Coated With Fur: A Vet's Life Read online

  Oscar, a medium-sized macaw in the middle cage ignored the eager canine as well. The bird turned his back to the annoying dog, but his long tail feathers stuck through the bars under the food cup. Ivan eagerly sniffed the feathers until Oscar squawked loudly. Ivan jumped back with a look of surprise.

  Windsor, the little cockatiel in the last cage, did the opposite. Windsor slid down the bars of his cage and perched on a feed cup, eye-to-eye with Ivan. Windsor might have been the smallest bird in my collection, but he had the biggest heart. No Doberman was going to intimidate him. The gray bird with orange circles on his cheeks spread his wings out to the side and fanned the yellow crest of feathers on the top of his head in defiance. He dared Ivan to put his nose within reach of his sharp little beak. Ivan stared back as if to say, “Are you kidding me?”

  “Careful, Ivan,” I called to him. “Windsor can really bite. I know from experience.”

  Rich walked over to Ivan, clipped a leash to his collar and pulled him away. Windsor strutted back and forth at the bottom of his cage with his crest held high. A low chortle rattled from his throat. He showed Ivan who was boss.

  I handed a medicine bottle labeled Minnesota Veterinary Center to Rich. Ivan thought it might be a toy and tried to grab it. Rich responded with a laugh. Obviously, the over-sized Doberman could do no wrong in his eyes. When I unscrewed the top of the cookie jar an overwhelming beef smell escaped. Ivan was next to me in a split second. He licked his lips and nosed my elbow in encouragement.

  After the OK command from Rich, Ivan gently removed the cookie from the palm of my hand. His lips felt like velvet. Two chomps later, the cookie was a distant memory. Ivan barked and begged for more, staring at the cookie jar. I petted his head instead, not wanting to upset his delicate stomach with too many treats.

  While I wrote in Ivan’s medical record, he rubbed against my leg. Then he turned around and backed into my leg. I felt his rear end slide down until his butt rested on my shoe. His hip bone crushed my foot into the floor. A numbing sensation spread through my toes, which tingled as if they were frozen. I tried to pull my foot out, but Ivan just pushed with more force.

  “Ah, Ivan,” I stammered. “What’s with sitting on my foot?”

  Rich started to giggle. “It means he likes you,” he said. I gave him a quizzical glance. I had never experienced this with any other dog. My foot ached. “Really,” he continued. Ivan’s eyes pleaded with me to believe him. “He only sits on your foot if he likes you.”

  “Well, I like you, too.” I patted Ivan’s head. I couldn’t feel my toes anymore. “But I would like you better if you weren’t sitting on my foot.” I pushed his rear off my foot with both hands. Ivan gazed at me with angelic eyes as he tried to sit on my other foot. I pulled it out of the way just in time. His rear landed on the floor with a thud. He looked at me again and wagged his stump of a tail. Ivan was a charmer. Rich called him over to his side. Ivan took one last look before obeying. I couldn’t tell if he was looking at me or the cookie jar.

  As I escorted Rich and Ivan back to the lobby, Ivan pranced along, seeming to float above the floor. Before opening the door, I proudly gave Rich a business card. He tucked it into his wallet with a promise to call if the hotspot was not gone in three days. Ivan stared out the front door, leaving nose-prints all over the glass.

  Rich thanked me for the help, happy that he had enough time to drop Ivan off at home before heading to work. When I reminded him to put the e-collar on the dog as soon as possible, he promised that Ivan would be wearing it before they left the parking lot.

  “And congratulations on the clinic,” Rich added. “It must be very exciting to open a business of your own.”

  I smiled and nodded. As an employee, the thought of owning my own business and running the show seemed glamorous. Now I was starting to worry about paying the bills and meeting the biweekly payroll. Freedom, it seems, has its costs.

  Still, it was a good start to the day. At least I had one transaction out of the way early.

  Chapter 4

  Genevieve, MVC Mascot

  Allie roared into the parking lot in her fire-engine-red sports car. Large black fuzzy dice with red dots hung from the rearview mirror. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail before entering the building. High school boys walking down the sidewalk stopped to gaze as she strode across the parking lot in her hot pink scrubs. At precisely 9 a.m., she entered the lobby.

  “Good morning, Allie. You seem to have a fan club,” I observed. The group of awkward teenagers still stood on the sidewalk, staring at our building.

  “Please.” She stretched the word into four syllables. “I like mature men.” She rolled her eyes and tossed back her head. A dark blue sedan pulled-up in front of the clinic. Allie threw her bag under the counter and prepared to greet our first appointment of the morning, Winston. We weren’t really sure why the curly Airedale was here. When Harold Warren had called, he mumbled something about bobsledding.

  Allie escorted Winston and his owner into the dog room. Sky-blue paint covered the bottom half of the walls with bright white on top. A wide wallpaper border bridged the gap. On the border, Yellow Labrador puppies played with duck decoys and hunting whistles. An oak peninsula cabinet that served as both exam table and storage unit jutted into the middle of the room. The blue laminate top matched the blue paint.

  I entered the room from the back door. The handsome dog sat on the table with Harold standing behind him. Winston looked like a poster puppy for Airedale Terriers with his rusty brown coat. Black hair covered his back, the shape resembling a saddle. He sat with his head up and feet perfectly aligned in front of him. As sometimes happens with owners and pets, Harold Warren bore a striking resemblance to Winston. Tight curls of black hair fell across his forehead. He stood straight with shoulders back as if a book balanced on his head.

  “Good morning,” I greeted the pair. Harold nodded. “What can we do for you today?” Although Allie had inquired several times in different ways, the reason for Winston’s visit remained a mystery. Harold mentioned bobsledding and then clammed up. He looked so uncomfortable that Allie quit pressing. Now it was up to me to solve the puzzle.

  Harold looked down at his dog. He shifted back and forth on his feet. “Winston is bobsledding again,” he whispered. There was that word again. I asked various questions designed to discern his cryptic meaning. Harold answered them all politely but continued to describe the problem as bobsledding. After four minutes of this, the owner was ready to get on with it. I got the impression that he was beginning to wonder about my abilities as a veterinarian.

  I examined Winston from top to bottom without any clues. The pressure mounted as I tried in vain to find anything that would help me overcome our communication barrier.

  With the examination over, Harold looked at me expectantly. I looked at him one more time. Winston studied my face earnestly. He seemed to be waiting on me, too. I inhaled deeply and tried to collect my thoughts.

  Before I could speak, Winston sprang into action. He used his front legs to drag his rear end on the table and, like magic, the diagnosis was clear. The dog needed his anal glands emptied. In four years as a veterinarian, I have heard people describe this condition in many ways ... scooting, dragging, skidding but never bobsledding. This was a first. I guess I should have known, this being Minnesota, king of winter sports. Two quick squeezes later, Winston was clean as a whistle. His bobsledding days were over until his anal glands filled up again.

  The condition is painful. Dogs and cats both have the sacs, which are similar to the glands on a skunk. In veterinary college a professor told us there was “a lot of money in anal sacs.” Now I was a beneficiary of this truism. Winston was visibly relieved, and Harold was happy.

  The next appointment was a cat with an ear problem. A couple of months ago, Bob Williams noticed his cat scratching one ear. Spaatz sat on the table, his right ear folded back against his head. Scabs surrounded the hairless base of his ear. His constant scratching r
esulted in skin that resembled hamburger. Inside, swollen pink tissue bulged into the ear canal, and clumps of dark brown material covered the ear’s mucosa. Spaatz’s black coat looked unkempt, with matted clumps of hair here and there. His white feet and chin looked dull under the fluorescent lights of the exam room.

  According to his owner, the ear problem transformed Spaatz from a loving companion to a grumpy Gus. He stopped interacting with his family. Instead of greeting Bob at the door when he returned from work, Spaatz hid under the bed. He did not want attention. The night before, he picked at his dinner and refused this morning’s breakfast. His now desperate owner was at his wits’ end.

  Spaatz growled when I touched his ear. He knew from experience what came next, and he wanted no part of it. Allie wrapped him in a large blanket. With only his head showing, he looked like a “kitty burrito.”

  I placed the smallest cone I had on the otoscope and carefully inserted it into the affected ear. Allie held him down with both hands. Slowly, I advanced it through the vertical part of the ear canal to the horizontal part. White dots scurried across my field of view. A microscopic examination of some of the brown debris confirmed my suspicion. Poor Spaatz had ear mites. The swab was loaded with them! I felt my scalp itch in sympathy for the kitty. That always happens when I think about mites, ticks, fleas, lice or maggots.

  I cleaned his ear as best I could and instilled three drops of an antiparasitic medicine. The owner scheduled a recheck in two weeks.

  As soon as Spaatz left the building, Allie stormed into my office. Doors slammed in her wake. Her green eyes flashed with anger. I hoped I had not done something wrong. Allie had spent several days developing a good system for the front office. Did I mess up her system this morning with Ivan?

  “Remember the family who brought in two cats for health certificates?” I nodded. “The woman just called and said they need to get rid of their lovebird because they are moving to South Carolina.” She placed her hands on her hips. “How can people do that?” She barreled on before I could answer. “Get rid of a pet just because they are moving. You just buy a carrier and take your pets with you.” She waved her arms in the air as she spoke. “How could they bring the cats, yet leave a little bird behind?”

  I sat back in my chair and watched Allie pace back and forth. Frustration spewed as she discussed the nature of irresponsible owners and her view of them.

  When she finished, I concurred. I have seen people surrender animals for a variety of reasons – stupid reasons in my opinion – at the local shelter. One couple got rid of a Great Dane puppy because it grew over the 25 pound weight limit at their apartment building. I wanted to ask them if they had ever seen a Great Dane before they bought one? Members of this breed usually weigh more than 100 pounds at maturity. What were they thinking?

  Another person abandoned a Persian cat because it shed too much. I shook my head as I thought of the suffering this causes the animals. They suffer because their people are irresponsible. It makes me want to scream.

  “So what’s going to happen to the bird?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” Her anger continued to boil. She clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white. “The lady said they might let the bird go. She’s too busy packing to find a home for him.”

  That’s a death sentence in this climate. The poor little bird would freeze to death. I looked at my own birds playing in their cages. Over the years, I had amassed a collection of misfits no one wanted. Each had its own personality, likes and dislikes that made it special. Why not add one more?

  “Allie, call the lady and tell her to bring the bird here.” I smiled at Allie. “He can hang out with the others until we find him a home.” She nodded but did not return the smile. Allie considered her pets an integral part of the family. She felt there should be a law preventing these irresponsible people from adopting more animals. I agreed.

  “Hello,” a deep voice called from the lobby. “Is anyone home?”

  A minute later, Dad poked his head into the office. He wore his customary outfit, work pants and a plaid shirt. He usually carried a toolbox with him, but today he had a small blue carrier.

  “Look who I brought with me,” he said, holding the carrier in front of his chest. A young tortoiseshell kitten huddled at the front of the carrier. The stripes on her forehead formed a perfect ‘M’. Her yellow-green eyes took in everything around her.

  “Genny!” I got up and took the carrier from my dad.

  Two months before, I was filling in for a friend on the north side of town. A man entered the clinic with a cardboard box in his hands. Inside, a newborn kitten lay motionless, missing its back right leg. Everything below the hock was gone. The man said he found the kitten behind a dumpster with the leg missing and wanted it put out of its misery. The receptionist took the box to the back and asked me what I wanted to do.

  When I opened the box, the kitten lifted her head and opened her mouth. No sound came out. She tried again with the same result. The kitten’s fur coat had stripes of orange, brown and black with a touch of white. Her eyes were sealed shut. I felt awful watching the kitten’s silent cries for help.

  I cupped the infant in my hands. She felt cold and limp. Moist, pink remnants of the umbilical cord still clung to her navel. The kitten was an hour old at most. I turned her over, hoping the man had exaggerated the extent of her injuries. Unfortunately, he had not. The kitten’s entire foot was gone, severed at the hock. What was left of the leg was a bloody mess. The sight of it made even me, a veterinarian seasoned in trauma, a little queasy. The kitten had lost a lot of blood.

  When I questioned the man, he told me a different story. He said his cat gave birth to a litter of kittens. The others were all normal, but this one was a freak. The man wanted it put out of its misery. Looking at the injury and listening to the owner, I drew a mental picture of what probably had occurred. At the kitten’s birth, a piece of placenta wrapped around the back leg. The mother cat tried to lick it off. When that failed, she chewed it off along with the kitten’s foot. Although this happens sometimes, I shuddered at the thought.

  When I explained what I thought really happened, the man felt insulted. His cat would never do anything like that. I explained that it was instinct, not a character flaw that motivated her. He refused to believe me and also declined to take the kitten back to its mother. I felt the kitten lift her head. She nuzzled my hand once and collapsed. Her skinny abdomen told me she had not nursed since birth.

  “Could I keep her?” I blurted out. The man looked at me with an icy stare. An evil grin spread across his face. I worried he would say no just to get back at me for suggesting his cat damaged the kitten’s leg. He started to say no when I interrupted him. “It would save you the euthanasia fee.”

  He looked at me and said, “suit yourself.” He rattled the keys in his pocket and left without giving the kitten another glance.

  I rushed to treat the newborn. Even with great care, the odds were stacked against her. I threaded a tube down her throat and into her stomach. As newborns do, she purred when warm milk flowed down the tube. Next, I rubbed her rear end with a warm, moist cotton ball. Newborn puppies and kittens cannot void without prompting. Three cotton balls later, I finished the job.

  With the basics out of the way, I turned my attention to her leg. I cleaned the exposed muscles and tendons, then covered them with lube to keep them moist. I wrapped the stump in bandages for protection. After an injection of antibiotics, the kitten slept peacefully in her box, surrounded by improvised hot water bottles – exam gloves filled with hot water and knotted off at the wrist. In a pinch, these work fine.

  For the next two weeks, Steve and I fed the baby orphan every two hours, ‘round the clock. Since she was still too weak to nurse from a bottle, Steve held her while I passed a feeding tube down her throat. Her tummy swelled from the kitten milk replacer. She purred happily until we moved on to the next step. She did not like the warm cotton ball treatment and voiced her displea
sure in precious squeaks.

  “How could such a beautiful baby produce such nasty stuff?” Steve wondered. It was a feeling shared by parents worldwide.

  To compensate for her small size, we felt the kitten needed a big name. For a few days we bantered about possibilities. Nothing seemed to suit the little princess until Steve thought of the name Genevieve. It stuck.

  After five weeks of round-the-clock feedings, I was exhausted. Genny, refused to eat on her own even though she possessed sharp baby teeth. I offered all kinds of food, both canned and dry, but she refused. A syringe full of warm kitten milk was what she wanted. She placed her lips on the end of the syringe and sucked with all her might. She could drain a three-cc syringe in a single gulp.

  “What’s wrong with this cat? Will she ever eat on her own?” I asked myself. Worries crept into my mind. Without a mother and siblings to show her how to eat, would she ever learn? With animals, I almost never quit trying, but this orphan tested even my patience. The situation was so grim I started to wonder if she had a brain disorder. I placed another sample of gruel on a plate and sat it in front of the hungry kitten. She refused it again. With my finger, I wiped some on her mouth. She screamed and rubbed her face on a nearby towel. In desperation, I pushed her mouth into the food and gently held her there. She struggled for 10 seconds or so, then miraculously focused on the food. Her eyes widened as she finally tasted the gruel.

  “Slurp, slurp, slurp.” I watched in amazement. Genny held her lips in a perfect circle and sucked the food down like she did with the syringe. As I continued to watch, she finished the rest of it, reminding me of a miniature vacuum cleaner. By the end of the day, she learned to lick and chew. Before bed, I placed a bowl of food in her box. For the first time in five weeks, Steve and I slept all night long.