We're SAVED!!

I know it can seem to be all doom and gloom in our profession these days.  We are in a rough economy, there are too many vets and not enough work.  Our new grads are coming out with mammoth, crushing debt loads.  Many of us will lose our health care coverage in a few months.  Things appear to be pretty bleak. 

(In AVMA's defense, they only had 33 months to figure out how to keep us covered before they announced we were being dumped.  It's not like they could have actually, you know, tried to find an alternative carrier or anything.)

And in the midst of this, many feel that our professional association, AVMA, has been worse than useless.

Their response has been to fund a new position for diversity and international relations at an undisclosed cost to us.  Don't you look at your books at the end of the month and say "You know what this practice needs?  More diversity and international business!"? I know I sure do!

They have also decided to spend almost a hundred grand of our money to determine if we need a new logo.  Plus about the same to implement.  Now I know some of you are muttering to yourselves something about lipstick and a pig, but you shouldn't.  That would be unfair to the pig, it would smell better than this does. 

So we feel a bit gloomy, and with some reason.  But take heart, my colleagues, AVMA has finally found a solution to our woes!! They have released something that will make your heart soar!

We have, wait for it............

A new veterinary computer game!!!

Not only is it a game, it is an excellent soporific!  I have insomnia, and by the end of the 3rd level, my head almost hit my laptop.  As a bonus, if you are so brain dead that you can stay awake to the end of the 5th level, you are automatically nominated to the AVMA board!!

Seriously AVMA?  Are you friggin kidding me?  How much did this little gem cost?  And if you are going to spend my money, couldn't you have at least have made it an interesting game?  Did you even bother testing this on any actual kids?

I know I am not in the target age group of the game, but I can revert to 10 years old in an instant.  Just ask my wife.  I may be an old fart, but I love online games.  Trust me, no kid will play this unless you grant dispensation from taking the trash out or mowing the yard as long as they play.  Even with that, any kid will be begging to do chores within an hour, rather than play this crap. 

Your job is to look out for our profession.  Under your watch, enrollment and tuitions have skyrocketed.  Nearly a fifth of us are losing our insurance, and still can get no definite answers from you months after you promised.  Your response has been BS of varying degrees. 

I did not think it possible for a group of educated, allegedly smart, allegedly functional adults could be so out of touch, so delusional.  Until now.

we joke about it...

We at VBB central often joke that when "money is no object," it's because the owner has no intention of paying anyway. Gladly this isn't ALWAYS the case or we'd all be closed by now, but it happens often enough. In this case, one of our Dear Readers reports a time when Buck the Pony's owners weren't quite on the same page, maybe. In the end, the result is the same...

Dr. Pinkie Pie writes:

"Buck", an adorable little pony was in bad shape. He was skinny and not putting on weight, despite the feed being offered. He'd been de-wormed, put on pasture and was still thin. No one at the farm knew why Buck was so skinny, so I was called out to have a look at him. "Anything Buck needs" was the request.  I soon found Buck's problem, and fortunately it was one that I could do something about.

The pony's teeth were in very bad shape. The upper molars and premolars had sharp points that had made deep, non-healing gashes in the cheeks. The tongue was cut on the underside from overgrowth on the lower teeth. The smell was terrible, and most powerful, as the dosing syringe rinsed out his mouth. Globs of poorly-chewed hay and grass fell onto the ground in a foul-smelling green slime. The pony was thin, as he could not eat enough to sustain himself with a mouth so infected and sore. To make matters worse, this was a tiny little gelding with a tiny little mouth. The big tools just wouldn't do. The female owner was shown that damage and she agreed to treatment and the estimate. "Anything Buck needs" was the answer.

Sedation went well, only a few top-ups to keep him quiet yet standing. To treat those teeth with hand tools took a long time, about 40 minutes, and there was a little bleeding. Those sharp, pain-inducing points were gone, for now.  The teeth in Buck's mouth did not line up like a horses' teeth should, so the teeth would never wear properly on their own.  That mouth would require yearly care for Bucks' comfort, much like other horses with mouths that don't have good tooth alignment. No matter how many times the question was asked, the answer was the same. "Buck will need annual dental care." Buck was given pain control. He soon woke up and sauntered off, just a little wobbly, into his field and rested in the shade near his horse friends. The charges were tabulated and the owner paid the bill without a word. I packed my tools and left for the next call. All seemed right, as the tedious work would make a world of difference to that sweet little pony.

It was a few hours later that the problems started. The male owner was very angry that the cost of Bucks' treatment. Note that the estimate was only slightly lower than the final bill, a fact that was stated clearly before treatment started. He wanted his money back now, as he said the bill was too high and he had been ripped off. The service, according to him, was worth 100 dollars and no more. Buck is a rescue, after all. The shouting could be heard several feet away from the phone.  After belittling the receptionist, likely to the point of exhaustion, the call ended.

A few minutes later, the female owner called back, again demanding money back. There was no talk of Buck doing poorly - the pony was doing very well.  More accusations of billing to high and money-grubbing. The receptionist stood her ground against the abuses showered upon her; I have a lot of respect for her ability to deal with such people.  Sadly, the abuses did not end.  Bad reviews and comments continued to appear on social media regarding price gouging and ripping off good, hard-working people. My only hope is that honest people will see through the anger and lies.

As for Buck? I know I helped him, at least for the time being. I hope he does well and his little mouth continues to get the care it needs. Buck is a very sweet little pony.

Almost Perfect

Some good comes from putting a few decades behind ya, but sometimes it seems as if the negatives outnumber the pluses. This is a closely held secret, but after passing the magic 45-50 year old barrier, and the letters from the AARP folks start showing up un-invited in your mailbox, your eyes go off warranty. And your arms get shorter. Those who didn’t wear glasses… begin to wear glasses, and if you can’t find your reading glasses when you need them, look first to your forehead before you trash the entire house. And if you do wear glasses, get used to the lower part of the lenses going weird on you.

I won’t go into the adjustments this requires in surgery, or in tying a fly to your tippet while standing thigh deep in a Montana trout stream. But I will tell you that this new development plays havoc with your target shooting. You can still see the target, standing still waiting for you way out there, but the sights on your pistol or rifle take on a whole new dimension, or dimensions if the truth be told. Shooting by braille has some entertainment value, but what might once have represented precision soon takes on more of a comedic turn.

Which is why I’ve been adding telescopic sights to some of the old rifles, for I still enjoy playing with them, and I’d still like to do it well. Scoped rifles don’t care if your eyes are old. 

The ancestors of this particular rifle go back to the military over fifty years ago, and thus it had no provisions for attaching telescopic sights. Took a little ingenuity and time spent on the net to assemble the parts, but said parts were attached to the rifle last weekend, and I got to shoot it today. But first I needed to “sight it in”.

I won’t bore you with the details, but certain adjustments to a newly mounted scope sight need to be made so it points you in the right direction. Long story short, you fire the rifle at the rather large target placed not all that far away, and then adjust the scoped sight so that you put the bullets you send down range into that little part of the center of the target. You look at the holes you just made in the paper, and then you adjust the sights until the holes show up in the correct place. 

If I had not forgotten my spotting scope, the device capable of significant magnification so I could actually see those small holes in the paper target, this would have been a simple task. Fortunately, the guy shooting from the bench next to mine offered to spot for me, using the higher magnification of his rifle’s telescopic sight. With his help, within minutes I’d made the appropriate adjustments, and my holes were where they belonged. Such friendly cooperation is the norm at rifle ranges, and I thanked him for his assist.

During the next ceasefire, I moved my target farther out, to the 100 yard line, and then I had a moment to talk with my neighbor. He remembered me from some years ago.

His dog was named Sargent. She broke with parvo back in the first days of the disease, in the early eighties. We saw way too much parvo back then, and watched so many die. Sargent was a corgi/beagle mix, and I had conned him into treating the puppy with the notion that beagles could survive anything. She did eventually recover, but she had a long and difficult time. I asked if this was the pup I’d assigned a nickname.  And he said yes.

I called her SARG, during those times when I went back to the isolation ward to talk with her and pet her and hopefully cheer her on with something besides drugs and fluids. And for all the years later, she was SARG to me. And he remembered that.

This man talked of how in the beginning, he had tried to talk his wife into just dumping the little pup at the pound rather than treat her. He talked of how he had grown up on a ranch where the dogs were tools and if one ran under the truck tire, you simply got a new dog. He had seen no need to invest effort or money into medical care for a pup they had just acquired. And he remembered how I had talked him into treating her.

And then he talked of how surprised he was that SARG was always thrilled to come see us, and she got excited as the car drove near, and then ran into my clinic. And he talked of how he grew to like her, and she slept in his lap and next to him in the bed, and he had wondered how he had once lived without such love and devotion. 

And then he said that after 20 years the time came when SARG was so old and so sick that the only choice remaining was a quiet release into the other side. And he stood there at a rifle range, and he said to me that he must have been the worst, the most pathetic sobbing mess I’d ever seen as his dog left this earth with my help. And yet he seemed so grateful, as we stood there, and I could read it in his eyes, and then he offered me his hand to shake. For the unspoken….that I’d given his pup the chance to love him for twenty years, and him the chance to love her back.

The range master released us, and I went to my bench and loaded my rifle and sent one round downrange, and then I stopped and unloaded the rifle. Only one round sent downrange. I sat there for the ten minutes, and then during the next ceasefire, I walked out to my target. 

The hole in the target was within millimeters of a perfect center hit. It was as close to perfection as I am likely to ever see.

And as I contemplated the time spent with this man, and remembered his wonderful little dog and saw how he had loved her, and I looked back on four decades of this practice of veterinary medicine, all I could conclude was….it was as close to perfection as I am ever likely to see.

Fuji's Problem

A ringing phone in a veterinary hospital opens up all manner of possibilities. You never know what you are going to get. And even when the caller tells you exactly what has happened with a pet so you might know what to expect when they arrive, it pays to see things for yourself. Because sometimes client perception, or client deception, differs from reality.

My receptionist leaned into my office.

“Bin Tappingakeg is on the phone. Says his dog is in the ditch next to the road and it’s being attacked by vultures.”

“Okay…”

“Bring it in?”

“Seems reasonable.”

Turns out ole Friskee had been out in that ditch for a few days, just laying there under the hot sun, next to the road, and each day the vultures were coming closer. Bin must have figured those big birds were the culprits onnacounta how often vultures attack sixty pound dogs???

The fractured rear leg was the first thing to catch my eye when Bin carried Friskee in, what with the way it swung to and fro as if not properly attached. Bin “seen that”, but figured the vultures “dun it to his dog”. The immediate proximity of the highway was my first thought, but of course, I was wrong too.

My x-ray of the leg revealed the true nature of the injury. Ole Friskee actually had bone cancer, which had weakened the thigh bone to the point where it fractured under his own weight. And he’d recuperated in that ditch for days, unable to move while Bin contemplated what to do about them vultures. Friskee wasn’t in the best of shape by then, and after a heated discussion, Bin finally accepted my version of reality.

Traveling back in time to the mid-seventies, and yes…we did have telephones back then, but they were fixed to the wall, I recall the phone ringing one morning. Seems a client had dropped his toolbox on the puppy’s tail, and he couldn’t get the bleeding to stop. Well, come on down!!

That seemed a bit weird to me, but I had not yet seen everything, so I waited to see this. Sure enough, the tail had been cut clean off on this four month old puppy, and no…it wouldn’t stop bleeding. Imagine the force involved if a tool box would cut off the tail, clean as a whistle, and right exactly where you’d dock the tail of a Doberman pup if you set out to do just that. Hmmmm…

Ya see, Dobermans were quite popular back then, and one of the things we did in those days was to surgically dock the tails on the two to four day old pups. We didn’t worry then that it wasn’t politically correct. The folks who’ve assigned themselves to improve our behaviors hadn’t yet even invented those words. The pups got over it quickly, and at that tender age they didn’t bleed much.

When you cut off the tail on a four month old puppy however, it bleeds considerably. I figured this guy had used a hatchet, or perhaps an ax. I must have complimented him for sharpening it well, but otherwise it was a poor choice, a choice to which he was initially disinclined to admit. He did eventually realize that the turnip truck I’d fallen off had left some time earlier, and just maybe I’d figured out what he did wrong here.

We first heard about Fuji when the phone rang on Tuesday morning. The lady said that the pup had a “belly button hernia” and it had just “popped” and her guts were hanging outside. Interesting. Let’s have a look.

I’ve seen plenty of umbilical hernias, mine included, and had yet to see one “pop”, but I’m open to new experiences. Fuji stood on my exam table, all five and a half pounds of four month old puppy, with another half a pound of fleas, trying to wag her tail and lick me all while some of her stuff hung down from that hole in her belly.

The lady said her young son had been playing with the puppy the night before, and everything was fine…and then that morning she’d seen this. I took a quick peek and got the sense that something rather sharp had cut the pup’s skin. Otherwise this made no sense, for hernias don’t simply pop open.

The owner of course, asked if we took payments. Her family wouldn’t loan her the money needed to pay for the surgery to repair this oops. Neither would her friends. I figured they knew her better than I did. So nope, I wouldn’t loan her money either.

Meanwhile, we’d had the pup for an hour. She was loaded up with pain meds and the stuff we give them to ease the induction of and recovery from anesthesia. We were ready to do the surgery. And the ladies had been babying her, for that is what they do best.

The owner threatened to take the pup home, and I suggested that the animal control people would be waiting for her when she got there, for I couldn’t let her take home a puppy with her stuff hanging out like that.

Now, nobody likes the corner into which we were backing. Puppy suffering, no one with the wherewithal to help, and our first obligation is the relief of suffering. And we, none of us in this building, were not interested in putting yet another darling puppy to sleep for “humane reasons”. The owner seemed very reluctant to get the animal control people involved. They are a police agency, after all. Somebody needed to bite the bullet, again.

We fixed the injury, which was in fact a stab wound, from a knife, box cutter or something similar. There had been no hernia. Despite the owner’s inventive story, somebody in that fine family had stabbed this puppy. This no doubt factored into the owner’s willingness to sign the puppy over to us rather than have to deal with a police agency. The pup has a new home already, with a wonderful kind family, where the old dog just loves it and the woman hugs it and talks baby to her, and the man sits quietly lest he disturb the sleeping puppy on his lap. They sent us photos that first night.

And the smiles around this place are back, for a while, because by hook or crook we got to do what we are supposed to do in this place. We cannot do this sort of thing every day, or even very often, but sometimes we simply have to. And that’s just way more fun than some of that other.

Petting Puppies

Once upon a time, in a land far away…

I approached the Canadian border on a deserted two lane highway. I’d traveled for days up the coast from California, turned inland at the end of Washington, ferried across the water, and then forgoing the interstate highway, found a small road that headed north. I hadn’t considered this to be anything suspicious. It simply seemed more fun to be riding the motorcycle on a winding back road than on a boring crowded interstate.

The border crossing was not crowded. In fact, I had the place to myself. The officer in the kiosk was efficient if not exactly effervescent. I figured he was simply doing his job. But I was a bit surprised when he invited me into the little building over there for a few questions. The gent in there was efficient but not polite.

Where was I from? Where was I going? No surprises here. Straight answers from me. Just hoping to see some Canada, I said. What do you do for a living? Oh, I’m a veterinarian. Ah….so you can get drugs, right?

Excuse me?

Dawned upon me right about then, the why for why I was sitting in a chair across a table from a law enforcement agent in the always welcoming nation of Canada. This guy thought I was smuggling drugs. Apparently, that’s what veterinarians do.

And all this time I’d thought that veterinarians just petted puppies and kittens, and cashed the checks so we could get rich. I had no idea I was supposed to be smuggling drugs, too. All these years I’ve wasted by not scoring drugs for sale. Probably could have retired by now.

Petting puppies is a major plus in the why-do-I-do-this-job column. Puppies are nice. They mostly arrive on my exam table simply real glad to see me. Too young to know any better, a puppy trusts everyone, loves everyone. They march right up, eyes locked on you and mouth spread in perpetual grin, they match their tails with their enthusiasm. Puppy breath. Puppy kisses. 

All of the negatives in this deal, all the disappointments, all the tragedy, all the frustration and pain this job nets us…..melts away with just one puppy lovin’ on you. A good day in this business is puppies, all day long. The more puppies, the better.

Today….The four o’clock….three puppies. Saw this show up on the appointment schedule, and my heart sank. I wanted to cry.

We get to see the puppies often for the simple reality that the best way to keep the devil away, that virus we call Parvo, is to vaccinate the puppies early and often. I won’t bore you with the details, but when we have the opportunity to vaccinate every three weeks or so, most of our puppies won’t catch that disease, and they will live to be the companions we so value in our dogs. And they won’t die lying weak and helpless in the puddle of vomit and bloody diarrhea that that disease inflicts upon them. 

Something went wrong with this litter. The dam was vaccinated, according to the owner, so her immunity should have protected the puppies for weeks more than it did. The puppies had started their vaccine series so they should have been in a pretty safe state. We don’t much see eight week old puppies catch Parvo anymore. Eight week old puppies have never had much of a chance when Parvo showed up.  That’s what we saw back in the day, when we watched so many die in agony.

These days, usually they wait until they are older and they have a semblance of a chance of surviving even if they do catch it. If Mom’s immunity transferred to the pups works like it should, only the older pups will get sick, and our opportunity with proper care, of saving the pups who do catch this disease, hangs in the pretty good chance percentages. 

Of course, when we cannot apply what we can, that damn disease will still kill off most of those precious babies, just like it has for the last thirty years.

Seven pups were born into this litter. The first puppy had been sold, and within a day it was diagnosed with Parvo at another hospital. Not quite eight weeks old. A day later, the first of the rest showed up at our hospital. It tested positive, but wasn’t too badly off, so a few simple things which might help if the gods approved, were tried, and we sent it home. Two days later, we got to kill the first two.

Ya see, the plan was to sell the pups for many hundreds of tax free dollars. No money was set aside for the puppies’ care if anything went wrong. These folks had no money to spare at all. Proper care of a Parvo sick puppy costs many hundreds of dollars at a good hospital, and even at our little place it ain’t cheap. And the puppies’ owners weren’t going there. So rather than watch the puppies die puking and shitting blood, and crying and twitching in agony, somebody gets to “put them out of their misery”. 

It’s the humane thing to do.

And guess who gets to do it.

The puppy at the other hospital had already died. The one I’d seen two days earlier died at their home. These two had the zombie look that Parvo gives us, but they still tried to wag their tails and smile at us as we killed them. My poor tech was crying, and pleading, “I’m sorry baby, I’m sorry, I’m sorry….”

I kept it together, because somebody had to hit a tiny vein in a tiny leg so these pups could die in peace, and tears get in the way of that.

So today we got the last three. They weren’t eating and they could not play. They were vomiting and barely moved. The drool seeped from their mouths and horrid stuff leaked from the other end. The first two died quietly, just like it’s supposed to be when I do my job right. My tech was more stoic this time, as the job here had killed a little bit more of her.

The last puppy sensed something. Perhaps he wasn’t ready to die at only eight weeks of age. Nobody should be ready to die at eight weeks of age. This puppy railed and cried, and struggled, and then I killed him too. My tech left to go scream in the bathroom.

The owner turned to face me, after all this.

And he asked me for a discount on the bill, for this had involved so many pups, and the cost was more than he had hoped.

Beginnings

My alarm turns on the radio at the same time, six days each week. Waking up only to go to work is no particular pleasure, but at least it happens in the morning. I like morning, the beginning of a day, when the air seems fresher, cooler and a little damp as it flows in through the window. The colors in the eastern sky highlight the fog hanging around the mountain and I wish I were an artist who could paint and thus preserve this scene.

Usually, I step slowly into the day, lingering in my bed, listening while the morning guy on the radio tries to be funny while reading the news. I see nothing to be gained by leaping out of bed and startling the day. It may be no more ready for me than I am for it.

Yesterday was different. I had someplace to be very early in the day, so I rolled out quickly and left the house before my wife had a chance to twitch; this was no business for her anyway.

The dogs go to work with me every day. They knew it wasn't the usual time to leave and they hadn't had their coffee yet, but they piled into the truck with me. They know their job and would follow me into the gates of Hades.

I motored off into the rising sun, reminding myself again that I need to wash that darn windshield. No time to enjoy this morning as I worked my way upstream against the morning commute, to the next town where a friend needed me.

My friend lived with a dog that was poetry in motion for a decade and a half, a dog that ran like the wind with her blonde hair flying and nothing but joy reflected in her eyes. For this dog, time had passed and taken its toll. Her body was irrevocably damaged, frail and weak, and she could no longer carry the weight of that thing growing in her belly. Her eyes said she was tired.

I needed to go to my friend's house early this morning to do what I do to end this pain. I administered my injection, a quick almost mechanical task, so the suffering could finish and the grieving begin. For even grieving must begin before it too, can end.

Then I joined the tide of cars slowing flowing west; I was late for my morning appointments at the clinic, but nothing would speed up that parade. When I finally arrived the kitten problem was waiting for me there.

The kitten was about seven weeks old, colored like a Boston Terrier in black and white, and, of course, terminally cute. And my wife wanted her.

Number two son had just graduated from college and moved far away to begin his adult life. However, because of this something important was ending for my wife. The nest was emptying and she felt a kitten would be the cure.

I opposed adding another member to the menagerie at home, but I relented, reluctantly. At the end of the day, Cassie was in the truck with the dogs and me as we followed the sun back home.

I had my reservations. I figured another cat would just add to the chaos at home, more work, more conflict between the animals, and more problems to solve. Then I watched that silly kitten and my silly wife play and giggle and pounce and hide and seek for the next four hours. I watched Cassie snuggle under my wife's chin and start to plug that big hole in her heart. And, of course, the little con artist fell asleep in my lap, purring.

OK, I was wrong.

Our house is a little brighter, now. Cassie brings more joy to my wife than any diamond I might go into hock to buy for her. The dogs already like the little tyke and the other cats will get over it, eventually. We experienced a resurrection of sorts in our little home, with a new soul to love, a beginning. For a day that had started with sadness, such happiness didn't feel bad at all.

Obesity, Obstinance, and Obfuscation

Unless you've been living under a rock, you know that obesity has become one of the biggest public health problems in the United States over the past couple of decades. Interestingly, it isn't only a problem for homo sapiens - it's affecting our household pets, too. Any of you who treat pets here in the USA are probably nodding your heads right now. Dogs whose ligaments rupture under the strain of an extra 75 lbs on a skeleton that should only be carrying 70 lbs to start with... cats who can't muster the strength to drag their flabby butts over the lip of the litter pan... and they are almost invariably accompanied to my office by owners who state "but I hardly feed him ANYTHING! how can he be fat?" It's a common story, and a sad one.

Of course, Big Pharma would love to find the Magic Anti-Fat Pill, and I'm sure that they've been working night and day to come up with it because along the way, they've found Slentrol. Slentrol is a Magic Anti-Fat Pill for dogs.* Dogs who take Slentrol as instructed DO LOSE WEIGHT! They feel full, because the drug works on the intestinal level to stimulate a feeling of satiety. They eat less. The pounds come off. A dog taking Slentrol as instructed will generally reach his target weight within 6-12 months, depending of course on individual factors.

Discussing obesity with the owners of fat dogs is kinda touchy. In particular if the owner is also obese, the vet might feel really awkward raising the subject. Also if the veterinarian is obese, it can be difficult to bring it up. But I find that most of my own clients, when I simply state that their dog is clinically 20% or more over his ideal weight, are genuinely interested in trying to address it - or at least they CLAIM to be. Sometimes, they go ahead and start Slentrol right away, and I think everything will be great....until their first recheck. Then, the owners bring them in, full of concern. "He's not eating!" they say. Well, yes, he is eating. He is eating a *normal* amount of food. "But it's only 1/2 cup! He usually eats 4 cups a day, now just 1/2 cup!" they cry. But, see -- the dog was packing on excess pounds eating 4 cups a day. Four cups a day was KILLING the dog. Now the dog is losing weight, looking great, and becoming more energetic, able to run and play instead of lying on the floor 23 hours a day. Which brings up the other complaint - "my dog is hyper on this drug!" *sigh* Anyone who, like me, has had the personal experience of losing a few of those extra pounds will understand immediately that those extra pounds can really sap your strength and energy levels, and that once they're gone, you feel a lot more energetic. This is also true of our furry friends!

Once a dog has reached his target weight, the Slentrol program requires a 3-month maintenance phase. Zoetis originally wanted to call this the "Owner Retraining Phase," but apparently that was deemed inappropriate by the Political Correctness in Big Pharma task force. Still, it's a period of time in which the owner learns by direct observation exactly how much food is appropriate for the dog to eat, to maintain the ideal body weight. After the 3 months is over, the Slentrol is withdrawn - and the dog will be hungry again! But hopefully the owner will be able to stay strong and just keep feeding the right amount of food.

We sometimes see situations where a dog taking Slentrol will start defending his food from his canine housemates who come to scope out his leftovers. "Slentrol made my dog food-aggressive" is the presenting complaint. Well, no it didn't! Your dog was always food-aggressive, there just never was any leftover food to defend because he always scarfed it down in five seconds!!! Address the food aggression with behavioral modification techniques or by separating the dogs when food is out, but don't let your dog get dangerously obese again just because Slentrol has unmasked his previously occult food aggression.

What's most interesting to me & my fellow VBB is the large number of people who seem truly distressed at seeing their dog's appetite decrease. Food is clearly equated with love, and a big canine appetite is equated with acceptance and return of that love. The majority of Slentrol failures happen when people stop giving the drug because of this "side effect," which is of course not a "side effect" at all but rather the DESIRED effect of the drug!

I wish more people could recognize this in themselves, get over it, and allow their dogs to free themselves from the prison of obesity.

*NB: Slentrol is not actually magic. It is a drug that works pretty much as advertised, though. Please note that I do not now nor have I ever worked for Zoetis or any other pharmaceutical company. I don't get kickbacks from any drug company. I'm not on some secret "viral marketing" social media payroll, either. As far as the possibility of pro-Big-Pharma bias from li'l ol doc VBB here goes.... well, it's about as likely as it is that I will make a house call to cut the nails of your dangerously aggressive and untrained 198 lb Fila Brasiliero. In other words: I have no vested interest in promoting any Zoetis product. Thank you for your time.