Restraining your pet at the veterinary clinic

Kittens & Chandeliers

 

Okay, let’s take a look at Peter Pants.” I say, tapping the top of the exam table with my hands.

“He’s a very nervous cat.” The owner replies.
“I understand.” I say, in my most soothing voice. “It’s a pretty scary place. But I need to examine him, so let’s just take a look.”
“Okay – how’s that?”
“Um, a bit difficult.”
“Alright, how about now.”
“Not quite there.” I say, watching the cat cross from one shoulder to the next around the owner’s head – it’s tail curling around his face. “You know, I think we need to get him down to get a proper look.”
The owner winces as the cat pokes a claw into his neck, then bends at the waist.
“What if I just, you know, lean down a bit more.”

A physical exam is the cornerstone of your pet’s evaluation. It doesn’t matter whether they’re clinically ill or simply in for an annual vaccination. People will be quick to understand how difficult your job can be: your patients can’t tell you what’s wrong with them. Now take that mute creature, stick her in a box and cover the opening with your entire body. And then tell me what the chances are of discovering what’s wrong with Captain Kitty Underpants.

I’ve pulled cats off shelves as they toppled veterinary paraphernalia onto the floor; extracted them from behind cabinets and vaccine fridges. They’ll crawl into the small space behind the computer. The other day a kitten was in for routine vaccinations. After the injection, I let go of the kitten to type notes into the computer. The owner took this as cue to loosen her grip as well and before I could caution her, the small cat walked of the table straight into the bin – the top spinning like a Dutch windmill. The kitten was fine, but the desire for escape is clear.

Holding your pet is the one critical thing, next to a thorough history, that you can do to help your vet: to help your pet. When you handle them with assurance, controlled, but not a death grip, they’ll often find confidence in this and it makes your vets ability to identify abnormalities that much easier. It’s not just the cats though. I’ve peeled many a Chihuahua from the leather jackets of burly men. With bigger dogs, it’s a little different.

A favourite with these owners is the ‘hands-free restraint’ or the loose hold at the end of a lead. It’s an act that gives the impression of control when all it really does is keep the dog from running out the door and chasing squirrels. Some days, I think it’s an intramural sport I’ve unwittingly signed up for.

I crouch down and move towards the dog. Patches raises one eyebrow and instinctively takes a step back. As I get closer, he scoots behind his person’s legs. At this point, I look up at the owner and they stare back. In that brief moment, we have silently committed ourselves to the game; the owner smiles, allowing the animal a little more freedom from the lead. For the next three minutes I must race around on the floor trying to capture Patches while the man at the end of the leash continues feeding out more slack. We’re trapped in the cycle, unconsciously playing out an ancient Celtic ritual that features a grizzled old fisherman trolling for clumsy sea bass.

The bottom line is this.  Of course holding a dog properly or not letting the family kitten walk off the edge of the table seems straightforward to people in the pet care circuit. We deal with nervous dogs and curious cats all day long. In contrast, when a person comes with a pet it’s not always clear. Some owners worry that they’re getting in the way and wait for the vets cue regarding what to do next – which is sensible. Also, there’s often the larger distraction of a sick pet: there’s more emotion and some things that might otherwise seem second nature fall to the floor (or into the bin). But, we’ll get there in the end: we both want what’s best for old Patches.

Until then, let the games begin.


* No pets were harmed in any of these incidences and for vet colleagues who find my chasing dogs around client’s legs on my hands & knees inappropriate, I no longer do this and have since begun using a skateboard.

Eau de Kaka

  

Don’t let Fionn off his lead,’ Katie says, holding our dog at arms length.  ‘Get the door. Hurry.’

‘Hey, not so close,’ I say, dodging his jumps – confident that Katie’s giving him more lead for my benefit.  ‘Get out, I’m not touching him! He stinks!’
‘Okay,’ she says smiling.  ‘Just open the door and I’ll run him up to the bathroom.’

At the top of the stairs our little yellow dog is in full panic. Fionn hates baths. Baths are not a part of his routine, so baths are very very bad. The tub itself is a porcelain blue malevolence - it’s where 45% of accidents happen in the home. Baths will kill him as surely as that deflated pink balloon he saw yesterday, listing with malicious intent in a hedge off the footpath.

Up in the bathroom the door is barricaded and there is no escape – for any of us. There is a palpable sense of alarm. Fionn’s high stepping hurriedly over the tiles with the grace and calm of a thoroughbred in a room full of clear plastic bags. Katie turns on the taps and Fionn, in his heightened anxiety, jumps into the tub. Katie and Fionn stand and stare at one another. No one expected that.

The reality is, Fionn would hop into the tub because baths have become a routine. It’s actually a daily (sometimes twice daily) event. The pattern has not been popular at either end of the scrub brush. There is a common variable, though. It all corresponds to the day he discovered fox poo.

It all seemed to kick off while Katie and Fionn were together setting up house in D -. I kept Brigh with me in the South for two months while Katie took the boy North to settle in. On their new walks along the golf course, Katie began to detect a budding interest in rabbits and squirrels. Never one to notice them before – they criss-crossed his path with little occasion made - he’d now become obsessed with the chase. It was hard for Katie to get concerned; he was no where near catching one. His downfall was a glaring conspicuity – a notably pristine presence to put any small woodland herbivore off. In fact, I expect Fionn himself realised what he truly needed was a decent bit of camouflage.

Since then, fox poo has been the primary colour in Fionn’s make-up bag (though he will occasionally accessorize with lesser animal faeces). In a flash, he makes for the woods, scrabbles around in the brush and rockets out looking like Rambo – a long brown smear down the sides of his face, across his eyes with skids down his neck. It’s obvious when he’s caught a scent – his limbs vibrate; both ears prick up, while simultaneously he’s struck deaf. He’s not the best listener anyway, but when there’s fox poop nearby his mind is buzzing with the news. That single synapse in his skull is firing like mad - both neurons crackling off like fireworks. And once found, no amount of hollering will discourage him from the game.

If there’s any pride to be had for our dog in this, it’s his attention to detail. He has, with remarkable alacrity, developed a series of moves that serves to maximize the crap to Fionn ratio. It starts with a collapsing right forelimb that drops the side of his head several inches behind the offending muck. Now, with his back legs pin-wheeling forward, he propels his entire face and shoulder on. This single deft action serves to apply both downward pressure into the mess and a skidding effect that mashes and grinds the material all the way to bare skin. At a defined point when the shoulder slides past, the right hind collapses and Fionn effectively swims the rest of his body (side-stroke) across. It’s engineering poetry, really. Once the entire manoeuvre has been successfully completed, the sequence is repeated no less than thirteen times – in all directions, both sides - until there is no evidence of the fox having relieved itself in the vicinity whatsoever. If he’s played his cards right, every other fox, squirrel and badger within a five mile radius will be following us, strung along with the misapprehension that our dog is actually the woodland’s public loo.

With his war paint applied Fionn races wildly around, crashing and twirling through the woods in hyperactive glee. Whether he’s trying to scare up more wildlife or simply celebrating his stench is unclear. What is clear is that no amount of airing will dampen that smell. It’s smeared deep into his coat and we will all be heading for the tub room once more. It’s enough to make you cry. Of course, you might if you felt safe that’s all there was.

How is it that, no matter what you do, something horrible must happen to make you appreciate what you had? When things are grim, a dark sliver of perspective enters your world to illuminate how things could be far worse. Our dogs and cat are relatively healthy and neither Katie nor I suffer from chronic nose bleeds or clinical depression. Still, it seems strange that we never truly considered our prior good fortune until Fionn comes upon a dead rabbit – putrefied and rancid. It’s by far the most mouth wateringly rank odour I’ve ever had the misfortune to smell, and his face is covered. Fionn himself appears to be actually smiling, staring at me - both eyes black with rotten bunny insides - looking quite a lot like a panting Zorro. And I look at my dog and smile back. I choose to find this series of events ‘lucky’ for fear that tomorrow Fionn will stumble upon something worse - the decaying carcass of a fox maybe; the flesh of its ribs torn loose, its belly ripped open with putrid offal spilled out on the ground. It will be festering in a puddle of its own waste, having necessarily crapped itself to death.

As I walk my dog back to the car, a car that will invariably be travelling with every window down, I have to consider the attraction. Certainly there are other animal droppings that would be less offensive to tart himself up. Why couldn’t our little yellow dog find joy crawling across the nicer smelling horse apples or cow pats? Or even sheep or rabbit pellets. Of course, these aren’t carnivores so there’s no scent of incompletely digested meat. The odour pales for the comparison. And I think that it would be ridiculous for Fionn to roll around in cow or sheep poo anyway. It wouldn’t make any sense. That poop’s for eating.

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?’

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.