William's Gift

by Helen Douglas

  One of the greatest things about being home in Lanark was that my sister Anne had two wonderful girls, and I loved being an aunt. My nieces, Kate and Court, were already avid horsewomen at five and seven years, and showed the unflagging devotion of true horse lovers, showing up in the barn day after day. They just kept getting more excited with learning about horses and riding all the time. Neither flies nor heat nor hard work could turn them off, and I loved teaching them all I had learned, as did Anne.

  It was a joy to be their doting aunt, and I bought them a beautiful white Welsh pony the first summer I was home. She was hidden in a log shed and presented with a big red bow around her neck. Still small enough to ride double, the girls put her through her paces perfectly that first night, bareback, out on the beautiful spring green lawn. With smiles a mile wide and joyous laughter, they trotted bumpily around the huge maple trees on the front lawn. They really seemed to appreciate their special gift and opportunity. Did they somehow know then that their “Aunty” would be a lifelong supporter in their chosen sport?

  “Fancy” was well trained and knew her job, but would unceremoniously dump any child on her ear if she got too cocky. We had a lot of laughs as the kids learned to ride her and went on to show her, always game to climb back on if they ended up on the ground. There were lots of ribbons at the local fairs and shows the first year, and, as it turned out, many more horses and ribbons to come. I was happy to take a backseat role in the teaching and just be there for the fun when I could. How wonderful to have a family sport and hand it over to the next generation with love and just see it keep on growing!

  SEVENTEEN

  Noel’s Nine Lives

  BUSINESS WAS BRISK at Brentwood our first spring. The phones were busy, and it was difficult for all of us to get our work done and juggle phone calls. We were often in desperate straits in the waiting room, especially on Saturdays when the clients were too often getting poor service or waiting far too long, as in so many cases since my return. Then the right person to rectify the situation walked in the door.

  Jill, an experienced veterinary receptionist, bred German short-hair pointers and had a lot of experience with horses as well, having been a Pony Club commissioner. After twenty years with two other clinics, she had moved to our area. She was businesslike and to the point and could do our bookkeeping as well. I snapped her up. She needed no training and took over the front as the busy spring season began. The time of year for the birth of puppies, kittens, and foals, as well as heartworm testing season, keeps a small-animal vet running in May. Added to that rush, the horse clients dust off their mounts after a long winter, and phone in, needing annual checkups and vaccinations. The business of horse breeding starts in May in this valley, and we anticipated a rush of activity in that sphere, as well. All systems were in place.

  Marg Zwicker was one of our steady clients. Four foot eleven inches tall and round, she reminded one of a jolly Mrs. Santa Claus, complete with the twinkling eyes. She came in almost weekly with her tiny, but also very round, Shi Tzu, Lady.

  Living alone and loving the attention we gave her, Mrs. Zwicker always found a small medical complaint to give her a reason to visit. Often she brought cookies, rich shortbreads being her specialty. Her husband had died two years ago and she did not drive, so getting a taxi to and fro was part of her routine. Lady often needed her nails trimmed, as she didn’t walk much, but she might also come in for runny eyes or a slight cough. Over time, she had developed some bronchitis and a mild case of collapsing trachea, common in small-breed, overweight dogs. Stress could cause her to become cyanotic, her tongue turning blue as she was deprived of oxygen, and we had to be very careful working with her. We were often reminded by Mrs. Zwicker that “She’s all I’ve got.” Lady got fed three times a day with a spoon. She lived her life on Mrs. Zwicker’s lap.

  Erin and I had worked out a great system of shared responsibility, emphasizing each of our strong points. I soon learned she could be trusted to do all the anaesthetic procedures safely, and I would work on one animal after another as she prepared them. One of the first difficult lessons we learned that spring had to do with the dangers of altering routine or equipment. We had a six-month-old tortoiseshell kitten to spay in the spring. She belonged to a new client who had just moved from the city so I did not know her well. The cat had been a Christmas present, thus her very apt name, “Noel.”

  Her pre-anaesthetic checkup was good, and all went well until I moved her into surgery myself. Erin had not had time to check the pop-off valve in the surgery room where we had our gas anaesthetic machine, something she usually did. This valve is critical in letting excess pressure out of the gas system. She thought I would certainly have done it but I had the surgical set-up on my mind and proceeded to drape the kitten and lay out my packs, after putting her on the oxygen gas mixture. Moments later, Erin came into the room and, with a glance at the fully inflated re-breathing bag, realized something was wrong. One quick movement and she was at the machine letting off the valve and the pressure. We’d hardly had time to speak about it before we realized our patient was in distress. Noel’s gums were white and she could not breathe normally. My heart was racing and I managed to croak, “Set up the x-ray machine. I’ll bag her — I think she may have pneumothorax!”

  Pneumothorax is a condition where air leaks out of a tear in one or both lungs, creating a positive pressure in the chest, where a vacuum should exist, and severely inhibiting breathing. I had caused the problem with excess pressure from the gas machine. Pneumothorax is life-threatening and demands immediate emergency procedures based on draining the excess air out of the chest.

  I yelled for Elizabeth. An x-ray showed one lung was torn and collapsed and was surrounded by air. We flew into emergency mode, Elizabeth ventilating the little animal to keep its blood oxygen up. Erin clipped and prepped the chest, while I gathered gloves and a chest tube. In such a situation, adrenalin is high. Everyone was flustered and very worried, but teamwork prevailed. After one hour, Noel was stabilized. With the small chest tube in and a bandaged chest, she was breathing on her own. I felt she was out of the woods and decided to call the owner. Not only would I have a most difficult explanation to make, I would also have to spay Noel at another time. I sat with my head in my hands gathering my thoughts. Nervously, I dialled the client’s work phone number and got her immediately. Not long into it, however, the conversation took an unexpected turn. I opened my mouth to start.

  “We had a problem with Noel’s anaesthetic,” I began, hesitantly. “She had a breathing problem and we had to clip her chest and do emergency procedures — but she’s okay. She is bandaged and will be here for a couple days.” I managed to get all this out before Mrs. Mains interrupted me. I had not had a chance to tell her that her cat had not been spayed.

  “Oh, I know why she had problems breathing,” she exclaimed, “One of my children fell on her last week. I was worried about broken ribs.”

  I had been rescued and am not proud to say that I took the coward’s way out. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I made a split-second decision to capitulate, so relieved that she wasn’t angry. “I’m sure it will be fine in a month or six weeks, let’s give her time to heal and spay her in a couple of months. She doesn’t go out, does she? She won’t get pregnant?” I asked the client.

  “No,” replied the owner, “that will be fine.” When Noel went home with a shaved patch on her chest, the client was surprisingly unruffled. Erin and I, however, were shaken, and it took us several weeks to relax and recover from the traumatic anaesthetic experience. We have double- and triple-checked every hose and valve since.

  Around the same time, we had another very uncommon anaesthetic experience that really cemented our ability to work as a team in an emergency. When an animal has a rare adverse reaction, teamwork and speed are critical, and it turned out we had the right combination of personal dynamics and skills to jump into action when needed. I
t can be the undoing of the relationship between a veterinarian and his or her veterinary nurses if resuscitation does not go well even once. Confidence both in the process and your fellow team members is one of paramount importance.

  The scheduling of a male puppy neutering is considered routine, and so it was with Benson, the eight-month-old chocolate lab presented to us one Tuesday. Although he was a bit smaller and quieter than a usual chocolate boy, he was in good spirits and all his vitals checked well. “What a love,” Erin declared as he licked her face while we induced his anaesthetic with the first intravenous dose. As soon as he was on his side with his endotracheal tube in place, we noticed his colour — it was blue-grey. I checked the valves urgently and gave him a breath.

  “I’m sure I have the tube in place,” I said. “I saw it go in the trachea!” Hurriedly, I bagged again, but noticed his chest still did not expand properly. We checked the tube placement by pulling it out and replacing it. It was correct, all right, but we still could not get his chest to expand normally. The same sick, panicky feeling that had happened with Noel’s emergency started to well up. My heart beat rapidly, and all of us were turning red. “Please set up the x-ray plate, Erin. I’ll bag.” I tried desperately to improve his colour as his heart weakened. The x-ray shocked us. The young dog’s chest was full of golf ball-sized tumours, likely lymphoma, so full the lungs had lost elasticity and could not expand with my attempts at ventilation. It was unbelievable that Benson was not thin or coughing and that the outward lymph nodes were normal. He had likely been presented to us just before becoming a very sick puppy.

  It was all incredibly uncommon and unfair. The clients were lovely, and I did not want to break the news to them. It took all our skill to breathe for and recover Benson while the iv we had given him wore off. With sadness, I had to call them in to look at the terrible radiographs. They elected to have a few more days with Benson before bringing him back to put him to sleep. None of us wanted to see him suffer. I have never seen a case such as this again.

  We had not heard from Mrs. Zwicker for a few weeks, which was most uncommon. One day, her daughter called to say she had had a mild stroke, but was at home recovering; it seemed that only her speech had been permanently affected. She booked an appointment to drive Mrs. Zwicker over with Lady, as Lady’s toenails needed a trim. Her daughter mentioned Lady was not active and didn’t seem to be herself, but guessed that she had missed her owner’s attention during her hospital stay.

  When they arrived, it was clear that as Mrs. Zwicker’s health had deteriorated, so had Lady’s. Mrs. Zwicker cried as she got hugs all around. We could see she had slowed speech and a new droopy look to the left side of her face. We could barely pry her beloved pet out of her arms to examine her. I think their separation had taken a toll on both of them. Lady appeared lethargic and had occasional fits of coughing. We were told that she had hardly moved around in the past week and her famous appetite was not the same. With chest radiographs it became apparent that she was suffering from congestive heart failure as well as the collapsing trachea. Each breath had become an effort, and Lady was also becoming dehydrated.

  The cycle of birth and death is part of our everyday life at Brentwood. We see puppies and kittens in appointments followed closely by animals with cancer or terminal diseases. Often the loss of a pet is the first loss a young family suffers, and we are trained to guide people through this very difficult experience. As well, since we look after an animal from youth to the end of its life, part of our mandate is to help a client decide when his or her pet is suffering and there is no hope for recovery. At no time is this counselling more difficult than in the situation I now faced. Often seniors who have lost their spouse feel their pet is their only link to that beloved partner and their past. In fact, it may be their most important emotional touchstone. I certainly knew that Mrs. Zwicker’s health was profoundly tied to Lady’s well-being.

  “There are a few things we can do for her,” I began, “but we may not be able to give her a long time, because she has two serious problems.”

  Mrs. Zwicker, sitting in a chair in the exam room with her daughter’s hand resting on her shoulder, seemed to get even smaller. She tried not to cry anymore, chin quivering. “How long will I have her?” she asked.

  “We will treat her congestive heart failure and rehydrate her as well. Let us have her here in the hospital today. Unfortunately there is no easy treatment for her narrowed trachea,” I said, deeply concerned about stressing both patient and owner.

  With all the trust and confidence in us she could muster, Mrs. Zwicker left her dog. Several injections of diuretic were needed to relieve her pulmonary edema, and a slow intravenous drip improved her hydration. At the end of the day, Lady was allowed to go home with cautions that she might have to come back tomorrow. The morning phone call indicated she had eaten a bit, so we cautiously proceeded with oral medications. Mrs. Zwicker’s daughter, who was staying longer, assured me that they would be given. Several days passed with no word about Lady. We cautiously hoped for the best. On day five, I received a panicky phone call. Lady couldn’t stand and appeared to have collapsed and was in distress. By the time they pulled up and rushed her in, her tongue was blue and she had wet herself. Mrs. Zwicker was helped to a chair in the waiting area and sat quietly while we put Lady in an oxygen chamber. I walked slowly up to the front. “We can give her additional diuretics and bronchodilators,” I said. She stopped me.

  “I know what’s best.” I could barely hear her. “She’s not coming home.”

  I was relieved for Lady and, selfishly, for myself. Mrs. Zwicker had made the decision that needed to be made by her alone, without persuasion. But at that instant, I would have given anything to have been able to take away even a small portion of the pain I saw in that diminutive lady’s eyes. “I cannot see her again,” she whispered, “but I would like her ashes back.”

  I nodded slowly, and then helped her to the car. Several weeks later, her daughter dropped in to say Mrs. Zwicker had died. She had been happy that she had never had to leave her home. She knew we would want to know that Lady’s ashes would be buried with her mother. None of us could express our feelings adequately or thank her enough for coming in to tell us. I experienced an unexpected emptiness as I walked to my car that day, knowing I would miss both of them for a very long time. Mrs. Zwicker had become so special to all of us it was truly like losing a family member.

  Once in a while, we had an accidental false alarm at Brentwood, usually a loose animal that had escaped from its cage. I would be awakened by a call at an ungodly hour and instructed to meet the police. Luckily we had not had a break-in up to this point, but these calls were annoying, and we were charged for them. This bitter cold night was no exception. As I entered the building with the two police officers at three in the morning, I saw a small black cat near the back door. I had left at suppertime and noticed the wild female cat in our indoor dog run, in yet another metal cage. A barn cat, she could not be easily handled and had been put in the wire cage to recover from her hysterectomy to avoid stress to her and us when the owners came to get her. She was to be picked up early in the morning of the next day. The top door of the Dutch doors had been left open for air circulation, and the one-inch square mesh of the smaller cage should have been secure. I had experienced a moment’s doubt about the open top door of the run and, as it turned out, should have followed my instincts and closed it.

  How would we ever catch the terrified animal in the large clinic with its many nooks and crannies? She would surely panic as we approached. As one policeman and I approached, she bolted for the bathtub room, crouched low to the floor. As we cornered her, she leapt to the edge of the slippery tub, then, defying gravity, started climbing the wall. The policeman yelled, “I’ll grab her, I know animals,” unwittingly doing exactly the wrong thing in an effort to help me. Before I could speak or suggest we use gloves or a snare, he had encircled her wit
h two hands just below her front legs. Everything was happening too quickly, and the little cat, her head unrestrained, nailed him with her teeth. Her canines completely penetrated the base of one thumb, and he let out a yell and dropped her. We cleaned up his wound and started again to search for our feline escape artist in the darkened clinic. We spotted her near the front, where she had darted under the reception desk. At that point, the other officer, having stepped outside for a cigarette, opened the front door. Blackie saw an opportunity. In a flash she was out the door into the night. I gulped. Why had I not called off the search after we had the first mishap? Some settling down time would have helped, and I could have thought of a better plan. Adrenalin had taken over, and now it was too late.

  We had lost someone’s cat. Though she was wild, they had obviously cared enough to spay her. I called them in the morning. The owners came every day and called for her, but Blackie was nowhere to be seen. We put food outside, but after two weeks it was still there. We had all given up hope as the weeks went by and turned into a month. Despite the fact that she had been a barn cat, the owners were attached to her and were very worried. It was an unsettling feeling for all, not knowing what had happened to her.

  Two months had passed when I went to get some hardware from a store, three buildings down the road. As I walked from my car to the front door, I saw a black cat out of the corner of my eye. Something told me it might be Blackie. On enquiring, I learned she had shown up there one day two months ago and they had been feeding her. A recent spay scar and a little white star on her chest confirmed her identity, and she was returned to her owners, much to the relief of everyone.