Coated With Fur: A Vet's Life Read online

  After lunch, Dad brought the girls in for their examinations. Louisa happily trotted into the clinic. Peeper took one step inside and tried to retreat to the safety of the truck. She knew from the smell where she was and did not like it. Dad picked her up and carried her into the treatment room. Coarse, wiry hair covered her body in large patches of black and white. Along the top of her body, the hair grew several inches longer than the rest, resulting in a bonafide mohawk. My mother hated it. She always brushed the longer hairs down against Peeper’s body.

  “Peeper has developed mild gingivitis, Dad.” I lifted her lip and showed him the inflamed gums. “You need to brush her teeth, or I’ll have to knock her out for a dental when you come back next spring.” He looked dismayed at the prospect of having to brush the dog’s teeth. “Other than that, she looks great.” I patted her on the head. She turned away and looked at Dad.

  “OK, Louisa, it’s your turn.” Louisa trotted over. My parents adopted her the summer before I started veterinary school. My mother always liked the The Sound of Music, so we named her Louisa. Her blond coat made her easy to spot. “Wheezy” grew into a gentle giant without a mean bone in her body. Her mission in life was to please the people around her.

  “Sit,” I ordered. Her rear end dropped to the ground. She brushed her tail back and forth on the floor. I taught her basic obedience while on vacation from veterinary school. She learned “sit,” “down,” “come” and “heel” in two weeks. The next summer, she learned to roll over for a treat. Sometimes, she rolled over four or five times in a row just to make sure she received the treat. As I knelt down to examine her, Wheezy lay down and flipped onto her back with her legs up in the air. She remained in this position for the entire examination.

  “She looks good, too, Dad,” I pronounced happily. I stood up and adjusted the stethoscope around my neck. “Be sure and keep them on the heartworm preventative while you are in Florida. Heartworm is a big problem down there.” He nodded and jingled Wheezy’s leash. She flipped onto her side and stared at Dad with her brown eyes. Peeper barked and circled in place. They loved to ride in the truck and were ready to roll.

  “Well, Krissy, I’m going to take off if you don’t need anything else. Your mother has a million things for me to do before we leave.” He clipped the leash onto Louisa’s collar and hoisted Peeper onto his shoulder.

  “Have a safe trip and call me when you arrive,” I said. I hugged him first and then the two dogs. “And remember to brush their teeth.” He did not acknowledge my comment. I made a mental note to tell my mother the next time we spoke.

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully. At 5, Allie flew out the door. Her favorite band was playing at a bar near her apartment, and she needed time to get ready. At 6, I turned on the answering machine and flipped on my pager. The clinic had not done much revenue for the day. With all the start-up costs and my car on the line with the bank, I needed business to pick up before our savings ran out. As I slipped the pager in my pocket, it started to buzz. Maybe this would make up for the slow day.

  “Hello, Kris, this is Sally Smith,” said the voice on the phone. “Sorry to bother you, but I think Bridget needs stitches.”

  Twenty minutes later, a beautiful Irish setter entered the clinic wearing a white bandage soaked with blood on her right front paw. The entourage included Sally, her husband, Joe and their young son, Jason. Sally and Joe were avid outdoor enthusiasts who loved hunting birds. In their living room, a prize taxidermy specimen hung over the TV. During the holidays, Sally hung lights around the stuffed pheasant and tied a bright red ribbon around its neck. Joe preferred the bird without the accessories.

  Every year, the family hunted grouse and pheasant in northern Minnesota. Bridget combed the countryside in search of prey with a determination second to none. She would ford any stream or jump through the roughest brush in search of a bird. When she found one, she froze in place with her nose pointed at the bird and front foot off the ground. Her body formed a mahogany-colored arrow. On command, she rushed forward and flushed the birds for her owners. If they missed, she gave them a dirty look. Bridget held Sally and Joe to the same high standard she expected of herself.

  About two months before the season opened, Joe started to condition Bridget for the rigors of hunting. After work, the two played fetch in the backyard. As her fitness improved, Joe lengthened the sessions. They were almost finished with the evening workout when Bridget stopped in the middle of a retrieve and held up her paw. Blood dripped to the ground. Joe immediately got Sally, who wrapped the foot to control the bleeding and called me.

  I removed the bloodsoaked bandage, not knowing what to expect. Bridget rested quietly on the floor with her head in Joe’s lap. Blood oozed from the central pad of her foot. A deep laceration ran from one side to the other.

  “What do you think?” Sally asked.

  “You were right,” I replied. “This definitely needs stitches.”

  “Will she be able to hunt?” Joe asked. It was the first question any serious hunter would ask, and Joe was serious about hunting. The family was planning a special trip to Wisconsin with friends in addition to its usual outings in Minnesota. Joe bought Bridget a neoprene vest for the trip just to keep his girl warm in the field.

  I pondered Joe’s question. Pad injuries are difficult to treat. It takes a long time for the thick protective surface of the pad to regenerate. A laceration like this could take months to heal because of the constant wear and tear when the dog walked or ran. She could be on the injured reserve list for the entire season.

  “How long before you leave?’ I asked.

  “About two weeks,” Joe answered. Deep furrows appeared in his forehead. He exchanged a nervous glance with Sally. That was not the answer I hoped for. A month maybe, but two weeks ... her chances of hunting were slim to none.

  “I’m not sure this will heal by then, Joe. The stitches will still be in.” He continued to stroke her head without making a sound. He looked deflated. The thought of going without Bridget was too much. “But maybe we can figure out a way to bandage the foot that will still allow her to go,” I added.

  I repaired the wound with heavy-duty nylon suture and covered it with a sturdy wrap. Bridget felt better with the pain medicine in her system, but she hated the bandage. She shook her paw and held it off the floor. With encouragement, she put it on the tile and walked with an exaggerated limp. She took a few steps, then looked up at Joe for help.

  “Sorry, Bridget,” he said. “You’re going to have to get used to that.” She limped over to Sally for a second opinion.

  “No, I’m not going to take it off either. For goodness sake, these pets are just like children.” She chuckled. “Dad said no, so she tried mom. Honestly Bridget, you are too smart.”

  I showed Sally and Joe how to check Bridget’s toes for swelling. If the bandage constricted her leg, her foot would swell. The middle toes would separate, and the bandage would have to be removed. If Bridget licked or chewed the bandage, she would have to wear the dreaded e-collar. Finally, I explained how bandages tighten up with moisture.

  Bridget tried to lick my face as I placed a plastic bag over her bandage. Animals are so forgiving. I always marvel at how they forgive and forget. I scratched her back to reward her.

  When the Smith’s van left the parking lot, I prepared to leave the clinic. Before I left, I checked on Genny. She lay on her back at the front of her cage playing with a small plastic ball. The bell inside jingled when she kicked it with her front feet. I stuck my finger through the bars and rubbed her tummy.

  Next, I looked into Scruffy’s cage. He lay on a water heating pad with his entire body wrapped in blankets, except for his head. His eyes were half open, half closed. They looked dull, almost glazed over. I watched the blankets for movement. Seconds ticked by ... I did not see his chest move.

  “Scruffy! Scruffy!” I called. The kitten did not respond. I dropped my bag on the floor. The noise startled Genny, and her plastic ball rattled
to the floor as she scurried for the safety of her carrier.

  I opened the latch to Scruffy’s cage and pulled back the blankets. Scruffy continued to lie on his side without moving. I felt my heart in my throat as I placed my fingers around his chest. Nothing, I felt nothing. When I repositioned my fingers again, I felt his heart beating in a slow regular rhythm. A second later, he took a deep breath.

  “Scruffy, don’t scare me like that.” I rubbed my finger along his chin. The kitten opened his eyes for a second and then closed them again. He looked so pathetic. I replaced the blankets around his body and placed some lube in both of his eyes before slowly closing the cage door. A feeling of dread crept over me. “Bye, Scruffy,” I said, my voice cracking as I spoke. “I hope I see you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 7

  Scruffy Fights for Life

  Gray clouds loomed overhead as I drove to the clinic. A sharp chill filled the air, a precursor of weather to come. Beautiful gold and red leaves skittered across the road. I shivered and readjusted the vent. October in Minnesota is a transitional month. Some days are warm with beautiful puffy clouds filling the sky while others are cold and gray, informing all who live in the “Land of 10,000 Lakes” that winter approaches.

  “Hello, how are you?” Bongo greeted my arrival at the clinic without understanding the words. Feathers ruffled in the other cages. Usually, I uncover the birds, put my coat and bag in the office and check the answering machine. Today I marched straight into the back ignoring Bongo’s greeting and Windsor’s wolf whistle. All night long, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep because of Scruffy. Would he survive? I feared our help came too late to save him.

  In the treatment room, Scruffy was in the exact position I left him the night before. “Scruffy! Scruffy!” I called his name. Nothing happened. He did not move. I opened the door to his cage and pushed it aside with urgency. The door swung into the next cage with a bang. Scruffy flinched and opened his eyes.

  His lab results looked good. The tests did not detect antibodies for feline leukemia, feline infectious peritonitis or feline immunodeficiency virus. So far, his electrolytes registered in the normal range, albeit at the low end. With feeding, the values would decrease even further as the electrolytes shifted from the blood back into the cells. By anticipating this shift, we hoped to catch it early before any life-threatening complications occurred.

  For several days, Scruffy slept under a pile of blankets. Hot water circulated in a rubber heating mat, providing warmth since he could not sustain his own body temperature. I never use a standard electric heating pad because of the potential to burn the patient and the possibility of electrocution. Allie hand fed and watered him several times a day. He urinated in bed right where he lay. He was too weak to turn himself over, let alone walk to the litter box. Sometimes, the movement of his chest was the only clue he was still alive.

  We treated his ear mites and intestinal worms. Bathing would have to wait until his condition improved. Right now, eating and drinking exhausted the little fellow. He spent virtually the entire day sleeping. An aura of immense sadness surrounded the bedraggled kitten as he struggled to survive.

  A week later, Allie and I worked on an emergency in the treatment room. An Amazon parrot just like Bongo broke a blood feather in her wing. The owner returned home to find blood dripping from her bright green parrot and spattered all over the cage. She rushed her in for emergency care. Large drops of burgundy blood fell from the bird’s wing and pooled on the bottom of the carrier.

  We had to act fast because birds can easily die from this condition. I estimated her weight at 500 grams, which meant she could safely loose about five milliliters or one teaspoon of blood! From the owner’s description and the amount of blood pooled on the newspaper, she might already have exceeded that limit.

  I reached into the carrier, giving the command “step up!” Instead of lifting a foot to my hand, the bird lunged at me with a gaping beak.

  “Bummer,” I muttered. Using a towel, I thrust my now protected hand into the carrier. I grabbed the backside of the bird’s head with my fingers on each side of her lower jaw. In this position, I controlled the powerful beak. I folded the wings against her body before removing her from the travel crate.

  “Here you go, Allie.” Holding birds looks a lot easier than it is. The holder must restrain the bird’s beak, wings and nails to prevent injury to the medical staff as well as the bird. Because birds do not have a diaphragm, the chest wall must move during each breath. If the towel is wrapped too tight, or if pressure is put on the chest, the bird will suffocate. Allie slipped her fingers behind mine and positioned the bird against her chest.

  I removed the towel from the affected wing and extended it away from her body. Blood oozed from the base of the third flight feather. New feathers grow from a feather follicle. A rich supply of blood extends up the shaft, giving the area a blue, fleshy appearance. When the feather matures, the blood supply recedes, leaving the firm white shaft or spine that is commonly recognized. If traumatized, these immature feathers called blood feathers may bleed insidiously. To stop it, the offending feather must be removed.

  With Allie holding the wing in a stretched position, I placed the jaws of a hemostat around the feather and held the base of the wing in my other hand. With slow, steady traction, the feather came out all in one piece. Blood oozed from the hole left behind.

  “Good job, Kris,” Allie said, repositioning the bird in her arms. If proper technique is not used, the follicle can be damaged, preventing further feather growth. Worse yet, the wing itself might fracture. I applied pressure to the follicle for a minute before closing it with a drop of tissue adhesive. We would observe her for a few hours before sending her home.

  As Allie put the bird back in her carrier, a loud crash followed by a thud emanated from Scruffy’s cage. Litter flew through the front bars of the stainless-steel cage and landed on the floor. Scruffy lay in his litter box, all four feet splayed in different directions. Bits of litter stuck to his face and whiskers. He looked up and meowed pitifully.

  “Good job, buddy!” I cheered.

  “A for effort,” Allie echoed. We could hardly contain our excitement and relief. During his first trip to the box, he lifted three feet over the edge, but ran into trouble with the fourth. With a little help, he postured and urinated in the box. When he finished, he closed his eyes and purred. Allie beamed with joy. “I think he’s going to make it, Dr. Nelson.” We stood outside his cage in silence, overcome with emotion. I nodded and blinked back tears. I live for these moments. The joy of pulling a critical animal back from the brink of death is priceless.

  Sadly, our celebration was brief. The doorbell rang, announcing that Spaatz was here for his recheck. Allie left to check him in while I called the bird’s owner with an update. With the bleeding stopped, the bird looked much better.

  Since our last visit, Bob Williams instilled four drops of medicine in Spaatz’s ear each day. He did so whether Spaatz wanted it or not. He caught the handsome tuxedo and wrapped him in a blanket for the treatment. This did nothing to improve the cat’s mood. Long red scratches covered the man’s arms. Evidently, Spaatz hid under the bed during the day, only coming out when Bob slept.

  Before I even opened the carrier, Spaatz started to hiss. He knew what was coming. With the door open, the hisses morphed into a growl. Their deep and rumbling nature warned us that Spaatz was really angry, angry at us for his visit to the clinic, angry at his owner for bringing him in, angry at life in general. I held the carrier with the open door facing down to the table. A young vet might try to reach in and show the cat who was boss. I had too much experience for that. Spaatz slid out. He glared at me with bright green eyes, his hair on end.

  While I distracted him, Allie grabbed the scruff of his neck with one hand and flattened him onto the table. I inserted the otoscope cone and hoped for the best. Healthy pink mucosa replaced the inflamed mess I saw before. Bob’s hard work had paid off. The mites were gone. I ope
ned the door to the carrier, and Allie turned Spaatz around. Once he saw the open door, the angry cat ran in hissing all the way.

  “Good news, Bob,” I smiled. “His ears look great except for one large clump of wax on his right eardrum.” Bob breathed a sigh of relief. Spaatz swiped at my fingers as I closed the carrier door. I felt a breeze across my knuckles.

  “That’s great news,” he said. He pointed to an inflamed area on his right wrist. The wound occurred this morning when he put Spaatz in the crate. “He won’t let me touch him anymore because he thinks I’m going to put medicine in his ear.” He looked into the carrier, and Spaatz hissed. Bob became serious. “Will he ever love me again, Dr. Nelson?”

  “Absolutely!” I put my hand on his shoulder. “He’s just a little ticked off right now, but he’ll get over it.” I explained how cats sometimes associate people with negative events even when they’re over. “For example, let’s say a mean dog cornered Spaatz. Before the dog attacked, you rescued him. He should be grateful, right?” Bob nodded. “But that’s not always how it works. He might associate you with the scary dog and hiss.” I assured Bob that once Spaatz realized the treatments were over, he would become a loving companion again. But for now, Mr. Attitude would need to stay with us for an ear flush.

  Allie placed the carrier in the lower cage next to Genny’s home, giving Spaatz a litter pan and blanket. With the cage arranged, she opened the carrier’s door. Spaatz growled from within. Genny jumped down from her cage and ran out of the room. “Cut it out,” Allie ordered as she closed the cage door. “You’re scaring Genny.”

  Spaatz continued to growl and hiss whenever anyone passed his cage. We dreaded working with him. I covered his carrier with a towel and closed Spaatz inside before transferring him to the table. From the back room Allie retrieved a plastic anesthesia chamber that resembled an aquarium. Because we couldn’t touch Spaatz without risking our lives, we planned to box him down in the chamber.