Pawcurious Vet Blog: Pet help, stories, and information with Dr. V

Brody must be going through a growth spurt. He’s always liked food, but this past week he eyes it with a mania reserved for teenage boys eyeing the paper-wrapped magazines at the convenience store. When he sees me with the bowl, he starts to wag his tail, then his tail starts to wag him, then he starts jumping and spinning and salivating all over the floor. Only when he collapses in a hypoglycemic pile on the floor do I place the bowl next to him, where the food is inhaled in under 10 seconds.

At work today, he pulled a bag of enzymatic rawhide chews off the shelf and starting tucking into them while I was in surgery. At first I thought he had one single rawhide chew that he had been working on all day, but then it started to dawn on me that while every hour or so he had it down to a nub, a few minutes later it would magically regenerate. He had hidden the ripped up bag in the back behind a mop bucket. The only reason I found it was I caught him sneaking into the storage area, and I followed him because I thought he was skulking off to pee.

At lunchtime, I had a hankering for a pita sandwich from the local Greek cafe. I took it back to work, eagerly opened it, and there looking back at me was a pile of stinky gyros, which I most definitely did NOT order. Lamb is gross. So I gave a strip to Brody, threw the rest in the trash, and ate the side salad. 15 minutes later, while I was in an exam room, I hear a crash, then some yelling, and “BRODY!!” Which is never good. I crane my head out the door, and I see the trashcan on its side, its smelly vet-hospital type contents spilling onto the floor, and Brody’s head buried inside. The techs are dragging him out by his back legs. I wave apologetically, then duck back into the room. You’d never know I was actually training the dog. This must be what having teenagers is like.

When I got home, I left Brody in the living room while I went to tuck the kids into bed. I saw him furtively glancing at my empty dinner plate, but there was nothing on it but a solitary rice grain so I figured it would be ok on the table.

Halfway into “Where the Wild Things Are,” as I was talking about the naughty Max and his wild rumpus with the beasties, I hear Anderson Cooper in my living room, talking about healthcare. He is insistent. And loud. Getting louder.

Now Anderson Cooper is yelling, his deafening roar drowning out my bedtime reverie, and I have to interrupt my story to figure out exactly why Anderson is bellowing at 20 decibels.

And there is Brody, oblivious to the pounding his eardrums must be taking, standing on the remote control. His dewclaw has sunk into the volume button, consigning poor Anderson to delivering the news at jet engine levels of loudness. The extra inch of height has pushed him one centimeter closer to that grain of rice, but alas, all he can do is stretch his tongue out in a futile raspberry at the taunting plate.

He’s 40 pounds at 4 months old, so don’t worry people, I’m not starving the guy no matter what he might tell you. That being said, he looked so sad and pathetic that I had no choice but to give his skinny butt a little extra food. Then I went back upstairs to my daughter and told her there was no need to sail in and out of weeks and almost over a year to where the wild things are, because he is right downstairs, licking my plate.

As you can imagine, this job has its share of emotional stress. Everyone copes with it differently, with the frustration and the anxiety at not being able to do what you want to do. And you never can do ALL that you want to do.

If you were to meet me now, after these years of practice, you might not think that I care. When I tell you in a neutral voice that I think your pet has cancer, or that your cat is blocked, or that your dog has a pyometra, it isn’t that I don’t care. I promise you, the only reason I am there with you is because I care.

When I tell you that the road is long, expensive, and uncertain, I say that because it is the truth and I want you to make an informed decision. Only you know your family’s situation, and I promise, if you have to choose between feeding your kids or unblocking your cat, I understand. And I care. I am being honest with you. You can be honest with me too.

I know that it stinks when I tell you the cost of these things. It’s my job to let you know all your options- it’s not fair of me to judge you by your appearance and decide on your behalf what you can and can’t afford.

You see an estimate and hear an outline of the things I think your pet needs. You don’t see me in the back, crunching numbers and moving things around to try and give your pet the most I can with what you have. Calling my bosses, getting permission to waive this, discount that, so that your pet doesn’t die. Staying late on the phone with specialists, who consult with me for free, to help me come up with a plan so you don’t have to go to them yourself. Tell me your limitations and I will tell you your options.

But understand that I have my limitations, too. I can’t treat your pet for free. If I don’t make a paycheck, I can’t pay my day care, and then tomorrow I won’t be at work. I can’t take your sick pet and find it a new home. I will point you to places that can help you try and do that yourself, but I can’t take that on. I don’t offer these things, but it’s not because I don’t care.

I do care. I have done those things, more than once. It takes a lot out of a person. And the next day, 3 more pets just like them are waiting on the doorstep, without fail, without end.

My job is to help you do what is right for your pet, but I cannot be you. And for my own survival, I cannot allow you to place that responsibility on my shoulders. It is that line in the sand that allows me to be there day after day. If you have refused all I have to offer, if you leave with a pet in your arms that I know is going to die, every muscle in my body twitches to run after you, take your pet, and save them. But I can’t. So I take a breath, go back into the shelter of the lines I have drawn, and let it go.

If I didn’t learn to let it go, I would never sleep, mourning the things I couldn’t change. This removal is what allows me to return to the front door day after day and feel that I am accomplishing something worthwhile and good in this world.

And now I need to go have a glass of wine and will myself to forget this sad, frustrating afternoon.

My husband asked me the other day if the kids knew Callie was gone. To be honest, I haven’t brought it up. If this had been our first lost pet this year things might have been different, but after three confirmed deaths in a 7 month period, I think they need a bit of a break.

Yesterday, someone asked my daughter how many pets we had. “Two cats, and one dog,” she said. My husband and I looked at each other. “The black cat is Apollo, and the gray one with black stripes is Callie, and our dog is Brody.”

“Are you going to tell her?” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“No,” I hissed back. “You can do it.”

I get the need to be upfront with little kids, and to be honest and to the point, but I still think that is a little more reality than a 5 year old needs. I think I am going to wait until she notices on her own that she hasn’t actually seen the cat in weeks, and we can talk about it then. Until that time I’d really rather not interrupt her brief moment of normalcy to bring more death and uncertainty to her life.

I have no idea whether or not this is the right thing to do, but sometimes you just have to go with your gut instincts. That being said, I am open to your thoughts on the subject.

The puppy got in trouble chasing Cat around the house.

so off we went to take a walk to let the kitty grouse.

With collar on and leash attached full time for him to drag

With lesson learned I set aside my stylish new poop bag.

We stole a drink-or two- or three- from sprinklers on the corner;

A busybody lady glared at me but we ignored her.

And for the coup de grace we stopped at Old Man Johnson’s yard;

His pride and joy and us’lly manned with full time armored guard-

‘Twas Emmett’s favorite place to stop for leisurely latrine,

He somehow always snuck a quiet poop in there unseen.

And guided thus by wagging angels woofing in the clouds,

Dear Brody stopped to honor him and make old Emmett proud.

Here are three things that I love:

1. Dog bone collar charms. I have a weakness for beautiful handmade lampwork beads to begin with- my coworkers will attest to this, as I risk my earlobes every Christmas wearing big gingerbread glass earrings to work because I LOVE THEM SO. So if you take a glass bead, then make it something adorable like a dog bone- or a dog face- or the chickens- I am in love. Seriously, check out the chickens! I’ve never seen such cute poultry. *love* She made me love chickens, and that is hard to do.

I haven’t even told you the coolest part. The talented artisan who makes these? Is a vet. No joke! Who knew I had such talented colleagues? Feel free to out yourself in the comments if you wish, you multitalented person, you.

2. Best bully sticks. Brody loves bully sticks. If you can get over the gross out factor, they are awesome treats. Best Bully Sticks- one of my Twitter finds- offers a huge selection of bully sticks (and a bunch of other treats as well) for unbeatable prices. At the risk of sounding like a paid advertisement (it’s not), seriously, the bully sticks are a steal. They also are sourced from free range grass fed cattle, so you can feel good about letting your dog eat em up.

3. Cloud K9 jewelry. Cloud K9 has a really cool mix of vintage style jewelry in many, many breed varieties. I’m eyeing one of the antiqued lockets for pictures of Emmett and Mulan. And seriously, where else on the web would you find hand painted dog Christmas wreath brooches? I need one of each for my lab coat.

I like supporting small business e-tailers in general, but these three did something particularly special that I want to acknowledge. I put out a tweet a couple weeks ago asking if anyone could donate something for a raffle my daughter’s school was having to fund all the things the state is no longer helping with- like pencils. All three stepped up. They don’t live anywhere near me, and didn’t ask for me to plug them here or for anything in return; they just did it out of a sense of community. So thank you, guys, it is so truly appreciated. And I’m plugging you anyway. And for everyone else, I wouldn’t put them up here if I didn’t love the product as well as the seller- I’ve seen the stuff, and whoever wins the raffle will be a lucky person indeed.

And my kid won’t have to learn to write her name on a grocery bag with an old lead pencil. It takes a village.

This call came in after I was gone for the day.

Receptionist: Hello, how may I help you?

Person: My dog ate some glass. What should I do?

Receptionist: You should go to the emergency room immediately. Do you have the number?

Person: Actually, I was researching it on the web and it said just to give cotton balls and metamucil. I was wondering if there was anything else I can give at home. ….bread….?

Receptionist: I don’t have any recommendations for at home remedies for your dog swallowing glass. My recommendation is to go to the vet.

Person: Why would I do that? What could possibly happen?

Receptionist: …..he could have shards of glass migrating through his internal organs?

Person: Oh. So nothing other than the cotton balls, eh?

I would have had a few suggestions, but I doubt they would be what she wanted to hear. I realize upon reflection that I am halfway through the metamorphosis into my father, crotchety and all. I realize the net is rife with such tricks and tips (I’ve also seen instructions for do-it-yourself bloat kits you can assemble at the Home Depot- shudder), but asking me to help you do it is like asking Martha Stewart how to frost a Duncan Hines cake with canned frosting. Try calling your pediatrician and asking the same question- I doubt “cotton balls” will figure anywhere in the answer.