Building Walls

It's the walls.

You build walls for protection when you fear the pain. Over time, you build more walls, thicker, higher, sometimes in layers that must be penetrated one after another before they can get to you. Inside the walls you can survive. Survive is good, but once inside the walls you cannot see the outside of the walls, and thus you miss that out there that is not about the pain but instead is the good. Eventually you may forget there is an outside.

Often a client asks, as you gather around the table with its dog or cat lying still and quiet upon it, but no longer in pain and despair, thanks to your needle and skill......"Doc, I don't know how you do this...." And their voice hangs in the air, dripping a bit on your shoulder and bowed head.....

You tell them that this is one of the most important things you can do, for when all else is done, you can grant a quiet exit for a dear friend, so that is what you do. And they thank you through their tears and you hug and then they leave so that you can wrap up a limp body in plastic and place it carefully in a freezer. And the pain settles in there, and you promise yourself that it will be ok, and it is not, and so you build another wall.

That spot inside your right cheek, the one you chew on when you really need to rip some asshole's head off and you cannot, and you watch them take the abused neglected animal away to where you cannot force them to let you help, and you know they will let it rot, and you say to yourself....forget it. It's not your problem anymore. Get on with things.

And the pain settle in there, and you build another wall.

Soon enough you are so changed that you cannot see yourself without walls, and you cannot see outside the walls, and those you love cannot see you within.

http://www.dorkly.com/post/78527/this-3-minute-animated-short-was-so-good-it-got-the-animator-hired-at-disney

And then somebody puts this silly thing up on your feed, and they force you to watch it even though you fear it, and it works. It finds a way through all the walls, and it feels for and then hits that place deep in your heart, and you feel the walls fall away leaving you completely exposed and defenseless. Perhaps the tears flow...

You wonder for a moment why this one gets to you, and then in the mirror you see..... This is why you do this thing, for them and despite what it does to your self. But you have to drop the walls before you can even remember why. It takes a silly thing like this to drop the walls.

That bit is the sad bit.

A young man's fancy turns to....

Our little city has grown over the years, new developments have packed houses into most of the available space, up into the hills to mar our views and lining every street with a sea of identical roofs. There are few blank spots on our map anymore. But there is that one, tucked in behind the golf course, a hidden bare piece of land that once was the police shooting range. For a time this was a place into which people rarely entered. So of course this was the logical void to take Vito. 

Vito was an old, fat yellow Labrador retriever. He was a gentle soul, slow moving and uncomplicated by excess intelligence, rarely clean and barely housebroke. He passed wind on occasion. Your basic old, fat yellow Labrador…..

Vito belonged to a man. He was a man’s dog. Took me a while to get the measure of this man. I’d known him since he was young. As a young man he tried very hard to come across as hard. He made himself distant, not rude but aloof, devoid of emotion. A man rock.

Wasn't sure why, but then this wasn’t my business. He took reasonable care of Vito and that was where my interest lay.

Phone rang one morning at the VBB hospital. I try to listen in when the receptionist talks on the phone. Old habit. Gives me a hint in advance when some weird is going to land on us. Half of a conversation, but the clues are there.

“Do you have a question for the doctor? Perhaps I can answer it for you.”

From this I knew she answered the phone and the first words from the other side were, “I need to talk to Doc.”

“I see, well the doctor is with a client now. Can I give him a message? I see, well can you hold for a moment?”

I wasn’t with a client. I was sucking down coffee standing next to the reception desk, listening to the weird beginning. My receptionist looked up.

“It’s Mr. Brando, and no, he won’t tell me.”

I’ll take it, and headed to my office….

Marlon….what’s up?

“Well Doc, you know Vito. He’s getting pretty old, and he can barely walk, and I know it’s time, ya know. So I was gonna shoot him and bury him. Put him out of his misery. I know I could bring him down to you, but this is a man’s job and I was gonna do it.”

OK….always act as if you agree with them to keep them talking. Then maybe you can figure why they are talking.

“Well anyway, I took Vito out behind the golf course, you know, and I carried him out of the Jeep and I got the shovel and started to dig the hole. I had my pistol and I was gonna just shoot him in the head and roll him into the hole and bury him. Ya know. So anyway, I started to dig and Vito was just laying there next to me and this stick was in the way, so I threw it away. And you know what? That damn dog got up and fetched that stick. So I saw that and I figured it weren’t time yet. So can you take a look at Vito for me and tell me what I can do to keep him around a little longer?”

We got almost three more years of life out of ole Vito, with some weight loss and some meds for his arthritis, and with the directive that Marlon throw the stick for Vito whenever the need arose. And when the time came, Marlon brought Vito in to me. He didn’t cry then. Too hard for that. But he did treat me with some bit more respect and and a touch of friendship over the years.

After his father passed, Marlon even smiled from time to time. Never talked about his father of course, but I’d known that man too. Didn’t need to go there.

This time Marlon didn’t call first. He just showed up in the hall of our hospital. With a question.

“Doc…..Bruno keeps getting jumped by the two pitbulls down the street. He fights them but he keeps getting beat up.”

Now, I might have mentioned that he could keep Bruno from walking down the street to fight those two, but Marlon wasn’t waiting for this answer. He had another answer in mind.

“I need to get Bruno a female, so he can mate with her, for there are no more ferocious fighters than a mated pair. So I want to get him a female Lab, so they can mate and be paired for life.”

OK

“But I need to know, I need a pill or some kind of abortion because I don’t want puppies. I just want them to mate.”

Marlon wants me to help him get his dog laid. This is not an unusual request, generally from the male owners of male dogs, but occasionally from a female owner with a female dog. The female owners are more interested in the mommy experience, or at least I think they are. I don’t generally get into specifics at these times. 

We get requests like this. Not as often as we get, “Can I catch anything from my dog, you know, when we……?” But we get requests like this.

I come up with answers to such questions most of the time. Carefully. But I’m at a loss how to answer this one. 

Perhaps with the truth…….

Just put them in a baggie, sir.

Hello, intrepid readers! I hope 2016 is going well for you so far. Personally, I'm not thrilled with it yet but it's young - maybe things will improve. Anyway...

From a remote VBB outpost closer to Albuquerque than Atlanta comes the following:

Phone call I answered, sounds like a teen-to-20something guy: 

"Hi, I need help with my dog. I gave him some...human pills...I don't think it's appropriate to say which ones. I didn't know the symptoms so I decided to try it in a dog. So at first he was pacing, then about 10 minutes later he was in the corner and...you're not gonna believe me because I've called other vets and they don't believe me...his genitals fell off. So I was wondering if you could reattach them."

"Well, I really can't say yes or no without seeing him. We're pretty full today but I can try to make you an appointment."

"Since you believe me I guess it's appropriate to say what pills they were. I gave him Viagra."

"Ok, well let's have you bring him in."

"Well he's sleeping right now. It happened about a month ago."

"Ok, so it can probably wait until tomorrow."

"Well, he's been sleeping for 2 days now. He hasn't opened his eyes for 2 days."

"Well then he needs to be seen today, now, I suggest you go to an emergency center so they can treat him appropriately."

"What should I do with the genitals?"

"...you can put them in a plastic baggie and take them with you. Do you need a number to the EC?"

"Number?" "Yes, phone number, so you can call them." "No, I don't."

"Do you know where they are?" "Uh, yeah....[click]"

WTAF.

For Mothers Day

Every veterinarian has, or had a mother......And many are one themself...
So this....

A little girl wears the look on her face. Her mom knows the look. Moms are smart that way. They know what to watch for when they want to see if the tyke is headed for trouble, like that mischievous change in a little girl's face. Mom lets her wander a bit further this time. But, although one eye might be on the bowl of snap beans in her lap, the mom's other eye stays locked on the little girl.

The blonde, blue-eyed girl is 3 years old, so the world is a very big place. She knows she isn't supposed to walk all the way to the back of the yard, but there might be something worth seeing over there. She toddles off in that direction. Along the way, she glances back toward her mom. Am I caught yet? Nothing happens. I'm in the clear! What a fine adventure. Soon she is lost in exploring, poking about here and there, peering over and under stuff at all the wonders of the world.

A strange noise. The little girl feels that creep of fear. Turning quickly, she looks for her mom. Everything is OK, because mom is sitting right over there, watching her. Everything is OK.

Years pass, and the little girl is no longer little, and when she toddles off, mom is no longer in sight. The girl goes searching for something worth seeing over there. Mom can still spot that look on the girl's face that tells when she is headed for trouble. And mom finds the courage to let her go again. Mom cannot see, but the phone sits just beside her chair, and when it rings, and it is the girl checking to see if mom is still watching, she is. And everything is OK.

The girl becomes a woman, and when she goes exploring for something worth seeing, over there is across a country away. She doesn't look back nearly as often. And mom learns to stop searching for her in the yard. But when the woman feels that creep of fear, she reaches for the phone again, and mom answers before it rings. And everything is OK.

And then the woman finds herself with one eye on the snap beans, and the other on her own little blonde, blue-eyed girl who is headed over there. And she reaches for the phone with something to share, something new to her, and oh so familiar for mom. And everything is OK.

Decades pass, and the woman walks upon a lonely beach. Dark fog hovers near, and the sea is nervous that day, bearing a watchful eye as she is near the surf. She is working through the morass of things bouncing around inside her head, and she feels the creep of fear again. She cannot turn to see mom watching over her, and be comforted by that. She would dearly love to dial the phone, but mom is no longer there to answer. Instead, there is a vast hole in her heart.

But just then, at that very moment, the woman looks down, and she finds, lying on the dark sand, a fingernail size fragment of seashell, pure white, and carved by the waves into a perfect heart shape. A gift from the sea, or someone else? The woman looks up.

Hi Mommy. And everything is OK again.

Herky won't let me be

The lady was in the cat side of reception, looking through the window at my receptionist. She'd never been in before, and I could tell she was checking us out, to see if we were worthy of her cat and her business. That's fine. I do the same thing when I first visit a dentist or even a barber. You want to be comfortable in such an environment.

I was on our side of the counter, leaning and essentially worthless for the moment, although the staff is polite enough not to ever say that. The lady seemed a bit, oh I don't know, hostile is too harsh but she clearly wasn't just blending in as I've come to expect from my clients. Then she saw the cat. That was the deal breaker.

Jaws was lying on the counter, next to Karen, our receptionist and the best friend of Jaws.

The back story. Jaws came to us as an emaciated, flea infested, filthy orange and white striped eight week old kitten. She was hungry, and she demonstrated that with her rather prodigious appetite. She attacked food. So we named her, Jaws.

Jaws was, oh hell let's be honest, fat. And she hung out with Karen, for when the office was closed for lunch and Karen was eating said lunch at her desk, there was this other plate where some of Karen's lunch showed up in front of Jaws every day. The two were inseparable during business hours. I had no problem with this, and my loyal clients loved to see Jaws on the counter, digesting part of Karen's lunch.

Anyway, this lady saw Jaws on the counter next to Karen, and she just about screamed. She was incensed. She was outraged.

“There's a cat on your counter.”

Ah, yep. That's Jaws. She lives here.

“That's unsanitary. I'd never bring my cat into a place like this!”

Oh, well that's fine. Maybe you should just leave and go find some other veterinary hospital where the resident cat doesn't hang out on the counter. Because you will never be happy here.

Good luck with that. In my experience, most veterinary hospitals have what we call hospital cats. Such cats are generally fat, and they hang out on counters or wherever they damn well please, and the people working in those veterinary hospitals love those cats far better than they like BITCHY OLD SELF IMPORTANT WITCHES!

Oh, I'm sorry. Was I shouting?

In my experience, most veterinary hospitals, filled with people who care about their clients' animals, always have a few of their own beloved companions hanging about the place. It's just me talking here, but I wouldn't be comfortable in a veterinary hospital that didn't have a few, uh, normal challenged, animals living there.

Normal challenged?

Yeah, I usually say that you have to be defective to work in a veterinary hospital, but my wife takes some offense at that, and says for the animals at least, I should use the term, “normal challenged” when speaking about the cats and dogs living in veterinary hospitals.

Ya see, most of the animals living in veterinary hospitals have had issues before they came to live with us. Often they are missing various parts, a toe, a leg, a tail, an eye. They often have been abandoned by uncaring owners, or simply adopted by the staff when somebody wanted them dead because they were missing a part or were something less than perfect. They say the fastest route to insanity is to care more for the animals than the people who own them, and that may be true. But, it certainly is the fastest route to accumulating a few more hospital cats.

I look back on our hospital cats, to Moocher, Sam, Momma Tom, Kung Foo, Spaz, Jaws, Mohamed Ali, One Eyed Jack, Quirk, Lefty, Jill, and Herky and I wouldn't trade one of them for the opportunity to serve a woman who couldn't stomach seeing one of ours in our own hospital.

I was thinking about Herky today. He came to us as Herkimer, a ten month old tomcat who got into one too many cat fights, and sustained an abscess in the middle of his back, the consequence of a bite wound. We sent home the usual antibiotics, and all would have been fine except that this bite wound had penetrated to the bone of one vertebrae. The owner noticed that Herkimer was paralyzed at some point and after letting this steep for far too long, and when it didn't “get better by itself”, finally rushed him in. Not surprisingly, he was still paralyzed. Another course of antibiotics actually returned him to normal, but when the owner didn't follow up as we had suggested with further treatment with more antibiotics, he went down in the rear again. When they finally brought him back in, his rear legs were history. They couldn't have cared less.

So Herky came to live with us, and for the next twelve years he slid around our hospital with two good front legs and a back end that came along for the ride. He couldn't feel anything behind his last rib, so he bathed to there and stopped. He built up some fine callouses on the right side and slid along the smooth concrete floors as if they were designed for him. We tried to build him a cart, but he kept spinning out in the corners, so we just let him do as he preferred.

Some clients saw Herky sliding along the floor, and they felt sorry for him. They'd ask if we were going to put him to sleep because he was suffering, and then he'd slide up to them and rub his chin against their ankles purring until they'd pet him, and then it would dawn on them that he was actually a pretty happy cat. And he was.

What I remember best about Herky was his wisdom. From time to time I'd have one of those days when I'd rather be the janitor in a porno theater than to continue this nonsense of being a veterinarian. I'd wander back to the kennel to Herky's home expecting some sympathy, some understanding from a paralyzed cat when I was having a bad day.....and he would bite me. It kinds boiled down to one simple thing. Herky wouldn't listen unless I brought a complaint with some legitimacy. If I was just whining, he'd bite me. Come to me when you've got something important to say, and I'll listen. Smart cat. I learned much from him.

Due to his medical issues, Herky couldn't pee on his own. We needed to hold him over the sink and with gentle finger pressure, we'd empty his bladder each day. When we let him out of his cage each morning, he'd slide around on the floor until he moved his bowels, and that took care of that, most days. But each and every day, somebody needed to express Herky's bladder. On Sunday, that was my job.

Before doing anything fun on Sunday, my only day off, so to speak, I would first have to drive over the hill to the clinic, and squeeze Herky. It became something of a routine. Once I'd done that, my day off could begin. For twelve years.

Right now, we are remodeling our home, because when we finally sell the practice and we can retire, the house will also be sold and we will move to paradise for the remaining days of our lives. So right now, our cats are living at the clinic. So that means, on the weekends I get to drive over the hill to the clinic and make sure the litter pans are clean and the cats have fresh water and food. I was doing just that today, and while I enjoyed the scenery on the drive, it dawned on me that as many times as I have done this, this drive over the hill to the clinic to care for the cats at the clinic on the weekends when normal people are simply enjoying their weekends away from their work, I would soon no longer need to fulfill this duty..... and that brought a tear to my eyes.

Grown-up Angst

I made my Mom laugh really hard once. Didn't intend to, but that is what happens sometimes when you're convinced you know everything, and you haven't yet been shown the error of your ways.

Immersed in some version of teen angst, and seeing no quick and easy way through, I was thinking out loud. Mother had been a teen once, which didn't make her an expert on solving teen angst, but then Mom took after me; she didn't need to be an expert in order to voice her opinion. I can laugh at this bit now, but at the time I was dead serious.

Me, “I can't wait to grow up.”

Mom, “Why's that?”

Me, “Well, this being a teenager is just so full of problems, but when I am an adult, I won't have near so much difficulty.”

I'll give Mom credit, because she tried out of politeness to remain cool in the face of my folly. But, as Rocky the flying squirrel once noted, that trick never works. Mom finally wailed with laughter as she staggered out of the room. At the time, I had no idea why she did that. I have since learned what she knew I would.

Some decades ago I took a walk in the mountains. The John Muir Trail through the best of the Sierra Nevada mountain range is some 220 miles long, and I didn't rush through it, taking some 18 days to finish. Didn't cross a road for the entire length. Nothing but wilderness, altitude, scenery, and wonder filled my days and nights on the trail. It was difficult and thrilling. I remember most all of this. But the part I distinctly recall was that last day as I walked down the mountain toward the dusty truck we left parked on the road, that time of triumph and accomplishment, and also the utter disappointment of knowing that this unparalleled experience must end. Such joy. Such sadness. Such life.

In June of 1972 I walked into the building. It was brand new, having opened for business on the first of the month. I was brand new also, having finished up at the School of Veterinary Medicine just a few weeks earlier. On July 1^st I officially began working there, and I've been showing up to work in that building most every day since. Forty-three years.

And now I'm walking down the mountain again, approaching the end of another journey. I am filled with the triumph and accomplishment, and also the utter disappointment of knowing that this unparalleled experience must end. I'm putting my practice on the market so that I can retire. It's time to go elsewhere in life.

Mom was correct of course. That bit about being a grown-up, about not having any more problems....well that never quite happened. Practice was not a party. It had its moments of unforgettable joy, and success, and also those of gut wrenching disappointment and pain. Sitting at this end of my career, I now have the luxury of looking back at the good and bad that happened over four decades, of trying to make sense of it all, and of trying to measure the success or failure of my life, at least that large part spent in that building.

In other words, I now am enjoying yet another dose of what I can only call grown up angst.

The voice on the radio yesterday was talking about the riots, looting, and arson devastating an Eastern city, and since his job is to incite outrage, he decided to excuse the lawbreakers by stating that they only torched a few storefronts. No big deal, right? I listened with interest.

Show of hands.....who knows that there were two veterinary hospitals in the path of the rioters, looters, and arsonists that destroyed much of Fergusen, MO? Those two buildings did not make the news because they didn't burn to the ground. They didn't burn to the ground because terrified men stood outside them with shotguns, facing down the mob.

Have you ever wondered if you would do such a thing? When the last bunch of riots were only miles away from my practice, I wondered. Would you stand in the way of a mob, the wall of a building at your back, the shotgun in hand, just so angry people wouldn't burn the place down?

Would your decision be influenced by the fact that you have worked your entire adult life inside that building, doing important service for the animals and their people, and also supporting your family through thick and thin? Would a building that represents so much of your personal identity really be missed if it became a pile of ashes? Would your decision be influenced by the sad reality that the building represents a significant part of your retirement savings, an investment you worked decades to create, the difference between not getting by or having some comfort? Take on such a discussion in your head in the dark of night sometime. You won't enjoy it either.

When you put a veterinary practice up for sale, you open your business to evaluation. Some things don't come into play. You are trying to sell a business, so things like saving a kitten at no cost to a little girl can go into the memory bank, but since that other bank doesn't enter into the equation, this doesn't count. Not one thing you did just because you felt it was the right thing to do counts now. That number in the computer, all those times you trusted someone who promised to pay, and did not...that number works against you now, too.

Every time you cut a corner because someone begged you to do less than a good job, now counts against you. Every time you didn't raise your fees to keep up with inflation, because so many of your clients were out of work, counts against you. Even the fact that you worked all those extra hours, just so you could help more animals and their people.....even this now works against you.

The numbers are all in the computer. You cannot hide from them. You cannot hide them. And the person who may look to buy your practice will wonder why those numbers make this business look so feeble. What you did all your life to help, means nothing.

Bad business doesn't sell. And if you cannot sell it, those four decades of work trying to help, trying to be the good guy....well that just makes a veterinary practice's contribution to retirement less and less. A lifetime of trying to build that investment squandered. It's only money, you might say, and that would be true. You still have the sense of satisfaction of knowing you wanted to help. 

But when the young doctors ask you why they shouldn't let a client promise to pay a bill, you had best tell them the truth. When they someday are old, and struggling to pay the rent because they sacrificed as they bent backwards to help, they will remember the advice you tried to give, and they tried so hard to ignore.

When I retire I will have enough, but yeah....something more than just enough would be nice. I'd like to do more with my retirement, but I know I cannot. I will have memories and satisfaction. And that will have to do.

I'm almost at the end of my trail, often looking back now. With mixed emotions, regrets and smiles. Not a victim, but a product of all those decades. I get to live with all those decisions.

Such joy. Such sadness. Such life.

Requiem For A Rogue

For ten years I wrote a weekly (weakly) column in the local newspaper, about this and that and sometimes animals. This bit comes from that. The first part ran in the first year of the column, and then came the second part.

Clyde is part of our blended family at home. He is a big, gray cat who thinks he is a dog. Clyde would rather hang with the dogs than do the usual cat stuff, he sleeps on his back and watches TV upside-down, and he looks at us in complete disdain when he catches us bad-talking cats, if he thinks we are including him.

This is not to say that Clyde doesn’t like us, for he delights in bringing presents into the house and leaving them around for our pleasure. He specializes in the perfect gift for every occasion. Wednesday, it was the gopher that he left at the front door. Last week he strategically placed the back half of a roof rat right in front of the entrance to the master bath for my bare-footed enjoyment. My wife says the mouse he dropped on the bed next to her the other day, as she was putting on her make-up, was an interesting surprise.

You gotta love the guy for his enthusiasm and originality.

Clyde is laying low, right now, because his latest little present, delivered last night, hit about ten on the Richter Scale

I was pretty comfortable in my chair in front of the TV, but experience has taught me to attend when my wife lets loose with a blood curdling scream in the bedroom, so I trotted on back. When I got there, she was cowering in the corner in her birthday suit, vibrating, and pointing to an innocent looking bathrobe lying crumpled on the bed. And, she had a few unkind things to say about Clyde.

Not quite sure what to make of this, I picked up her robe and out dropped about five inches of seriously annoyed blue-belly lizard.

It turns out that a lizard inside one’s bathrobe can produce rather interesting sensations as it runs up your back, and when it is your wife’s back, it’s time to remove the lizard. So I wrapped up the little guy and returned him to the bushes in front of the house. In parting, I told him it might be best to stay away from big gray cats in the future.

Poor Clyde can’t figure out what he did wrong.

A short 10 years brings us to today, and I'm still trying to write a good column, but sadly, now I have to do it without Clyde's help. The ole rogue has left us. It's just not the same without him, and since they broke the mold, there won't likely be another.

Say what you want, but Clyde was always his own man. He got something out of living with us, else he would have moved on. He didn't intend to amuse us, but I guess he didn't mind, either. He ate our food and slept on our bed if it was cold, and then he melted into the yard to do his own thing, as he chose. We buried him back in the trees, his heaven, before the devil knew he was gone.

Why Bother

This one is gonna jump around a bit, from here to there and then back again. Hopefully by the end I will have made some version of a point. If you don't get there, at the end, and don't get it, please try not to blame me. Ya see, I'm trying to make some sense of this myself and I'm not sure I can. So if I cannot 'splain this cogently to you, imagine the fun I am having churning it into sense for me.

I was introduced to a sick, demented, and fortunately tiny subset of humanity when a veterinarian I knew through the interweb was driven to suicide a short while ago. Dr. Koshi tried to rescue a cat from the demented efforts of a cat rescuer. Saving a cat from folks who think they are saviors. This is what ya call a no win situation. Dr. Koshi put the cat's welfare first, while the cat rescuers put their own selfish needs foremost. The crazies won when Dr. Koshi killed herself, and they celebrated long and hard, in their lonely homes and on the web.

One of the loudest haters on the web was a woman who had watched as her 20 year old cat died of kidney failure 20 years earlier. This woman never forgave the doctor who had tried to prolong the life of the doomed cat, and failed. Rational people, and those of us who know a few things, realize that the only 20 year old cats that don't die from kidney failure will be the 21 year old cats who die from kidney failure. The sun comes up in the east, always has, and likely always will.

This poor woman, bless her heart, thought more could have been done for her cat, and to this day, twenty years later, she has waged a one woman war against the profession of veterinary medicine for the slight visited upon her when her beloved cat died. This is her right, and the internet is her weapon, and the world goes on without even bothering to mock her futility. But as each day grows old, this woman seeks out any opportunity to rage against veterinarians who she thinks don't do enough to help animals. She is rather obsessed with this crusade. Death to veterinarians who don't do enough to help animals. She celebrated on her bit of the web when Dr. Koshi died. And daily she does all she can do to harm veterinarians that she decides have not done enough to help animals.

Please, remember this part.

Some time ago, a young man talked the National Geographic TV people into a reality show featuring his father, a quirky, aged, and arguably self-dedicated veterinarian who operates a mixed animal practice in Michigan. Folks love veterinarians, or at least they used to. The show has been entertaining at times, and the TV folks have made a fortune off it. This alone makes them happy. This is a win-win for everyone, right? The ratings are huge. Dr. Pol is the next James Herriot. We should all celebrate.

Well, not quite.

Ya see....on film, the incredible Dr. Pol has committed egregious malpractice, time and again, and some of us, the veterinarians dedicated to doing things right for the animals and their people, have objected to this. We've seen animals suffer at the hands of this man. We've seen him cut corners for no reason other than the fact that he doesn't care to do things correctly. We've seen his arrogance when charged with the abuse of his oath to reduce animal suffering. We've watched him cash the checks from his victimized clients and the TV folks, and walk away smiling.

So we have tried to stop this television program. We are proud of our profession. We are proud of the progress we have made over decades of time in the quality and effectiveness of the care we can provide your animals. We strive over our entire careers to improve this care. And we do this for the animals, and for you folks, and sometimes in spite of you folks. Thus, we want to stop that one doctor, because he mocks the progress we have made, and he attempts to elevate himself by denigrating the good that we as a profession have done for the animals and their people.

What? What you mean, in spite of “you folks”.

Yeah, sadly....in spite of you folks.

We stirred up a hornets nest when we asked National Geographic to stop popularizing a fraud posing as a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. We did this because we are proud of our profession and the care we provide, and because this one TV program is harming animals by undoing decades of progress in the care of animals.

“It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.”

Mark Twain

When some dedicated veterinarians asked the National Geographic people to discontinue this show, because this TV show harms animals in the long run, of course nothing happened. The money is far more important to the TV people than any harm they might cause.

So some veterinarians filed complaints with the regulatory folks in Michigan, suggesting that they should enforce their own regulations against malpractice in the practice of Veterinary Medicine. Dr Pol clearly demonstrated a need for sanctions on numerous occasions while he was being filmed. God only knows what he did when not watched.

The regulatory people have acted twice now, finding clear evidence of substandard practice, malpractice on the part of the TV star doctor. The man has been shown to be a hazard to the animals put in his care, and a fraud as he sells his services to a gullible public.

Some celebration might be in order here, but instead, a throng of Dr Pol supporters have surfaced to oppose any constraints on this show and this practice. Anyone interested in the welfare of the animals, and also aware of reality, would want the Dr Pol show to go away. But, this is when it's what you know that just ain't so gets in the way of this.

With the throng of rabid Dr Pol supporters speaking out, a variety of opinions have surfaced. All these folks think they know for sure, and sadly don't. Allow me to compress them into an easily digested few.

“Dr Pol cares”

“Dr Pol doesn't use all those fancy tests.”

“Dr Pol is cheap.”

Let me translate, for convenience.

“Dr Pol cares”.

This means that Dr Pol is cheap. Those doctors who want to do things correctly cost more money. Dr Pol doesn't care about doing things right, and he cuts valuable corners to the detriment of the animals. Dr Pol is cheap.

“Dr Pol doesn't use all those fancy tests.”

This means that Dr Pol refuses to use the best methods to help peoples' animals, but instead does something far less. Dr Pol is cheap.

“Dr Pol is cheap.”

Well, never mind.

Just for jollies. That woman who has pilloried veterinarians for the last 20 years because one veterinarian didn't do enough for her cat in her demented mind. Didn't do enough....Death to those who don't do enough to help an animal. The woman who celebrated when a veterinarian killed herself.

This woman has come out in defense of the substandard care offered by Dr Pol. Because he is cheap.

Now, try to work with me here for a moment. I want you to wrack you brains, think long and hard, and then answer these questions.

Can you think of any time when you see someone doing a job, performing a trade, or practicing at a profession where people consistently and persistently beg, argue, demand, cajole, and whine....in order to get that person to do a poor job rather than a good job?

Do you, as a functioning human, beg the chef of a restaurant to do a horrid abortion of a medium rare steak? Do you ask the mechanic who wrenches on your Harley to please to a terrible job? Do you ask the surgeon who will attempt to save your baby daughter to please cut a few corners because you don't really want the surgery done right? How about the guys who will paint your house, your plumber, the airline pilot taking you to O'Hara, your kids' teachers, those politicians in Washington ( Oh never mind that one. Forget Dr Pol here), the dude at Starbucks making up your morning coffee, a damn cab driver.

Please do a shitty job, but please do it cheap.

I don't know for sure, but I'm pretty sure I'm right here.

The only time all those people are gonna demand that you do a shitty job, but please do it cheap, are the folks we veterinarians are pledged to help.

And you wonder why I write such things in the dark of night, trying to figure why I bother to go to work every day. In spite of you people.

Did I do OK?

I hope you kind readers will bear with an old man as I try to come to grips with that world out there. Things are changing, things I don't quite understand.

I am a veterinarian. I'm proud to say this. I have poured my heart and soul into this profession, this helping and caring endeavor. I've been a veterinarian for a while. I'm now seeing the pets of the grandchildren of the folks I started with. Over decades, I've made friends, and met many and varied personalities. Some have been a trial, as anyone who works with the public understands. Some have left me muttering obscenities in the sanctuary of the back ward. Others left me laughing. They've mostly made this work fun, but not always. And the animals......bless them. They are the reason, the chore, and the salvation for all the effort.

I have saved lives and lost some, exalted and cried with thousands of people over the years. It's been hard work and it's been mostly worth it. This is not a wealthy area and economics have always defined what I could or could not do for the animals and their folks. But I have mirrors in my house and I can look into them with a clear conscience. I always tried my best, figured and connived and invented around the limits set for me, and put the animals welfare first and foremost.

I've made a living at this profession, and will retire with enough to get by. Never got into this line of work to get rich, and I was right about that. I've helped thousands of animals live healthy lives, and then quietly assisted them when twas time for them to leave. I've advocated for the animals, and sympathized with their people. I've done my job as I saw it, and I think did my best.

I figure I've shown up to work in my clinic, to help animals and their people, almost 13000 mornings over my career. That sounds like a lot, but when you do them one at a time it only takes forty some years. Doesn't make me an expert, but I'll put my opinion up against some of those loud people who haven't yet done this even once. They claim their right to a voice, and I'll claim mine.

Don't know if it is introspection or retrospection. It's the process an old man endures when wrapping up a life's work. I find myself spending too much time with old clients in the exam room, talking. Remembering. Telling stories. Coming to some peace with my life. Takes some thought and time.

I awake in the middle of the night.

The guy behind me honks when the light turns green.

Don't quite understand the process, but it's about this.

Did I do OK?

Should be obvious...right? Client after client, old friends and new, when we tell them we are putting the practice up for sale because it is time to retire, voice the opinion that I cannot leave, that they won't know where to turn when I'm gone. Of course they are trying to be kind, to thank me for those times I tried, and this is the best way they can say this without going maudlin. They tell me I did right by them when they say this. And that's OK.

This should be enough. But they weren't there on those many nights over those many years when I woke in the dark wondering if I'd done enough. And I now have far too much time in which to wonder...did I do enough?

And now, new voices chime in, and they are the motivation for this essay.

Consider this notion. Suppose...just suppose, that the next reality TV show featured someone whose behavior set back, oh say that stuff we call high tech. Suppose he so influenced people through some misguided notions, that they should discard all that useful stuff, like computers and smart phones, and just go back to the days of party line phones hanging on the wall, and those clunky mechanical adding machines. Would that make any sense to you?

Suppose the next TV show featured a confused guy who argued that we should lose modern jet airliners, highly trained pilots, radar controlled air traffic, modern weather forecasting, and instead resurrect the venerable Ford Trimotor in which you could head out into the dark, not knowing if Omaha was socked in with fog or not. Would that make much sense to you?

Would you watch a TV show where the celebrity chef dropped the steak on a filthy bathroom floor, wiped it off with a paper towel, and then proceeded to prepare dinner for the panel of judges, using curdled milk, cheese with hair, and green bread all kneaded together with his bare hands, with that one finger dripping pus from the rat bite?

Would you watch any of these shows, and then cheer them on, and rabidly defend the star from criticism by shouting down high tech, modern air travel, and a safe food supply, solely because the way the stars of these shows does things is cheaper than doing things correctly?

Well, apparently some of you would.

And that is part of why I now wonder if I really did OK.

His name is Dr. Marcus Free. Dr. Free is a physician who practices in Michigan. Dr. Free is vocal in his opposition to those veterinarians who have asked the National Geographic people to cancel the Amazing Dr. Pol show.

In case you just woke from a 50 year nap and you know not who Dr. Pol might be......

Dr. Pol is like many veterinarians in that he sometimes wades into boot deep mud and manure to administer to a downer cow. On his show he gets kicked by the occasional horse and gets rained on, snowed on and sunburned in the course of any given day. And he sees dogs and cats when not out on the road in his truck. So far, so good. Sounds like a regular James Herriot. Kind and caring, dedicated, and most importantly.....he works cheap.

OK for myths. The reality...James Herriot worked in rural pre-war England, some 80 years ago. Veterinary medicine has advanced some since the 1930's, as has air travel, food safety, and communications. In his day, James Herriot was on the cutting edge of his profession, and over the years constantly improved the quality of medical care he delivered to his patients and for his clients. The man is dead now, but I would venture that he would be appalled at the malpractice portrayed frequently on the reality TV show that celebrates the incredible Dr. Pol. For James Herriot in the mid 1930's practiced more advanced, and effective medicine than Dr Pol now does. And for the record, James Herriot was never cheap. And he heard about this constantly from the clients who were cheap, and he endured this just like the good veterinarians of today.

Getting back to Dr. Marcus Free.....

Like all professions, veterinary medicine tries to police itself, to protect those animals and their people from bad veterinarians. So when our family of veterinarians witnessed the horror that is Dr. Pol's show, we petitioned National Geographic TV, and the various regulatory agencies that oversee our behavior, to put an end to a TV show that pretends to amuse folks with a charismatic (cheap) veterinarian, all while showcasing unadulterated malpractice and subsequent abuse of animals. The show is popular, and makes National Geographic a ton of money. So screw the animals, Dr. Pol stays on the air.

On a facebook page dedicated to ending this travesty, Dr. Pol supporters appeared. Some were amusing, some quite sad, and a few overtly threatening. And then Dr Free spoke up, “If it is true that the standards of care were broken by Dr. Pol, then the standards have grown out of control. Let's keep in mind that we are discussing non-human animals here. If they die it is unfortunate, but certainly no tragedy. We have enough sky-rocketing expense on our side of the fence.”

By this I'm sure Dr. Free means to say that the use of sterile technique and inhalant anesthetic is the reason why the costs in human medicine have climbed so in the last two centuries. Because these things are right up there in our discussion of Dr. Pol's oversights. He could fix these things for a few dollars per procedure but apparently he thinks it unnecessary. But according to Dr. Free, if a few animals die because of this callous indifference, both to the animals and their people, that's just tough shit. Because Dr. Free apparently doesn't care about animals, and ya gotta wonder about Dr. Pol.

I believe Dr. Free is a surgeon, and his comments beg the question: do ya really think it would improve human medicine to go back to the Civil War when a bottle of whiskey passed for anesthesia, and four guys held down the victim, I mean patient, while he chewed on a stick as the surgeon lopped off his leg with a hand saw and then seared the stump with a red hot iron?

Presumably, the good doctor would say that wasn't what he meant, but heck, it would be cheaper.

So far, every person I've heard, and there have been many, who defend Dr. Pol's malpractice state one and only one thing in his favor.

He is cheap.

As long as it doesn't cost folks money, the horse doctor can drop the steak on the floor, crash the ancient plane into a mountain, and listen in on the party line call.

And those veterinarians who try to do the best they can.....well, they just be a bunch a crooks.

Amongst all the things I reminisce about, about did I do all I could, did I do my best, did I help, this reality surfaces. A whole bunch of people don't care squat about their animals, or the care their animals receive from veterinarians. And if I have any advice to pass on to the young ones who dream of becoming a veterinarian, it would be to only do this if you really care, for the folks who have these animals often do not, and if you don't really care, and if you are not prepared to die inside daily for a 13000 day career because you do care more about their animals than their owners do, don't go there. For this profession will then kill you if you cannot convince yourself every freaking day, that you are doing the right thing.

Peddling your ass about town

Why prostitution is not the world's oldest profession, after all....and what does this have to do with Dr. Pol?

I've been sitting here, sipping some Bulleit, and trying to remember all that nonsense they tried to pound into my head back then.

First off....why the word, nonsense? THEY thought it very important, not nonsense at all, and that is why they pounded it into our heads.

First year in Veterinary College. Note capital letters and spelled correctly. The first week of class. Orientation. THEY were gonna spin our heads until we got it right.

I don't even remember how many of us sat in that classroom. 75? 76? I was 19 years old. The old guy in our class we called Gramps, was 40. The men at the front of the class were much older. They were, each and every one of them, veterinarians. We wanted to become veterinarians, and to a man, and 5 women, we wondered about this nonsense they were laying on us. Where was the important stuff, the how to make animals better stuff? Who cares about this?

I remember THEY were a bit stern. No foolin' around at all. They took this seriously. OK, I was not there to get kicked out. Much as I wished to object, I listened. My momma didn't raise no fools.

VETERINARIAN

Now spell that.....V E T E R I N A R I A N.

We were not leaving that room without knowing how to spell VETERINARIAN. As they carefully, and sternly explained, some people didn't get this one right. We were not spending four years at the taxpayers' expense to learn how to be a vetinary, or a horse doc, or a vet. We were about to join a profession, and we were going to become VETERINARIANS. If they caught us talking about becoming a "vet" they'd shout us down.

Forty-seven years later, and I still cringe when my colleagues refer to themselves as "vets".

THEY very carefully explained to us the definition of a PROFESSION. This is the part I don't rightly remember, but it had much to do with learning an entire bunch of stuff, and then spending the rest of our productive lives learning more stuff. Special stuff, or what they called specialized knowledge. Specialized knowledge was part of what defined a profession.

THEY talked about a code of conduct that sounded much like the Boy Scout oath. We were to be held to a higher standard, so we were going to merit that by behaving to that standard. We were gonna be cheerful, loyal, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent. Or words to that effect.

We were going to be honest with our clients and with our colleagues. We would police ourselves because no one else could do as good a job as we. We would have a code of behavior that was far higher than what one expected from someone who was not a professional.

We would respect our fellow professionals, never denigrating them to profit ourselves, yet always holding them to the same standard to which they held us.

We were to pledge to always advance our profession, our knowledge, our tools, for that was to the advantage of our patients and our clients. This was our obligation.

How could we argue with any of this? We realized that this was not, in fact, nonsense after all.

Those men at the front of the class.... They'd been there when this was less than a profession. They'd seen "horse doctors" and various frauds pretending to do what we were training to do. They'd seen the neon signs over "pet hospitals" with the wagging tail and the "today's special" signs. They'd seen the fish hooks on the xray cassettes and filthy surgeries. And they had fought to rid our calling of this fraud and nonsense. They'd seen a profession emerge from the muck, and we damn well weren't going to ruin that. And so, they were stern.

My class and I inherited the most respected profession in this land.

The entire point of this orientation course was to introduce us to the notion of a profession. A profession is different when compared to a trade or a job.

There are many honorable trades in this world. Folks learn a complicated skill, practice it until they get it right and then they can call themselves a tradesman/person.

There are many jobs in which one can earn respect by showing up and doing prescribed duties. Lord knows we need folks to do this.

A profession, on the other hand, has special requirements, special knowledge that must be acquired and then augmented over time, and rules of behavior far more constraining that one finds on a job. Professionals are held to a higher standard than tradespersons or folks with a job.

Thus, there are fewer professions than there are jobs or trades, and those within a profession EARN a degree of respect. Which might be why, prostitution isn't really a profession.

Sure, there is that one whore with a heart of gold, and certainly some of these pros can claim to offer special knowledge. Somehow, when it all shakes out, it ain't the same.

When push comes to shove, a prostitute will do, not what is right, but what is paid for. And thus, a prostitute does not join a profession when she spreads her legs. She merely gets paid for what she is willing to do, and what she is asked to do. Right or wrong.

Which brings us to Dr. Pol.......

A day too late

Today I got the unpleasant news that 2 emergency at-home euthanasias, which had been scheduled early this morning, had died before we could even drive their way. These poor pets did not have a peaceful end, as we had planned, due to their owners waiting too long to make the decision. Every month we get these calls where people waited a day too late, instead of acting a week early & allowing their pet to have some peace & dignity at the end.

We always sedate pets heavily before the final injection of euthanasia solution, so the pet is feeling no pain & is unaware of what's happening. I tell the owners their pet is off running & playing & enjoying their new life over the rainbow bridge.

My advice to pet owners is to make plans to help your beloved pet pass gently & not die an agonal death at home. Usually, this crisis moment comes in the middle of the nite & no one is available, except at the emergency clinic. We get these messages every month on our voice mail. It is truly sad for us to hear those messages. Unfortunately, we can't be available 24/7. I especially feel bad for the poor pets.

If you have a pet who is declining & you wonder how to know when it is time, there is a "Quality of Life" scale that a wonderful organization has online......

http://www.lapoflove.com/Pet_Quality_of_Life_Scale.pdf

What Does It Smell Like?

 
Note to self...DON'T EVER ASK A CLIENT WHAT IT SMELLS LIKE......



Client was in for an exam today and we got to talking about Anal Sacs and Glands and she remarked that the dog had an odor about him.....and I foolishly asked....

"What does it smell like?"


Her response: "it smells like a sour , dank, infected vagina - Doc have you ever smelled a vagina like that?"


Me: (blink, blink).....(cricket..chirp, chirp, chirp)......(blink, blink).....   No??......





Sometimes...  you just can't make this stuff up.

From Cradle to Grave

There is a term in human medicine,  "cradle to grave care", which refers to the family practitioner.   He or she sees patients of all ages from newborn to geriatric.  Your general practice veterinarian is the "cradle to grave" provider of the pet world.  Unlike our human counterparts, however, we often see the SAME patients from cradle to grave.  For those like myself who choose long term employment at the same practice over emergency medicine, research, relief work, or frequent job changes, there comes a point in our careers where we begin seeing the former playful kittens and bouncy puppies come through our door as thin kitties with unkempt fur and creaky limbs or grey faced dogs with cloudy eyes who need a helping hand to jump into the car.

It usually starts around the 8th year in practice.   That is the time when diseases of middle age, such as diabetes and cancer begin to claim our patients.   This is also the time when our largest patients reach the end of their natural lives.  Shorter lived breeds such as St. Bernards and Irish Wolfhounds have a life expectancy of only 7-9 years.   It reaches a peak around 10-16 years in practice when most of our dog and cat patients die of age related disease.   Cancer, arthritis, kidney failure, and heart failure are among the most common causes of death in senior pets.  

Those of us who choose general practice find satisfaction in bonding with pets and owners over a lifetime.    Watching patients transition from cute puppy or kitten to mischievous adolescent is at times amusing or charming, and at times frustrating.   Next, they move into the young adult stage where, with proper guidance, they have finally figured out what is expected of them as a family member, settled into a comfortable routine within the family, and developed a sense of loyalty to the family.      Their humans have suffered through chewed shoes, scratched furniture, and countless 'accidents' on the carpet and furniture.    They have often wondered if they'd survive the crazy puppy or kitten stage, but are generally glad they stuck it out and are now reaping the rewards.    Middle age brings some challenges.    Previously healthy animals may begin to show signs of disease or mobility problems which require time, money, and dedication to manage.   Owners willing and able to handle the challenges may manage disease for years, and the pets often thrive under proper care.

Living with a senior pet is a mixture of heartache and joy.   Few things are as dignified as a 16 year old cat who curls regally up by your side (or on your lap if she deems your worthy!) or a white faced old Golden Retriever who still greets you at the door with a wagging tail and is still eager to go for a walk even though he is slower and tires more easily.    Few things are as heartbreaking as when that regal cat tries to jump onto the counter for the first time and can't quite make it.   Every dog owner knows about the lump in the throat the first time your senior dog tries and fails to stand up after a nap or stares at the wall and barks at night as dementia clouds her once sharp brain.   

The last treatment a 'cradle to grave' veterinarian gives his or her patient is a gentle death, usually while the pet is surrounded by loved ones.     That act is a mixture of heartache and relief.     We are sad to lose a patient we have treated for a decade or more, frustrated at the limits of medicine, but relieved that we can offer an end to pain.    Do we bond with all of our patients?  Honestly, no we don't, and that is fortunate for our emotional health.    We care about them, but we don't suffer the same level of pain as the owner does in most cases.  What we feel is empathy for the client, because most of us have been there with our own pets.   For those patients with whom we truly feel a bond, the loss is more profound.     One of my current patients is a senior dog who is suffering from terminal cancer.    He was, quite literally, born into my hands.   I was the first human to touch him when I delivered him by c-section.    Yesterday, I became one of the last humans to touch him.   I treated him for problems associated with suspected cancer.  Today, the diagnostic test results came in, and cancer was confirmed.    Treatment options were discussed, none of which would allow him to live out his breed's average life expectancy of another 2-5 years.   He will die sooner than he should, but he will die gently and with his family by his side.    Such is the life of a "cradle to grave" veterinarian.

Moose Grease and Condom Juice

Well ya know the holiday season is upon us, and those in this profession know that it means Death Season.  Yep, that phenomenon where all the people in the country love their pets soooo much that they cannot bear to watch them suffer any longer and must put them to sleep NOW.  (cue in "Have Yourself a Merry Little Deadly Christmas"...)

So we at VBB West Coast thought maybe a fun post was in order.   How about if we share some stuff we've learned recently?  You know, those gems without which we could not practice?  Especially those taught to us by clients.  Those are the BEST gems of all!

I learned this week:

--  Pumpkin seeds are the BEST for deworming your dogs.   The fact that it was just Halloween makes that very convenient, doesn't it?  (And yes, this IS separate from our all time favorite CANNED pumpkin gem!)

-- String cheese is the BEST way to manage epilepsy in dogs.  (I forgot to find out which kind of string cheese - oops)

-- AT&T offers a Qi data transfer discount to vets who treat animals via the phone lines.   Even better, your dog's "chi" can be "unblocked" via the phone lines.  Yep.  Takes a lot of data transfer though.  You read it here first, folks.

-- Vets are supposed to be able to determine purebred from non-purebred pups...  in utero.  As in, "can you please make her abort only the mutts and not the purebreds since she tied with two different boys?"

-- Condom juice (ONLY from newly opened condoms, mind you) and moose grease (yes, moose grease) is apparently the absolute best lubricant and treatment for the eye.  Not eye drops, you fools.  (and for your reading pleasure, here's the real story)

-- I think we ALL know that used motor oil treats mange.   Best. Treatment. Ever.   Don't waste your money on stuff like Ivermectin.

-- STOP giving the Ruffles potato chips to your dog.  Everybody knows chips give dogs heartworms.

-- Sibling dogs and cats won't breed.  Nope.  They know better than to do that.

--  Vaccines work by infecting the animal with the disease so they can poop out the virus, thus infecting those around them, leading to natural immunity.  Bet ya'll didn't know THAT one!!



Keep 'em coming....  and Happy Thanksgiving to everyone!

We Do The Best That We Can

People get angry at veterinarians all the time.  That procedure costs too much money!  All you're interested in is the contents of my wallet!  You obviously don't care about animals! 

Have you ever stopped to consider your veterinarian's job? We wear many hats, and we perform many jobs. And we do this with a good attitude and a heart for the patient's that we treat (and their owners). 

We must be grief counselors. We hold your hand, pat your back, offer tissues, and listen to your stories about Fluffy when it is time for Fluffy to go. Often, we hear stories about human tragedies as well - this pet belonged to your father who passed away, and Fluffy is all you have left of him. This cat belonged to your son, who died tragically at 21 last week in a car accident. 

We shoulder the sorrow of watching the light in your beloved pet's eyes dim, and we shoulder the dimming of the light in your eyes as you watch it happen. We feel the tears drip our hands, holding the syringe of pink liquid. We feel helpless too, unable to stop death, and we grieve with you. And though we go onto other patients and other cases, a tiny bit of our soul went with your pet into that great dark night (and we must have very big souls, to let so many pieces go). 

We must be financial counselors. Guiding you through the myriad decisions involving a loved pet's care and the expense that it can incur. We tell you about CareCredit and about Humane Society funds that might help. We frequently discount or don't charge for services so we can help that "special" pet get well (and so many of them wind up being special). We trim down surgery times, even though it truly took us an hour to remove that sock from your dog's intestines, and we stay late after work, just to help keep finances manageable for you. 

We must be mediators and relationship counselors between couples warring over decisions on Fluffy's pet care. We must delicately navigate the married (or ex-married) relationship shoals lest we be cast upon them and destroyed. Often, we field phone calls from each individual pet parent - sometimes within 5 minutes of one another - answering the same questions over and over. We do this with patience and a generally good attitude. We help soothe agitated couples and make our recommendations with aplomb. We try to make sure that both pet parents leave the hospital (or phone call) happy. 

On top of this, we ARE doctors. And not just one kind of doctor. Whereas if you visited your MD, he would look at your skin lesion and refer you to a dermatologist, we will skin scrape your pet, culture the lesion, and start your pet on an appropriate treatment course. If you visited your MD with a belly full of hemorrhage, he would send you to a surgeon post-haste. We will stabilize your pet with IV fluids, give a blood transfusion, and take your pet to surgery to address the cause of bleeding. We will talk you through options for chemotherapy if a tumor is found. We will provide palliative and hospice care as needed. If you request referral, we will help you find an oncologist. 

And we must do all this with a smile, a pleasant and cheery attitude. We must answer 10000 questions a day, from the mundane to the very serious. We must take care of the patients in our hospital, while seeing outpatients and doing surgery. We must make many phone calls in a day, relaying test results, 1 prognosis, discussing treatment plans and diets, nail trims and surgeries.  

Then we must go home and try to live a normal, well-rested and balanced life. Raising our children, enjoying our hobbies, cleaning our houses, fixing dinners.

Is it any wonder that we suffer from compassion fatigue and complete burnout on a regular basis?

I am an emergency veterinarian. I am a mother of 2 young children
(and would like to have more). I love my job. It drives me to continually strive to be better, to do better by my patients and their owners. But it also drives me to illness, to lack of sleep, to dehydration, to emotional breakdowns, and nights with my patient husband. 

I wear many hats - both at work and at home. Remember that the next time that you see your veterinarian. Remember that your vet is a person too - with a family, hobbies, dreams, tragedies, and sadness - just the same as you. And much like you, they are working hard and doing the best that they can - every single day.

Rabies Testing & Quarantine

Today, VBB Central was closed down so our doctors could have a CE day. Continuing education is a valuable part of veterinary practice - it's how we keep up with what's going on in our profession medically, administratively, and so on. I usually enjoy my CE days a lot, although of course some lectures (and lecturers) are better than others!

Today, one of the talks was on the subject of rabies testing and quarantine, and rules applicable in various states and counties. The speaker was a veterinarian from her state's Department of Agriculture, and she was very dynamic and knowledgeable. Obviously the material she was working with was what it was - the nuts and bolts of vaccine, quarantine, and testing requirements are not very sexy - but nonetheless, she kept me interested the entire time. She even managed to gracefully handle the incessant "point of order" type questioning from the one guy in the back, who always has to ask a stream of arcane academic questions that are irrelevant to anyone living in the real world.

Here's the thing - dedicated readers of this site know that one thing most veterinarians have in common is that "nothing surprises us anymore." Except, you know, when the most stupid or ridiculous thing imaginable suddenly happens and it shocks the hell out of you, and you think "man, I THOUGHT I had seen it all, but I guess I was wrong." Then you think there's nothing left to surprise you - until it happens again.

Well.

This veterinarian was talking about how to properly submit samples for testing at the state diagnostic testing laboratories. Proper refrigeration is key, in case you are wondering, and she also recommends making sure everything is sealed well to avoid leakage and that identifying paperwork is enclosed, properly filled out, and in its own separate waterproof bag. There are various approved couriers, and instructions on how to deliver the samples without using a courier were also provided. She was very thorough. Then she got to the part about properly preparing the samples.

Well, ok, easy enough, right? You're either submitting a brain that has been removed from a head, or a head that has been removed from a body, or in the case of a very small patient (under 3 lbs) an entire body. She did take care to remind us that they only want mammalian samples. OK, I can see how someone might think it necessary to submit say a bird or something, if perhaps a pet chicken went batshit crazy and started attacking inanimate objects or whatever. So it makes sense she would remind us not to do that. Then she reminded us that they want only non-living samples. I am pleased to report that she did not provide us with an example of a living sample they had received in error.

So far so good, you're probably thinking. Where's the surprise? Well - apparently last year, she was going through the reports sent to her office from the state diagnostic testing laboratory, and was disconcerted to see that a particular sample had been "unable to be tested." She read the complete report and it said that the reason the sample could not be tested was because despite the fact that it had been labelled as a "bat," it was in fact not a bat but rather a banana peel.

I'll let that sink in for a minute.

It was not a bat, but rather a banana peel.

I am not sure how one makes that mistake, let alone how someone who mistakes a banana peel for a bat is then competent to package the banana peel up with the appropriate paperwork and submit it through the proper channels for delivery to the state rabies diagnostic testing laboratory. It kinda makes my head spin.

I did take the time this afternoon, after getting home from the CE, to put together this teaching slide for my own talks:

Feel free to use that yourself if you find it helpful. This is apparently something people need help with out there.

Our Chance to Be Heard

Many of us have been following the mess associated with the AVMA, the COE (Council on Education) ACCREDITATION baloney and blah blah blah.  (check out www.justvetdata.com)  All we really know is that it's not good for the profession, right?  I mean, another school just opened up and is going to be charging a cool $60,000 PER YEAR for their veterinary degree....   good freaking god.

If that's not enough to make you blow your morning coffee right outta your nose, then I can't help you.   :)

So now's our chance to make our intentions knowns and our voices heard.  PLEASE go to this link, read it, and submit your comments.    Let's come together and see if we can't make our profession better.


www.vetuscope.com

And please share the link with every vet you know - students also - and ask them to submit their comments if they agree.

It can't be any easier than this!

Let's come together, people, and do something to save this profession before it's too late.

Chapters We'd Like to See in the Textbooks

A few of us at the VBB roundtable were wondering why we never see the following chapters in any of our veterinary textbooks: 


Chapter 1:   How to Accept That You Chose to Become an Emotional Sponge for the Public Without Killing Yourself.

Chapter 2:  How to Fake Diseases in your Patients Just So You Can Steal Money from Your Clients.

Chapter 3:  How Not to Giggle When Someone Tells You Their Name is Melena.

Chapter 4:  A Concise Surgery How-To Guide:  Cut that Shit Off...  It's Simple as Shit.

Chapter 5:  A Concise Surgery How-To Guide Part Two:   I Cut that Shit Off But It Wasn't Simple as Shit.
                      
Chapter 6:  A Concise Surgery How-To Guide Part Three:  I Cut that Shit Off, It Wasn't Simple as Shit and Now I Wish I'd Never Started This.

Chapter 7:  A Concise Surgery How-To Guide Part Four:  I've Been in Surgery for 3 Hours, I Cut that Shit Off, It Wasn't Simple as Shit and Now I Have to Just Close the Damned Wound and See What Happens.

Chapter 8:  Surgery:  The Ultimate Hack and Slash Experience.

Chapter 9:  Table Sugar:  Rub It on the Weenie and It Will Go Down.

Chapter 10:  Foxtails:  Not Just for the Gardener Anymore.

Chapter 11:   Canned Pumpkin:  So Many Uses, So Many Doses.

Chapter 12:  So You've Just Accidently Stabbed Yourself with Euthanasia Solution...  What's Next?

Chapter 13:   Using a Flea Circus and Homing Fleas to Increase Your Bottom Line. 

Chapter 14:  Controlling your Desire to Choke the Living Shit Out of Someone.

Chapter 15:  Post Grad Wal-Mart Budget:  Another Way of Looking at Student Loan Debt  (aka You Only Thought You Were Done Eating Ramen Noodles)

Chapter 16:  Vaccines Schedules:  Obviously Dr. Google Knows Best.

Chapter 17:  Keeping a Straight Face When a Client Wants to Keep the Toenails After You Trim Their Dog's Toenails.

Chapter 18:  Chocolate Vomit:  A Love Hate Relationship.




What chapter would YOU like to see in the textbooks?