also a sense of justice, accomplishment, and completion. Not that Krystal’s benefiting from the Lisa Spalding Scholarship was worth the sacrifice. A thousand times no! But something of value had emerged from a story so bleak and sad. I knew how pleased Lisa would be that, as a consequence of the pain she had endured, someone had been able to carry on in the calling that had been life-transforming for her. The fact that it had first benefited someone in Lisa’s own practice was icing on the cake, a completion of the circle of yet another story.

  Since that time, I have received several additional letters announcing recipients of the Lisa Spalding Scholarship. I suppose at some point the initial moneys contributed will run out and the scholarships will end. But each time I feel much the same satisfaction as I did when Krystal’s academic career was salvaged by the scholarship awarded in Lisa’s name.

  There is something profoundly significant about the completion of this circle; something intensely personal about the scholarships themselves. Though they are no doubt appreciated by the recipients, the true significance, I suppose, is lost on them. These scholarships represent more than just a windfall from a fund named after some anonymous decedent. For me, they are a nod to a friend; an acknowledgement of a shared passion; an honor to a fallen comrade in the fight for animals; an affirmation that a life was worthy and valuable and well spent even though it was abbreviated. Not everyone’s memory is sustained by such noble things, but Lisa’s is. Each Christmas, someone who shares her gift and her calling benefits from this award established in her name. It is not enough, of course. But for me, it is of great significance. The Lisa Spalding Scholarship contributes just enough resolution to Lisa’s story to season the ache of bitter nostalgia.

  A New Home

  The clinic constructed when I first opened the hospital was perfectly suited for one doctor and the three or four people I needed to assist me at the time. When the need arose for me to add a second doctor some six or seven years later, I was able to renovate the space, adding an examination room, a break room, and a couple of offices to accommodate the extra people. But when the clientele grew to a point where four doctors were needed, the building was just too small. It had only eighteen hundred square feet of clinical space, into which I had crammed three exam rooms, a postage stamp–size waiting room, a hallway that doubled as a laboratory, a tiny treatment room, a surgery room that could accommodate only one table, and a minuscule X-ray room. The lot was so small that no room was available to enlarge the building’s footprint, and the parking lot allowed only twelve spaces. My staff and I were forced to park along the street.

  For far too long, I ignored the space constraints, until one day when an emergency patient requiring immediate surgery once again postponed the scheduled surgeries and hurled our day into chaos. It struck me that this could not go on indefinitely, and I was forced, against my will, to consider the construction of a new office building.

  For months, Cynthia and I struggled with the decision, spending hours looking over the incredible capital investment this would require. Few people understand the significantly higher financial demands that exist for veterinarians compared to physicians. Setting up an office for us entails more than just a few examination rooms and a nurse or two. We cannot refer our patients next door to the hospital for diagnostic services. We must provide all those functions ourselves. So constructing a new veterinary facility must, by law, include the space and equipment for surgery suites, radiology functions, a laboratory, a pharmacy, hospital wards, and the trained personnel to man them. So considering a new hospital was a mammoth investment.

  In the end, the decision was made for us when we recognized that the overcrowded conditions in the hospital were simply not sustainable. As time went on, we feared that we might well be charged as accessories to murder if we didn’t give our staff a bit more elbow room. We began to look for land in town on which to construct a new building.

  In such a small community, this had to be done under the cloak of anonymity to prevent the rumor mill from whirling out of control. Most of our search was done simply by driving around the area, looking for land that might be ideal, whether or not it was listed for sale, and then making covert calls to real estate agents or trips to the courthouse to look up who the owners of the property were.

  The lot that we settled on was being offered by the state power company, whose real estate overseers were three hours away in Richmond, a fact that worked to our benefit. When the survey revealed that the portion of their land they were willing to sell had no access to the road, the power company was ready to call off the deal. Through some last-minute negotiating with the owners of the land next door, we were able to secure a small triangle of their land that allowed access to the land-locked plot.

  Since these maneuvers took over a year to complete, plans for the building were finished by the time the deal finally occurred. Jace and I had spent many hours tracing out floor plans for the office. Nothing like fourteen years of living with design flaws in one building to inspire a vision for a new space. The company we hired to design and build the office took our hand-scrawled plans, changed them to meet building codes, and returned to us detailed blueprints of a building that was my dream office. I would roll out the plans on our dining room table, spending hours poring over them, envisioning traffic flow, work patterns, and the best way to format the laboratory or position adequate storage. It was intoxicating to plan and dream.

  The nine or ten months during construction were exciting times. To see the office take shape, growing out of a vision in my head into something tangible, was great fun, but it was also exhausting. Details like paint colors, tile selection, waiting room furniture, and countertop design took up enormous reserves of time and energy. Weekly meetings with the contractor and subcontractors kept the process moving despite the inevitable unexpected developments.

  Our enthusiasm was diminished by reality only on the day of the closing, when our signatures were required on the legal documents that committed us to ungodly payments for years to come. Even that, though, could not dampen our excitement for long.

  In the end, we were proud to unveil a state-of-the-art hospital boasting six examination rooms, a spacious treatment room, a surgical suite that would accommodate three surgical tables, a special-procedures room, and a beautiful waiting room for our clients. We more than tripled our clinical space and greatly improved the facilities for our patients, our boarders, our staff and doctors, and the groomer who works with us. We were positioned on three lovely acres at the center of commerce in the community, with room to expand in the future if necessary.

  Moving day was a carefully orchestrated event with more tasks than we could accomplish in one day. We closed the hospital for three days, discharging all the patients and boarders, so we would not have to move animals, too. Each staff member was assigned specific tasks. Some had even invited houseguests to help with the move. Early in the morning on the day of the move, we gathered in the tiny break room in the lower level of the old office building to coordinate our efforts.

  I don’t know what it was about the gathering that stimulated my nostalgia that morning, but I began to remember the accumulation of events in that building that had led to this day. I recalled the details of purchasing the land and building the office; of hiring my first two employees; of long hours spent bent over the surgery table in the tiny surgery room, tediously repairing nasty injuries. I remembered noble patients lost, loyal clients served, and dedicated staff members who had selflessly committed their best efforts to the work. I thought, with sadness, about Lisa and wished she was sitting with us. She would have been so proud of our accomplishments. I thought o
f Tilley, whose stone was under a tree on the west side of the building, and of Cy, whose stone was under another tree on the east side.

  As these thoughts swirled around in my head, I couldn’t resist the urge to share them with the staff. They indulged my nostalgia very well, smiling at the memories they shared with me. A few of them even let a tear or two slide down their cheeks with me as we remembered. Then as a group, we made our way outside to the two trees, where we ceremoniously pulled up Tilley’s and Cy’s marker stones. They would go with us, of course—the very first things moved.

  Cy’s stone now sits under a tree in the front of the new office. Few of our current clients remember now how she used to sit sphinxlike on the reception desk, welcoming people into the office, her one good eye surveying the patients as they filed nervously into the lobby. Even among the staff, there are now only a few who still hold memories of her—just Susan, Rachel, Cynthia, and me, in fact. And yet for me, her memory encompassed the essence of what had made a new building necessary. The same compassion and devotion to the animals that had saved Cy from the destiny that awaited her had been lavished on our other patients. Of course Cy’s stone would make this move with us. Placed with appropriate ceremony in a place of honor, it provided an emotional cornerstone for the new building; CY—EVERYONE’S FRIEND.