I was doing most of the small animal work for the clinic by the time Christmas neared. Jim was happy to be relieved of it, and each of us was enjoying concentrating on our particular areas of practice. Many days he would be out on the road from morning until night, only making brief stops at the clinic. By the time Jim had dropped his dirty coveralls and equipment in piles and pulled out all the drawers to find what he needed to take out again, it looked like a hurricane had struck. Usually this loading and unloading procedure was carried out at the same time as an animated telephone conversation or two, pacing with the extra-long phone cord. Then he’d be off again, leaving us to recover our sense of order and get back to work.
Most days were fairly routine in the small animal department, as indeed they are in any job. I might have several dogs or cats to spay or neuter in a morning. Sometimes there were teeth or ears to clean or porcupine quills to remove. We saw a range of dogs from the mangy, neglected hounds that lived their lives tied to their houses, to pampered lap pets. The hounds had certain special problems one might call occupational hazards. We treated them frequently for lacerations of the feet and infected wounds incurred fighting with wild animals. Sometimes their injuries would be as a result of getting caught in other hunters’ traps.
One such case was Clyde, a large, languid, bloodhound male who had been missing from home for two days. The owners found him, hungry and in pain, with his hind foot caught in a trap. Unbelievably, when they released him he hobbled twenty feet only to get his front foot on the same side caught in another one. They brought him to us with severe damage to the hind foot and more superficial damage to the front.
Examining the worst foot, I was extremely worried about saving it. Although the bones weren’t broken, the soft tissues were crushed terribly and the footpads were swelling from lack of circulation. I told the owners we would dress it and hope to save it, but we might not know for two weeks if collateral circulation would take over. If it didn’t, the foot would develop gangrene and the leg would have to be amputated. They wanted us to try and they came regularly to hold him for the bandage changes, but the foot looked worse and worse. The front paw was healing adequately, but it appeared that one of the large pads was going to slough off it as well. The unfortunate fellow was getting around on two legs.
He was a remarkable dog, and his stoic nature allowed the owners to take over the dressing of the wounds themselves. I told them to bring him back on the fourteenth day and we would make a decision then. When I peeled off the smelly bandage I wondered how lay people could have coped with such a sight. Clyde was losing the whole foot, and they knew when they saw my face that we had no choice other than to amputate.
The surgery went well, and I was able to remodel the front foot at the same time. By the time Clyde had his sutures out, he had grown entirely used to his handicaps and was back to wandering off. The family was in the process of building a run for him, as there was no more leeway for tangling with traps. They paid their substantial bill in regular monthly installments without complaint. There was never a question of whether the right decision had been made, as it was plain to see that Clyde was well adjusted and happy. I also learned that one can never attempt to judge who will and who won’t go the extra mile for their animal.
Amputation of limbs is a difficult issue for pet owners and one that is hard for them to decide on. It’s strange the way that similar cases often come close together in practice, as I had another such problem to deal with shortly after Clyde. This time, the family was extremely reluctant to consider amputation as an alternative. The medium-sized shepherd female had been hit by a car and her left femur was shattered into so many fragments that it couldn’t be repaired. She had a wonderful temperament and was so good with children that they didn’t want to let her go. After two days of indecision, I tried to push them towards the surgery option, as I wanted to get on with doing something to resolve her plight. I thought that I had convinced them that everything would be okay. Halfway through the surgery, they called back again — this time to have her euthanized. They had changed their minds. They were afraid that they couldn’t deal with looking at her defaced body.
If it had been today, I would have complied, because I have been forced to realize that the service I am providing is to the owners. Back then, I was altruistic enough to feel that I could put the dog’s life first and answer to the owners later. I completed my surgery and called them back.
“We don’t know if we want her like that,” said the father.
“Well, from what I’ve seen she should do well,” I said. “Other dogs I’ve done have adjusted well and been running around within two weeks.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“But we feel we’re being cruel to her,” he replied after a moment.
All I could say was, “I think she’d rather be alive with three legs than dead.” I could feel I wasn’t succeeding and beginning to realize I had overstepped.
“What does it look like?”
“Well, it’s shaved now, but when the hair regrows it won’t look too bad.”
It was eventually decided that they would come and visit her after the stitches were removed and see how they felt then. Her recuperation period would take her into the Christmas holidays. I would be on call for the holidays as junior vet, so I took her home with me for several days. We all got used to the sweet-natured amputee and had become quite attached to her by decision day. The owners couldn’t believe it when they saw her walking down the hallway towards them, wagging a happy greeting, fur now covering her incision. She was taken home without further ado and visited for years for routine matters. They have almost forgotten there is anything abnormal about her.
Christmas that year was great fun, despite being on call. I had all my new friends at the Brentwood Clinic. The two women who were the technicians were down to earth and the rare kind of employees that actually cared, as if the business were their own. All of us pulled together to work as a team, helping each other with whatever had to be done. I really appreciated how special the co-operation and friendships were.
There were secretive preparations for the annual Christmas party. It was a potluck held at Jim’s. Both Cathy and Lisa produced hilarious joke gifts, pulling everyone’s legs about things that had gone wrong in the previous year. I quickly gathered that Jim was the life of the party type, putting as much energy into his antics as he did his veterinary endeavours. Halfway through the evening, he appeared in his “party clothes,” a wild-coloured paisley shorts ensemble that no self-respecting tourist would have donned. I learned that this was a tradition, and that they were usually worn at some point or other during every clinic bash. As the years passed, more outrageous articles had been added to the outfit and they all had to be brought along and worn. A pink feather boa topped it all off, and Jim outshone the Christmas decorations.
Unfortunately, the new year brought with it a problem with a long-term horse client that I fell into innocently enough. Between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, I went to see a heavy horse that was down in its stall. The man who owned it, Mr. Neal, was a rough Irishman prone to drink and had a reputation for being hard to get along with. The horse was not easy to diagnose, as so many central nervous system problems are indistinguishable. Because of the history I was given, I had to consider rabies as the most likely cause of the problem. For two days, the animal had been staggering and grinding its teeth. The owner had also noticed that it had had difficulty swallowing its food. I gave it several injections, but left them with little hope. The next day, it died. I had to twist Mr. Neal’s arm to get him to send the body to be tested for rabies, but he did.
When the positive diagnosis came back forty-eight hours later, the farmer was in a complete panic. He and all his family would have to have a series of rabies injections, as they had all had their hands down the animal’s throat when it was salivating. As well, he had
never had any of his dogs or his half-dozen other horses vaccinated for rabies, being of one of the old schools that considered their animals “didn’t need all that dope.” There were cows to do as well. It was a classic case of shutting the barn door after the horse had escaped. Now, however, there could be no time wasted. Because he had balked at the price of the individual small animal doses, I ordered several tanks of vaccine, which would make vaccinating the lot considerably cheaper.
Getting an order in during a holiday took longer than the usual efficient twenty-four-hour delivery time. On the morning of December 31st, I was doing surgery on a cat that had swallowed ten feet of recording tape. I was aware that the vaccine hadn’t arrived yet and was steeling myself to call Mr. Neal after I had finished the operation. Unfortunately, he called first, and Lisa explained the situation, telling him I’d be calling the manufacturer shortly to see where our order was. I was going to offer to do them all with the individual doses at the same price as our inexpensive rabies clinics. By the time I telephoned, he was livid and nothing I said could appease him.
“You’re obviously more interested in someone’s cat than in my horses,” he said.
“But Mr. Neal, the vaccine hasn’t come in yet. I was just going to call you.”
“Well, I think you just can’t be bothered to help me. Forget it. I’ll get someone else.”
I was stupefied, because I did care and had been anxiously awaiting the arrival of the order. Obviously, Mr. Neal did not understand that the vaccine was not a treatment but a preventative. Perhaps he thought that by giving it to his horses and cows he might save others who might have been bitten, hence the rush. I didn’t have an opportunity to explain further, as the phone was slammed down abruptly. Over the next several years, no matter how often Jim tried to tell him that I was doing all the horse work, he continued to insist that he never wanted to see that woman vet again.
I was learning that pleasing people was the hardest part of practice. This was a lesson that had never been taught at college. It is a challenge that each young veterinarian must work out for him/herself. As a doctor, whether in human or animal medicine, you can only do the best you can, and even then you can’t please every client, simply because people are all so different. Somehow, you must be able to be happy with knowing your best is what you’re doing, no matter what the outcome of the case or the reaction of the client. I learned not to anticipate any particular response from people. I also learned to hold a small piece of myself back, separate from my life as a vet, in order to protect my heart. I tried to learn not to take it all home, which was something that took practice and discipline.
One Sunday in the new year, I was puttering around the house catching up on my cleaning when the phone rang. I recognized Larry’s voice immediately. “I’m at the airport. I’ll be home in about two hours. How are you?”
“Fine,” I said, torn between acting cool and enthused. “But I didn’t expect you yet.”
“No problem — you can stay on as long as you like. See you soon,” he said and was gone. I felt very sure he threw out the invitation as a tease. Suddenly I felt very exposed. Larry always knew exactly what he was doing.
In a rush, I started gathering up my possessions. I didn’t intend to get involved with him again and certainly didn’t relish the thought of sharing accommodations with him. I had not completely forgiven him for hiding what I considered to be fairly important information from me last spring. My reaction to the surprise was strong and unexpected. Now I was faced with having nowhere to go and being on call.
I had passed a motel with some detached cabins on the edge of town. I decided to see if they had a free one. If worst came to worst, there was always a bed at Anne’s farm. As I piled my belongings on the back seat of the old workhorse Suburban, I noticed that there seemed to be far more of them than there had been in the spring. My stereo had the position of honour on the front seat between my Dalmation and me. A few houseplants and grocery items ended up on the floor with my vet boots. I remember driving out that day with a head of lettuce wedged on the dash. I left Larry a brief note and set up housekeeping at the motel.
SIX
Even Calves Are Born
on Christmas Eve
LIFE SETTLED INTO a new rhythm as Larry, Jim, and I got used to working together. Each of us was very different, yet we found our own niches and most days worked as three cogs in a wheel. I felt lucky to be part of a team of good-hearted, supportive people. Better yet, there was always time for a joke or a lark.
Larry had come back from his sabbatical with a diamond earring and a handlebar mustache and, with his penchant for riding his Harley-Davidson around town, was seen as quite the character. Jim, on the other hand, had four children and was definitely more of a business and family man, but no less a character. He would fly into the clinic with manure-covered boots and coveralls, and in a few short minutes wreak havoc, opening every drawer in the treatment area looking for that just right plastic tubing or that perfect tool. Jim was a radio talk show addict, and the long hours driving alone in his old turquoise four-by-four truck gained him a knowledge of trivia I have never seen rivalled. His newsy tidbits were punctuated by guffaws as he stabbed the air reeling off hilarious and obscure points. Sometimes Jim indulged in these outbursts as he cracked, peeled, and ate four or five of the ever-present supply of hard-boiled eggs he kept at the clinic. We had all developed an unspoken habit of waiting for the hurricane to be over, then without much fuss putting the clinic back in order when Jim left for his afternoon calls.
Their practice at that time was a very rural one. In fact, it was the only veterinary clinic in a very large area. Our clients were still mostly country people, and my two employers looked after all of their beef and dairy cattle, sheep, and pigs. Small animals were a sideline, to be fitted in somehow. It was fun to be part of such a clinic, busy yet easygoing and not without its humorous moments.
Often small piglets were brought in for us to repair their umbilical or scrotal hernias. One day, three were dropped off and housed in our outside chain-link dog run. One by one, they were masked with a gas anaesthetic, halothane, a process not without risk. Piglets can develop an anaesthetic complication known as malignant hyperthermia and die of overheating and cardiac arrest when operated on. We had repaired two of the hernias and were working on the third. After having inhalant anaesthesia, animals recover very quickly, and the first two were on their feet by the time they were returned to the run. Jim and I happened to glance out the surgery window to see our post-op patients trotting happily down the white line of the busy road in front of the clinic. They radiated glee, looking as if they were on an adventure. Kim, our technician, tore out of the clinic. Rounding them up was riotous, with many cars stopped along the roadside and people trying to help. Bits of plywood and floor mats were used to corral them, squealing, and get them back to safety. The owners never knew.
I struggled with the cattle work. My lack of a farm upbringing made it more problematic and less natural for me than for the other two vets, and although I didn’t do too badly, I always felt on shaky ground. Good herd health and nutrition were crucial to the proper management of the large dairy farms, and early pregnancy diagnosis was critical information for the farmers in order to detect problem cows. I left the in-depth cattle work to the more qualified partners and concentrated on small animals and horses, but I was expected to keep up my end on emergency calls. No one was going to let me out of it. Every third night, I took the pager with apprehension. In the spring, we could get several cattle emergency calls every time we carried it.
One night, I got an urgent call from Frank, one of my favourite clients, a gentle, older man, a confirmed bachelor, who lived in a rambling old brick house with a simple fellow whom he cared for. Findlay, in return, helped him with his small sawmill and with a few beef cattle. Frank was a bit of a local historian, as well as a collector of antique farm machinery, an
d I found on visits there I always learned something interesting. The farm had tumbledown buildings surrounded by piles of wood shavings and different lengths and types of lumber. Old tractors and a few larger log barns added to the general clutter.
On this night, Frank had a shorthorn steer with a piece of wire around one claw, deeply embedded in the flesh between its toes. It was very cold, well below zero, and with a full moon. The barnyard was well lit in the silver and black of the deep midwinter, with extravagant shadows cast from every piece of equipment and pile of lumber. As I pulled up to the small barn and corral beside it, I noticed the steer, blowing spurts of hot steamy breath, was standing on three legs. It had long, curved horns, perhaps the sharpest I had ever seen. The steer looked just as aggressive as its headgear seemed to say it was. Frank scratched his head. “He’s kinda wild.”
We decided to herd him into the low log barn together, and Frank would lasso him with a rope and snub him to the six-by-six centre post. There was more light outside than in. With great faith, I followed Frank, his rope in hand, and the steer into the dark cavern. I had my injection of tranquilizer ready and was armed with wire cutters and a flashlight, certain we could get the job done.
Thirty seconds later, I heard Frank yell, “Watch out!” and jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being knocked over in the doorway. The steer rushed by, snorting and angry, his head down, and it took me a minute to realize Frank was still holding onto the rope. Within ten feet of the doorway he lost his footing on the crunchy snow. I never knew whether he was caught on the rope or just plain stubborn, but he tobogganed around that corral for what seemed like an eternity, bouncing off piles of solidly frozen cow manure on his stomach without letting go of the rope. His shirt and pants were filled with snow. Finally the rebellious animal tired itself and stood still long enough for me to throw the rope still on its horns over a fence post while Frank struggled to get up. I held tight long enough for him to get to the rope and snub the animal. We did get the job done, with no tranquilizer, in that brief space of time while the animal was recovering from his romp, as that all that was needed was one well-aimed cut of the wire between his toes. Frank never complained about his ride or any injuries, but instead, always gracious, thanked me instead for a job well done. I drove out of there realizing that he had found merit in my efforts, even though to me they were barely worth mentioning. To return his generosity of spirit, I simply had to ignore his humiliation by the steer. I was learning the code of conduct of the old-fashioned Lanark County farm people and how to best save face.
William's Gift Page 6
