just another hardboiled thursday

  

They waltz into my dirty little surgery on a characteristically drizzly Thursday like they own the place.  The couple look like they ain’t short of cabbage, with frowns that probably only curl up at the ends when they see a TT on your bonnet.  Still, it means enough to postpone a nine o’clock board meeting and Pilates class to get their little princess checked.

      ‘So what brings Princess in today?’

      The pair look at each other like they need permission, but not from me.  The lady-one finds her pipes first.

      ‘She’s not been well for the past day and it’s not like her at all.  She barely ate a thing this morning, and all she wants to do is lay in her bed.’

      Not wanting to be the G-flat in the duet, the guy-one slaps his oar in wide.

      ‘She spends most her time in bed now anyway, but this isn’t her.  Of course we know she’s getting on a bit, but she’s always at the door for walkies.  She’s still our little girl.’

      Nine year old Princess is as typical as she is a credit to the Labrador society.  She’s black and shiny as a worming rep’s heart, her tail wagging from the get-go when she steps into the joint.  She has a body built for comfort and not speed, or a long future in mobility.  It's a coffee table physique wrapped in a blizzard-tog duvet, her head like a pea stuck on the edge of a drum.  Other breeds scrabble the carpets in the other direction, while ‘little’ Princess waddles in like it’s the North Pole and I’m a tinned meat Santy Claws 

      ‘I by no means think it’s time,’ she says, an elbow of force in her voice.  ‘I know she’s old but there’s a lot of life left in her.’

      ‘No!’ he says, sensing the danger his Mrs seen first.  ‘We’ll do whatever we have to.  We just want her better.’

      The words are out there and I know they ain’t just whistling in the wind.  These parents just want their baby better, and it’s not mackerel that’ll stop them.  They’re so lousy with love for Princess they’d probably mortgage the McMansion.  He’s already got the tissues out.

      ‘Let’s take a look at her.  I don’t think we need to worry too much just yet.’

      I bend at the knee and give Princess a two-for-one ride on the old poke-n-prod, looking for the usual suspects.  It’s a fairly uneventful stroll until I hit the back-porch.  Over her hips Princess hits tilt on the pain-o-meter.

      ‘Has she been on any long walks lately?’

      The lady-one glares at the guy-one.

      ‘Brian took her for a marathon hike yesterday, didn’t you?’ she sneers.

      ‘And Princess is a little over condition.  I think maybe she’d do better, be happier and live longer with fewer calories.’

      ‘And who is always giving her treats, Ruth?’ he barks.

      ‘And shorter walks.  At least until she’s got her weight down.’

      I don’t like seeing loving parents squabble so I give them the soft serve on arthritis.  I tell them I think Princess has a bout of the old and creakies, probably brought on by long walks and too many lard sandwiches.  If I hit seventy and some clown holds back on my pain meds I’ll have something to say about it.  But they’re fine to pull some blood and make sure she’s good for taking the pills.  When the machine and nurse tell me she’s okay for it, Princess goes home with a list of further care as long as an Orangutan’s arm, and some tablets to shake off the grumblies.  Only out to the toilet, feed for a dog that hasn’t eaten another dog and we’ll recheck her next week.

      I watch them walk out holding hands, grateful and happy, before closing the consulting room door.  It’s clear today my cynicism cap needs a good dry clean.  I turn back to the computer, tap out a jingle of notes, wondering at the mug I am.  Judgement: she's a fools bet no one can afford.  Least of all a dirty so-and-so vet like yours truly. 

      I take a breath, fill the old laughing bags with fresh air and insight.  I open the consulting room door and poke my head around the corner.

      ‘Captain Kitty Underpants,’ I say, smiling like a newly sainted idiot.  ‘Is Captain Kitty Underpants here today?’

Am I treating my pet as a Child surrogate?

There are times - not too many, mind - when a client arrives at the clinic with a companion animal and you (as their vet) are confronted with a situation that can be as awkward as it is dangerous or, at the very least, tricky. You stand opposite a person who refuses to allow an involved evaluation of their pet because it may be upsetting – to their animal and, as a consequence, to themselves. When this person eventually concedes to the merit of at least a cursory physical examination, their pet snaps wildly at your hands or hisses menacingly, scrabbling from one end of the exam table to the other with lips drawn back in a predatory snarl of warning. The owner, already distressed by your ineffective efforts, immediately sweeps the animal up into their arms - holding them tight to their chest - reinforcing their pet’s negative behaviour and, in doing so, making the cat or dog even more frightened and dangerous. It’s an issue that wants discussing and I feel that we would all (pet, carer and veterinary staff) benefit from bringing this phenomenon out of the closet - confronting it with the utmost compassion, sensitivity and care.

So, it is that by staring directly into the clownish face of reality, and refusing to turn away, that we may better identify the root of this dilemma. Is the owner simply protective of their pet, as we all are with furry loved ones, or have they indeed lost the plot (i.e. become obsessive parent to an orphan, of alien species, that may or may not have been deliberately taken from its mother for them)? Admitting there’s a problem is the first step to recovery. Below are four things to ask yourself (friend or spouse) in order to answer that critical question:

Am I treating my pet as a child surrogate? 

* for the sake of simplicity, and because the above pathology is much more pertinent to the species, we will be sticking to the issue as it pertains to canis lupus familiaris - commonly known as ‘Man’s Best Friend’.

Q1 Has my dog lost the use of his/her legs?

This question itself begs other similar questions such as: Does my dog even have legs? Does it matter? And, how will this affect his wardrobe? (see Q2)

For many of the animals raised by people of the above description, having legs is not an essential requirement for happiness (the owner’s) or life (the pet’s). This is principally because these dogs, having only ever known the sensation of being toted around like a newborn, have completely lost the ability and desire to stand. Indeed, their owners are so protective of them that they believe there is no safe place on God’s green earth but in the loving arms and firm embrace of Mom or Dad.

I warn you not to be deceived by the evidence that these pets still have four thin, relatively long, ‘leg-like’ features projecting downward from the body at appropriate spaced intervals. These, I assure you, are no longer legs, in the definition that they provide locomotion, but have – through Darwinian law - been replaced by tightly coiled springs. They have in this way evolved the answer for that single function requirement they must perform, which is to launch the pet upwards and out of harms way. These dogs are the ones that, when placed on the exam table will immediately, as if by magic, spring back up and over their owner’s shoulder (where they are often held in a baby burping position, being tapped gently on the back, with the owner cooing words of gentle support)

* The above question can be bypassed and considered affirmative if you answer yes when asked, ‘do I vacuum the living room, dust the blinds or tune up the Mondeo while wearing my pet in a baby harness’?

Q2. Does my pet have, and prefer to wear, ‘outfits’?

This is specific to owners who choose to coordinate their pet’s wardrobe with themselves, a season, or simply to suit them up in a fabric particularly appropriate to that animal’s complexion.

This choice of behaviour is not to be confused with celebrities, who shall remain nameless - blonde skeletons with oversized sunglasses, that may kit up their pets in coordinated wardrobe but more in the manner of a doll or fashion accessory. These are actions, not of love, but the overt manipulations of undernourished stars seeking attention and the ever coveted tabloid label of ‘quirky’. In contrast, the truly obsessed owner adores their pet and could never bear to perform for the media circus. In fact, they are often acting in the face of public scrutiny, with most of society lumping people who dress their pets into unpopular boxes – ‘eccentric’ on one end of the table, ‘bonkers’ on the other.

I would like to clarify here that I’m not simply talking about women. I was in Maine, not three months ago, when I saw a husky, bearded biker walking down the road with an ash grey pug on the end of a heavy chrome chain. The dog was clothed in a black leather jacket, leather flat cap and had a pair of dark wrap around shades.

At this point, I would like to state for the record that I am not at all against appropriately garmenting your animal as necessity dictates. Some of the more fragile breeds may indeed require the occasional jumper or scarf – a sensitive footed greyhound with tiny boots for the snow. In fact, when our dog Fionn was 11 weeks old, we ventured to buy him his own thick jacket. In our wobbly defence, we were travelling on a narrow boat in October through Wales – where the weather was cold and rainy – and neither of us could stand his crying below or to see him shivering on deck. The thick plaid coat was a bit cumbersome, fitting our young cabin boy like a Bomb Squad flack jacket, in which he was particularly awkward and nonplussed. Fionn tottered around the boat looking like an oversized plaid dung beetle that had lost it’s ball of poo; his face smeared with an expression of cool indignance, coined and cherished the world over by adolescent boys made to wear thick Christmas jumpers, hand-knitted by elderly family relations.

It’s far less embarrassing that two veterinarians should buy their puppy a jacket than the fact that, had Fionn fallen into the canal with that bulky thing on, our young ‘Man’s Best Friend’ would have sunk like a stone.

* This question can be circumvented and considered affirmative if, when asked, ‘does your dog have a beret?’ you must quickly consider if colour or fabric matter.

Q3 Will my dog eat only what the rest of my family eats?

A common trait of this condition is the need to fix elaborate meals for your pet. In some situations the plates are the same as those around the dining room table, with the content and portions of the meal being on par with rest of those eating. In other cases, the food for the dog is superior.

I am a firm believer in pets enjoying the diets designed to their species requirements (I’m a little crazy that way). Responsible pet food companies like Hill’s, Iams and Eukanuba have researched the dietary specifications of domestic pets and mix up the product accordingly. This is high tech stuff and in the best interest of your pet. I’ve visited the Waltham Laboratory when I was in vet school, and I can tell you from personal experience I came out of there with free gifts.

When your dog refuses a meal or two your veterinarian will often recommend tempting her with a special meal. Unfortunately, if your pet has become so picky as to refuse even the tastiest of pedigree treats, this makes it difficult to determine the severity of the issue. It is for this reason I believe a standard of care must be addressed. And I might suggest that the entire family begin eating only dog food for several weeks – just until the little guy gets used to it.

* if making your pet’s meal requires a wok, you may safely assume your are souse chef to an inappropriate feeding regime - and therefore answer, 'Oui'.

Q4. Do I believe my pet understands large streams of words in detail and obeys them (or doesn’t) according to a complicated thought process involving cost/benefit ratios, and a series of mental pie-charts and graphs? 

‘If you don’t stop barking, I’m going to put you back in the house. I mean it. Are you going to stop barking? Do you really want to go back into the house? Alright then, you have no one to blame but yourself!’

While I believe specific words and tone of voice are readily understood by your pet, I am not yet convinced of a traditional household pet’s ability to comprehend complicated monologue and make rational decisions given a variety of options. I’m not saying there aren’t dogs out there that can do this – certainly some hyper-intelligent Border Collies have potential if they have somehow sidestepped an overarching obsession with rubber balls – it’s just unlikely that this is your pet.

Again, this is not to be confused with people who simply talk at their dogs for their own amusement, as a calming effect or to vent a cauldron of anger from boiling over into a more physical and unacceptable form of communication. These might sound more like:

‘You are so sweet. Who’s the prettiest girl? Are you a pretty girl? Do you want a treat, sweetheart? Yes you do? Oh yes you do. What a good girl.”

or

“Oh My God! You poo’d on the carpet AGAIN! I just let you out 2 seconds ago, you sniffed around on the grass, came in and crapped just in the door! You haven’t pooped in the house in 6 months and now (insert expletive) twice in one day. Are you crazy? What’s wrong with you? What did I ever do to you? Alright, no more Chicken Cordon Bleu for you, young lady. For &@£%* sake!”

In the above context, it would generally be accepted that all the questions asked were rhetorical and there was never any suggestion that the pet would respond in any other way than rolling onto her back for a belly rub or staring blankly with tail wagging.

* please remember - taking advice from your pet is inadvisable as dogs can’t speak and therefore the voice you’re hearing is either Satan or your own madness. (see below)

Now you’ve completed the questionnaire – how did you do?

If you answered yes to one or two of the above questions, you’re probably fine. You DO see your pet as a child, however you are likely to be harmless and eccentric. Perhaps it’s best you spend more time with friends (human), meet new people, and get back to interacting with society. It’s by no means too late. When in for vaccinations, simply ask your vet to take your pet out back and have a qualified nurse or technician hold her. It will reduce the stress and potential for unhappy incidents for everyone involved.

For those who answered yes to greater than two questions, or have ever rolled your dog around in a stroller or push chair (and are not 5 years old), know there are counsellors and support groups prepared to help. You only have to ask. And, without trying to sound alarmist, the path you’ve chosen can only end in tears. In fact, the truth is, you are indeed on a slippery slope where any one misplaced step could send you tumbling down that rabbit hole to straight jackets, behavioural modifying drugs and NHS glasses. Believe your vet, it’s not a nice place to holiday. And remember, if you get taken away … who’ll take care of the dog?

An introduction (flashback)

September 10, 2009

It sounds counterintuitive: vets shouldn’t have puppies. Veterinarians are certified animal people, right; born into the profession? I’ll admit there’s truth in it. Many of us were brought up with animals and weaned on the whimsical prose of Alf White - his wily adventures of James Heriott and All Creatures Great and Small. Difficult pets and livestock were cherished through smiling memories laced with the soft focus of reversed time. I personally doubt Alf ever had a puppy outside his consulting room or operating theatre. He certainly couldn’t have raised one. If he did, I’d be willing to wager the sentimental yarn may have been less inspirational and more than a little like mine.

Trouble arrived on a Thursday evening. It was wheat sheaf yellow with a strong puppy musk, a longer-than-Labrador face and more legs than body.  He presented in the form of a 10 week old Lurcher puppy and part of a litter rescued - whisked away from an evil band of baddies (we’re told) and shuttled across the Irish sea to mother England. They were seven at the start but more than half died. Only three young waifs arrived at our friend’s practice in West Sussex, England. By the time my wife got down to see them, only one remained. He’s the boy that came home - a survivor, and the last picked on the playground. We called him Fionn (meaning fair) for his Celtic roots. And he came into our relatively sedentary lives to ensure chaos.

*** 

What I recall most from Fionn’s arrival was his boundless energy. I was expecting him to miss his sisters and be a little sad, but I was clearly wrong. There was no lamenting of siblings lost, just the raw excitement of adventures ahead. When his big paws hit the carpet he was off, moving like a gale through rooms – limbs a blur. He tore around the house, in a clumsy lope, bashing into furniture, upending thin-legged chairs and end tables. There was much pulling of pillows from the sofa, chewing of shoes and relentless tormenting of cats. I’d bought a few stuffed cows and sheep for his arrival. He’d run by, flipping one of his new toys in the air. They flew by like ill-fated livestock unwittingly caught in the gusts of natural disaster. It was a brief tornado. The wind suddenly died, legs collapsed, and the power of storm evaporated into mist.

At rest, I finally got a look at the beast. He was handsome though incredibly thin. His ribs and hips poked out, giving a small hint of the reason he was here. But he was a happy skeleton with a long sight hound muzzle, blue/grey eyes and ears that flopped over the top of his head like granddad’s comb-over. At rest he epitomized the soft and noble beauty of a dog – the charm of man’s best friend. A puppy has the sweet nature and innocence that we see in a friend’s baby and secretly crave and miss in ourselves. It’s the unrepeatable magic and enthusiasm when introduced to the world as new. Fionn was this embodied, completely uncorrupted, lying stretched out on his belly enjoying the soft sniffs of curiosity that make you smile. Then he extended his neck, picked up a tuft of cat hair on the carpet, snapped it wildly in his mouth like bubblegum, and swallowed.

I read somewhere that the oral phase is part of the exploration of youth and the worry of every new parent; trial and error equals taste and destroy. It’s necessary that innocence be perverted by experience and if the eyes, ears and paws have a go, then all that’s left is the tongue. This means everything you see goes in your mouth, irrespective of size or texture. If it can be ripped or torn, the finer pieces must be swallowed. It was a veterinarian’s nightmare, and as we watched him inhale more debris we wondered at a hasty decision to forgo the pet insurance.