Drinking from the Trough Page 16

  Even without the dangers of misguided toy donations, taking Tipper to the dog park was not always a good idea. Huskies’ high energy and exuberance combined with their wolflike looks can scare people, including other husky owners.

  One Easter Sunday when Tipper was only two, we went to the dog park. It was a beautiful morning, and the park was crowded. One of the dogs was a husky mix.

  It and Tipper came toward each other in a greeting I call “the husky crash and smash,” which is when they stand up in the air and crash into each other’s chests from a run. There is no aggression; it’s just normal husky behavior.

  The owner of the husky mix was a big, macho-type guy. We both went toward our dogs. I was going to get my dog, and I thought he was going to get his. Imagine my horror when he went to Tipper, picked her up, and slammed her body hard to the ground.

  Oh, my God, I thought, she’s seriously injured and has broken bones. But she was all right and ready to play again. Tipper the Wonder Husky, indeed.

  I never tell anyone at a dog park that I am a veterinarian, but I started talking to the man about dog behavior, explaining that this was normal for huskies. I suggested kindly that he read some books and take care of his own dog.

  He wouldn’t listen.

  Every word out of his mouth began with the letter F as he came closer and closer to me. Eventually I told him in a soft voice that if he came one millimeter closer, I would kill him.

  Big guy, small woman, but there was no mistaking my seriousness. He retreated with his dog and joined others at the park. I leashed Tipper, and we sat down alone on a bench for over an hour, staring at him.

  He’d turn around from time to time to see if I was still there. So would everyone else. Yep, there I was, staring. He kept his distance. I think I scared him. I certainly hope so.

  That was Tip’s last time at a crowded dog park. From then on, I knew her park time would be restricted to being on a lead and running with us, unless it was a day when there weren’t many people and dogs at the park.

  I’ve served many years on our town’s Parks and Recreation Board, and we still recommend approval of dog parks when there is space available to include one in a new park, because people request them. But injuries from fights can happen to dogs, and people can get into a brawl as well and be seriously injured. Tipper and I were living proof of that danger.

  Tipper ate weird things on our walks too, enough so that I worried she might have pica.

  Pica is a condition where a dog consistently eats things that have no nutritional value. “No nutritional value” refers to pretty much anything that isn’t food—rocks, coins, plastic bags, tissues, pine cones. People and cats can have pica too.

  Sometimes pica behaviors are caused by an underlying medical problem. A dog with malnutrition or vitamin deficiencies might eat dirt, sand, or tile grout to increase micronutrient levels. Scary medical issues such as brain lesions, abnormalities in the circulatory system, diabetes, anemia, and parasite infections can also cause pica behaviors. And some behaviors (a mama dog licking her puppies and eating their feces to keep the pups clean) are quite normal. None of these is true pica.

  Tipper checked out as one-hundred-percent healthy, with no underlying medical issues to worry about.

  Other causes of pica include anxiety and boredom. For example, if a dog has separation anxiety and also eats the plastic grocery bags you’ve been saving to reuse the next time you go shopping, there’s a good chance the anxiety and grocery bag snacking are connected to each other. A dog might eat yucky stuff just to get your attention or because he thinks you’re taking something important away from him. If you’re so determined to get that rotted tennis ball out of his mouth (so his canine reasoning goes), it must be important to keep it, so he swallows it. There’s also a form of doggie OCD called Canine Compulsive Disorder that shows up as compulsive pica.

  There’s accidental pica too. That’s when you don’t get supper cleaned up quickly enough, and in your pup’s haste to scarf all the leftovers before she’s caught, she swallows the plastic fork along with the beef fried rice. That isn’t true pica, though you’ll be heading for your vet’s emergency room when it happens.

  Tipper definitely wasn’t bored, and she got plenty of attention and exercise. She shied away from bicycles zooming by us during our walks, pressing a little closer to me, but her nervousness about bikes disappeared as soon as the cyclist passed us.

  As we strolled the streets of our college student neighborhood, Tipper vacuumed up all kinds of litter—tissues, chunks of plastic, bits of cellophane, windblown papers—a little too fast on the uptake for her own good, despite my attempts to navigate around the worst of it. I warned her more than once that if she scarfed up a used condom, she’d either have to pass it on her own or go to surgery; I wasn’t going to touch one of those, let alone pull it out of her mouth.

  I sighed as I extracted the latest clump of unidentifiable trash from her mouth before she had a chance to swallow. Not pica, accidental or otherwise; the cause of this “eating disorder” was unbounded enthusiasm and insatiable curiosity.

  There’s no cure for that—but I wouldn’t want one, even if there were.

  16

  Hike! Hike! Hike!

  The wind in my face, raindrops blurring my glasses.

  I was used to this. When you have animals that need care, you are out in all kinds of weather. Today was no different: cool fall weather, drizzling on and off.

  Well, maybe a little different.

  To broaden her horizons, when she was older, I took Tipper with me to school so she could visit the moderate-needs class during my planning period in the morning. I taught these developmentally delayed junior high kids all about dog safety and behavior, how to groom Tipper, and how they had to hold firmly onto her leash when they took her outside to do her business. After the lesson, Tipper usually spent the rest of Wednesday mornings in the moderate needs classroom.

  Tipper was a big hit in their classroom, and we both loved working with the special-needs kids. The teacher rewarded the students for doing things well, and taking care of Tipper was definitely a reward. The proud student got to brush her or take her out for a break. The kids considered it a reward even when it involved picking up her solid waste. They followed all the leash laws too; Tipper didn’t escape from these kids.

  I held a pet food drive at the school to benefit the humane society during the holidays. My school was always very generous and giving, and most years, we collected close to a thousand pounds of food. The students from the moderate-needs class decorated the drop-off site, and they donated pet food too. The humane society required unopened bags of food and treats, but I will never forget one student who simply left a gigantic dog biscuit decorated with a festive ribbon and bow.

  Around the same time, one of my best clinic employees, Manda (the same Manda who taught Tipper how to drink a Slushy through a straw), was applying to veterinary school. After several tries, she realized that vet school wasn’t going to happen for her.

  Even though I knew it would mean I’d lose an excellent employee, I urged her to apply for a job as an in-class aide in the special-needs program at Fort Collins High School, where I’d taught for a year. I knew working with special-needs kids would be a great fit for her, and I was right. She loved it. She continued working for me too, coming to the clinic in the late afternoons, entertaining me with stories from her days with the students. Eventually, she would attend the University of Northern Colorado and become a licensed special education teacher, immediately hired by the same school where she’d worked as an aide.

  One of the students Manda grew close to when working as an aide was a teenaged girl with severe cerebral palsy. Kristy couldn’t speak or move on her own and was confined to a wheelchair. Her dad had left the family soon after Kristy was born (something that is, unfortunately, an all too common occurrence for kids born with severe disabilities). She and her mom had been on their own ever since.

  Mand
a thought Kristy would enjoy visiting the clinic and meeting my duo of cats, who were fantastically friendly to everyone.

  And Tipper the Wonder Husky, of course.

  Kristy and her mom, Terri, were delighted when Tipper greeted Kristy with a joyous “Aah-woooo,” followed by a big doggie smooch on her face.

  Manda and I floated an idea to Terri. What would she think if—?

  Terri grinned and said yes.

  Manda and I dug out the mushing harness Keli had used years ago to dump me in the snow when we were skiing in City Park. Tipper danced with excitement. What new adventure was this?

  We clipped the harness into place on Tipper and then fastened the other end, along with an extra six-foot leash, onto Kristy’s wheelchair. I held the end of another leash that we connected to Tipper’s collar.

  Manda took the “musher” position, standing behind the wheel-chair and holding the chair’s handles to control direction and help balance Kristy. In my finest sled dog command voice, I called out the official “go forward” command to Tipper: “Hike! Hike! Hike!”

  We began an easy jog up Springfield Street, going slowly so Kristy could get used to things and we could make sure that this crazy setup actually worked.

  As The Wonder Husky got fired up, we went faster and faster.

  And faster! Whoosh! The fence and trees flew by as we ran full tilt, Kristy laughing with glee as we rounded the end of the block and sprinted back to the clinic.

  Had Kristy ever felt the joy of rushing headlong with the wind and rain on her face before? Other kids had bikes or roller skates, something Kristy would never be able to enjoy.

  Today, for the first time in her life, she was racing in the rain, immersed in the speed and exhilaration of being pulled by an enthusiastic Dog of the Frozen North.

  Hike! Hike! Hike!

  17

  The Easter Gift

  The jangling phone interrupted the quiet of Easter morning. I set my Rollerblade skates and helmet aside and picked up the phone. Mrs. Johnson, a client I hadn’t heard from for a while, was on the other end.

  “Dr. C., it’s about Misty,” she said, her voice quavering. “Can you come now?”

  Misty was the Johnson family’s elderly cat and one of my longtime patients. About six months earlier, when I knew I’d done all I could for her, I’d referred Misty to the oncology service at the CSU Veterinary Teaching Hospital. She’d been under their state-of-the-art care ever since.

  Mrs. Johnson and I had both known this time would eventually arrive, and I’d promised her that when it did, I would come to their home to perform the euthanasia, at no cost. That’s always been my policy; I never charge for euthanasia unless it’s a first-time client bringing a patient in specifically for that. There are now many successful veterinary practices that specialize exclusively in euthanasia. They provide a useful service that has also changed the face of veterinary practice itself; now, very few clinicians do euthanasia, instead transferring this task to the specialty practices.

  I arrived at the small, modest home in an older subdivision and carried my vet bag into the house.

  I’d expected Mrs. Johnson and her son, the two members of Misty’s family I’d met, but to my surprise, the living room was filled with family members, all there to say goodbye to Misty.

  In the corner of the room was a handmade, cat-sized coffin. I’d never seen anything like it before. Its beauty took my breath away. Its dark wood was polished to a high sheen. A bas-relief cross in a lighter stain had been carved on the lid. Light blue satin lined the padded interior.

  I gently examined a listless Misty. The tumor on the side of her abdomen had expanded to the size of a baseball. A hard swelling typical of a cancerous mass took up most of the space. It was indeed Misty’s time to be released from her suffering.

  After injecting anesthetic into Misty’s quadriceps muscle, I searched for a usable vein in the sleeping cat. Truly ill old cats have such tiny veins, the diameter of dental floss at best.

  Euthanasia solution should be injected into a vein or, if the needle pierces the other side of the vein, into the liver, kidney, or heart, not muscle. The euthanasia solution is so thick it has to be drawn up into the syringe using a large-diameter needle, much wider than the vein. Once the syringe was filled, I changed needles to a size that would fit the tiny vein and then performed the procedure while Misty was unconscious from the anesthetic.

  Misty went to the Rainbow Bridge with her family surrounding her, whispering softly to her and petting her.

  I pulled out my stethoscope and listened carefully. I knew Misty was gone, but the ritual of the stethoscope is important for the family. It provides a closure of sorts to be able to officially pronounce the animal dead.

  The family hugged her and prayed over her, inviting me into their circle of prayer too.

  Then they groomed Misty’s body and nestled it in the extraordinary coffin. As I packed my things into my black bag, each family member hugged me, moistening my T-shirt with their tears and thanking me for being there for Misty on this beautiful religious holiday.

  By the time I reached my car, the impact of how powerful Misty’s end of life had been hit me, and my own eyes filled with tears. No matter our beliefs or the faith we follow, euthanasia, releasing a beloved pet from suffering, is truly a gift we veterinarians have to give.

  18

  Best Cat

  My name is Franklin Irving Carlson. You can call me Frank. I am fourteen years old. I am Best Cat of the Carlson household today, but it has not always been so.

  My story started in a cold metal cage. Was this prison of steel bars a kitty jail? I was there with my brother. Our only crime was to be kittens.

  We had been adopted by a family who’d loved us. But our people hadn’t been able to afford keeping us, so they’d brought my brother and me back to the animal shelter. I understand now how lucky we were and how kind our family was to return us. But when I was a kitten, I didn’t know those things. I felt sad because we weren’t adopted any more.

  We had soft blankets in our cage. The people who worked at the shelter made sure we had good food and fresh water every day. There were other cages in our room, with other cats in them. Most of the others were grown-up cats; there weren’t many kittens.

  People came into the cat room and stared at us as if we were animals at the zoo. For a long time, nobody wanted us.

  But our fortune was about to change.

  That afternoon, the cat room was pretty crowded. People jostled against each other, trying to get a good look at all the different cats. Rick, the animal control officer, yelled, “Look out! The doctor is in the house!”

  People moved aside. A small woman walked toward us. Rick walked beside her, talking and laughing.

  She came up to our cage and looked right at me. “Well, aren’t you a sweetie,” she said, poking her finger through the bars of our cage.

  I sniffed the air carefully, then I walked right up to her to check her out. I touched her smooth finger with my moist noise. Then my brother came over to say hello too.

  The woman turned to Rick and said, “I’d like to visit with both of them.”

  “Sure thing, Mary,” Rick said.

  Rick hailed Nancy, the cat room volunteer. Nancy took us into the cat playroom, which was filled with brightly colored toys any kitten would love to investigate. We played with everything! Mary rolled the yellow balls, and we chased them. She teased us with a string on a stick. I loved it.

  She picked us up and loved on us too. Even when I was a tiny kitten, I could tell when someone didn’t like me. If they took me into the playroom, I felt like scratching their eyes out.

  Mary was so nice; I could tell she was a cat person. I decided she could keep her eyes. I hoped that she’d pick both of us and we would get to own her. We’d been together our whole lives—three months already—and it would have been hard for my brother and me to be separated from each other.

  It worked! We charmed her into choo
sing both of us. Mary was impressed with how soft and friendly we were, and she decided adopting just one wasn’t an option. She filled out the paperwork for both of us, even though she’d missed the summertime two-for-one kitten deal.

  She and Nancy slid us into scary-looking cardboard carriers, my brother in one and me in the other, and loaded us into the back of Mary’s Subaru Outback.

  I did okay, but my brother threw up in his carrier. After that, he was all right, but what a mess! I wondered if Mary would still want us. Turns out, she did; she didn’t return us to the animal shelter. She even stopped at a pet supply store on the way to our new home and bought lots of toys and supplies for us. I knew then for sure that we’d hit the jackpot.

  We were free again—this time, for life!

  Mary parked in the driveway and lifted our carriers out of the car. It was great to be outside again. The air in the driveway sure smelled fresher than the cold air at kitty jail. Smelled better than the upchuck in my brother’s carrier too!

  Just then, another car pulled into the driveway. It was Earl, our new dad, home from work. Mary lifted us in our carriers up high and called out, “Happy anniversary, dear! There’s one for each of us!”

  Earl broke into a big grin. Two more cats! With Matthew, that made three.

  I will tell you the most surprising thing about this: Mary and Earl never wanted to have three cats all at once. They just wanted a buddy for Matthew, the cat they already had.

  We didn’t meet Matthew face-to-face in the beginning. Mary kept us in the downstairs cat room, isolated from Matt and from Tipper the Wonder Husky. It’s a nice room, with good natural light, a soft carpet, and a nice place for us to go potty.