Vet Noir: It's not the Pets-it's the People Who Make Me Crazy - Softcover

Stronk, DVM Robin Truelove

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1440197350 ISBN 13: 9781440197352

Publisher: iUniverse, 2010

Synopsis

In the memoir Vet Noir, a seasoned veterinarian humorously recounts stories of animals she treated and the people who loved them. Robin Truelove Stronk owned her own veterinary practice in Vermont with her husband for twenty-four years where she often dealt with clients who expected too much, listened too little, arrived too late, and sometimes just fainted. With an entertaining style, Dr. Stronk shares not only her own professional challenges, but also the unique expectations of the animals' owners. From a New England dairy farmer who expected her to strip to the waist to assist his cow with a difficult birth, to the distraught owner who held her guinea pig up to the telephone so the veterinarian could hear the noise her pet was making, Dr. Stronk's anecdotes illuminate the delightful, sometimes tortuous, and very often amusing relationships between a pet, its owner, and the veterinarian. Vet Noir provides a light-hearted glimpse into the world of veterinary medicine where animals are unconditionally loved and the people are kind beyond measure, dedicated, and splendidly appreciative-mostly when they are not being quirky, infuriating, and more often than not, unknowingly comical.

About this title

About the Author

Robin Truelove Stronk graduated from the Veterinary College at Cornell University in 1975. She and her husband owned a veterinary practice in Brattleboro, Vermont, for twenty-four years and raised three children. They now live on a farm in New Hampshire where she fills her time creating art and frolicking with cats.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

VET NOIR

It's not the Pets-it's the People Who Make Me CrazyBy Robin Truelove Stronk

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2009 Robin Truelove Stronk DVM
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4401-9735-2

Contents

Chapter 1 How Do You Do That?...................................1Chapter 2 Dr. Fox...............................................8Chapter 3 What's in a Name?.....................................22Chapter 4 Hats off to the Ladies................................32Chapter 5 Wardrobe Malfunction..................................38Chapter 6 When Pigs Fly.........................................44Chapter 7 Learning the Ins and Outs.............................62Chapter 8 Patients That Go Walkabout............................72Chapter 9 Rx: A Daily Dose of Embarrassment.....................84Chapter 10 The Troll.............................................92Chapter 11 Black Jack's Broken Rib...............................100Chapter 12 Phone Sex.............................................111Chapter 13 The Tractor Ride......................................118Chapter 14 Good Deeds Seldom Go Unpunished.......................129Chapter 15 The Joys of Academia..................................136Chapter 16 The Pawnshop..........................................152Chapter 17 Pregnant Pauses.......................................164Chapter 18 Unusual Requests......................................174Chapter 19 I'm Sorry ... So Sorry................................184Chapter 20 Whisper's Little Secret...............................192Chapter 21 A Cat's Tale..........................................198Chapter 22 The Sole Evidence.....................................204Chapter 23 Here and Then Gone....................................213Chapter 24 Sickening Sweet.......................................226Chapter 25 A Case of Mistaken Identity...........................231Chapter 26 I Knew You Wouldn't Mind..............................238Chapter 27 Living with Wildlife..................................248Chapter 28 The Other End of the Leash............................256

Chapter One

How Do You Do That?

Reclining on the king-size bed in the semidarkness, I leaned closer to my husband's ear and quietly asked him to adjust the light on the night table. We weren't alone. I looked at the couple who shared the bed with us and tried to discern their thoughts. The only sound was the low-pitched purr emanating from their three-legged cat nestled in the center of their bed. The couple seemed to be maintaining their emotional equilibrium. My stability, however, was a little shaky.

How did I come to be sharing a bed with my husband, two clients, and their mortally ill cat?

As a veterinarian, my mission on this particular day was sad. The mechanics of the process were simple. I had performed it hundreds of times before and felt confident in my ability. The emotional aspect, however, was daunting. I struggled to find the most compassionate words to ease this couple through their loss as I prepared to euthanize their beloved pet. In veterinary school, there had been no textbook on my list of required reading and only anecdotal information from our professors to guide me. Yet, I had found that the real measure of my worth as a veterinarian was what I could do not only for the pet, but also for the owners, in the next few minutes and even on into the next few weeks.

This case had started out unremarkably. A middle-aged couple with no children had presented their older cat for an examination at my clinic. She had been lame for a few days. I determined that the cat had pain in one of her hips, and I recommended an X-ray. To my dismay, I found that the geriatric patient had an unusual form of bone cancer in her hip. Ultimately, her leg was amputated in an attempt to stop the painful progression of the disease, but despite all efforts, it metastasized to her lungs. At that point, the treatment options were exhausted, and we kept her as comfortable as possible until the time came when the owners felt her quality of life did not warrant taking her any farther.

I was genuinely fond of the couple. The clients who I affectionately categorize as my "cat people" are very special. We tell silly cat stories in the exam room, matching one another in self-deprecating descriptions of the depths to which we will lower ourselves to accommodate our kitties. We all understand that our cats see us as heated furniture, which explains their preference for lying on our lap rather than in a more convenient location.

The wife enjoyed spinning yarn. One winter she had come into the clinic sporting a gorgeous soft-knitted hat. She proudly explained that the buff-colored top and brim had been made of yarn she had spun from the hair she combed from her young, longhaired orange tabby. The gray band at the edge of the brim was from the hair combed from her older, shorthaired gray tiger. The hat was truly a labor of love and most remarkable.

Now I was faced with ending the life and the physical bond between the owners and this cat that was memorialized in the hat. Veterinarians face such dilemmas on a weekly or even daily basis. On some really bad days, we may have to repeat such a scenario more than once in a day. I am not sure how others manage their emotional equilibrium, but personally, I have held to my belief that "If it weren't for black humor, we would have no humor at all." I never lose sight of the human suffering, and certainly not the animals' suffering, but I preserve my personal stability by trying to appreciate some of the irony the bad times present. Caregiver's burnout is a very real problem in our profession and cannot only sabotage our quality of work, but can ultimately end a career prematurely. We need to have our personal tools to combat it. Respectful laughter can be good medicine. When the laughter is self-directed, it doesn't even need to be respectful. To continue to function and provide support, I have to find a few hearty laughs somewhere. Exactly when they come out can be managed, but sometimes they must be stored up like energy in a battery to see me through the grim days. By acknowledging the threads of hope and joy, I can more easily endure the poignant parts of the ride.

Because my clients had been through so much emotional turmoil and their cat was now exceedingly frail, I had offered to do the euthanasia in their home. I often offered this service whenever I could to make an unwelcome situation as palatable as possible. I understand the anguish of packing the pet into the car for the last trip to the veterinary clinic. Even when they know it is the correct and humane decision, owners feel like traitors. The animal is also most stressed by the clinic environment. Although the procedure may be more technically difficult for the veterinarian, going to the patient's home and allowing them to slip from life in a comfortable, familiar environment can truly be a gift. Many times, the owner will fixate on the last image of their pet, and if they see the dog laying quietly in his usual bed in the living room it is so much better than an eternal image of his poor lifeless body on a cold steel table. Usually we work under conditions that are far from ideal, but it is worth the sacrifice. This event qualified as one of the less idyllic in my experience.

My patient had been too weak to walk very far for several days, and the owners had allowed her to stay in a nest of blankets in the middle of their king-size bed. They asked if I could perform the procedure without moving her. I agreed without reservation. Noticing their younger cat prowling and looking around, I suggested ahead of time that they confine him to another part of the house so there would be no distractions. Because I was sure that my large doctor's bag must carry odors of the clinic, I decided to leave it in the living room, not wanting to upset my patient in any way. I opened the bag, selected what I needed, and adjourned to the bedroom, closing the door to keep the other inquisitive feline out.

The owners again asked if I minded leaving the cat where she was and I again promised we would disturb her as little as possible. They wanted to lie with the cat on the bed to comfort her in her last moments, which I had anticipated and encouraged them to do. I always bring someone to assist me in these cases to help ensure that all will go smoothly. Since this was a particularly delicate and somewhat personal situation, my husband and partner in the clinic, had agreed to come to support the patient and hold her leg for me to administer the solution. Gently, we both eased ourselves down on the bed, adjusting ourselves so that we could both obtain adequate access to the patient while being careful not to intrude on the owners' positions.

Immediately, I saw that my task would be challenging. The cat was so debilitated and her blood pressure was so low that no obviously accessible vein could be found. This happens in many older pets, but it can usually be handled by clipping the hair over the vein to improve its visibility. Although I hated to prolong the scene for the clients, I needed to ensure that everything would go as smoothly as possible. I explained to them that I needed to clip a small patch of fur and excused myself to get the clippers from my bag. I felt badly leaving my husband alone to support them, but I carefully slid off the bed and slipped out to the living room.

Comic relief was on the way. I entered the living room and out of my open bag, like a jack-in-the-box, popped the bewhiskered head and banner-like tail of the younger cat. Seeing my approach, he tucked himself back in and began tossing around the vials and rolls of bandage material in the bag. It was clear that he felt I had arrived bearing a technically advanced superior cat toy, and he was enjoying it thoroughly. Quickly removing him, I realized that the previously organized contents had been thoroughly mixed. Gauze rolls were snarled and the contents were in disarray. As I quickly straightened the items and disentangled the clippers, the disarmingly healthy housemate kept leaping from the back of the couch pouncing back into the bag. When the thought crept into my mind that the cat might have felt differently if he knew the real reason for my visit, I quickly pushed it away. The situation was heartrending enough without compounding the matter. I extricated the clippers, quickly closed the bag-much to the house jester's disgust-and cleared my mind for the task ahead.

Taking a deep breath to focus my thoughts, I returned to the bedroom, being sure to close the door behind me. I couldn't entertain the possibility that my furry friend would turn his attention to the event occurring on the bed.

Nothing had changed in my absence, although I sensed that the clients were having a difficult time maintaining their composure as they crooned lovingly to their pet. After clipping a small area over the vein, I again eased myself onto the bed, vying for a tenable working position without moving or lying on anyone else.

Now I realized that the lighting situation was dismal. A very small lamp on a bedside table, which at this point seemed to be miles from my patient, cast the only available glow in the room. I looked up quickly and was disappointed to see that there was no overhead lighting. As personal stress levels built up, I whispered my request to my husband to adjust the light. He knew exactly what the problem was, and he did his best with what we had to give me some small bit of illumination.

By this time, the couple's tears had started to flow. My heart was breaking for these loving owners. I could feel tears of sympathy starting to well up in my own eyes. The next inevitable stage would involve my hands starting to shake, and I knew that would be very bad. I knew that I could end up in a disastrous circumstance if I didn't pull myself together. I briefly looked up in a desperate attempt to center myself when an epiphany struck me-Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice.

Looking at the scene I was in, my subconscious mind had downloaded the iconic image from the hedonistic movie of 1969. Certainly, the vista before me more closely resembled that than it did a funeral, and I was instantaneously ashamed of myself for having such an inappropriate comparison pop into my mind. Like a train with no brakes, the thought went farther. Would I more resemble Natalie Wood or Dyan Cannon? That dilemma finally brought me back to reality.

The unsolicited flight of fancy had turned the tide. Filled with shame at my irreverent thoughts, I now found my hand steady, my eyes clear, and my task straightforward. I cared no less for the owners or cat than I had five minutes before, and I felt no less sadness over their plight. It was just that now I was able to put enough distance between the situation and myself to function.

The euthanasia proceeded quietly and efficiently. The bereavement process continued in expected fashion. I hugged each of the owners and expressed not only my sorrow at their loss, but my relief that they had each other to share the burden. They never knew that their remaining pet had used my doctor's bag as a "mosh pit," and they would never know the ridiculous movie poster that had flashed into my mind at the most sensitive moment.

How did I find myself building such a safety net of irreverent humor into my rational thought? How could I explain it? I was just the typical animal-loving teenager who fell in love with the idea of helping animals, alleviating their suffering and repairing their injuries. It had never occurred to me that the animals don't arrive on their own bearing little notes from home and their own plastic credit cards. I also spent no time dwelling on the reality of the loss that is an inevitable part of our lives with animals. When and how did this adaptation happen and what gives me these ideas? Humor is a universal antidote. I hope that it is in the best interest of all.

Looking back over more than thirty years of practice, I see myself as Vet Noir. I always tried to do the right thing, and I hope I usually did. Many times when my brain was totally in gear, my tongue was planted firmly in my cheek. The unseen machination of this serious profession is often quite funny.

Chapter Two

Dr. Fox

Sitting in the lecture hall wearing dark green barn coveralls seemed ridiculous at the time, but I wouldn't dare show up in any other attire. In front of the room was the mandatory expanse of a blank chalkboard, but I knew that I was about to experience the presence of a veterinary legend. I shivered with anticipation mixed with a little twinge of fear. This was not just another classroom; this was the domain of the great Dr. Francis Fox.

During the time that I attended Cornell Veterinary College, Dr. Fox was a force to be reckoned with. His credentials were extensive. He had pioneered the field of large animal veterinary care, and more specifically, bovine practice. He was widely published, authored many texts, and referenced by anyone who was involved in veterinary care of farm animals. He was a formidable presence, and he did not entertain fools lightly. Therein lay the dread that kept veterinary students awake at night.

To compare Dr. Fox's demeanor with another profession, one would have to conjure an image of a Marine drill sergeant on Parris Island dressed in green coveralls and barn boots but with slightly less tolerance for his uninformed newbies. His physical presence was intimidating; his keen stare could bore holes through any student trying to construct a tenuous diagnostic plan, and his silences were even more frightening than his verbal tirades. Before the era of political correctness, he could speak exactly what was on his mind and never give a thought to the sensitive inner psyche of his students.

We lived in fear of attending his class, and yet, like a good amusement park ride, we couldn't wait to sit down and experience the potential thrills and horror that were bound to occur. We would walk out the door of the classroom at the end of each lecture exhilarated to find that we were still intact bodily, able to walk and talk. (Actually, some students occasionally left minus the ability to speak, but invariably they returned to normal.) This was the thrill of victory or agony of defeat that made up Dr. Fox's Large Animal Medicine class.

The first two years of veterinary college were primarily devoted to classroom and laboratory subjects. We learned the machinations of our prospective patients on a microscopic and chemical level. Our major insight into the world we were about to enter was in Anatomy class where we tediously dissected the preserved cadavers that became our constant companions for many months. Then, like a moth emerging from a cocoon, we entered our junior year and a new world. Suddenly, we were faced with clinical classes dealing with real life cases and animals that retained the gift of life. It was heady stuff, and most of us suddenly realized that there was a light at the end of this tunnel. We allowed ourselves to dream of actually having that DVM attached to our names and that we would soon be stepping out into the world as bona fide veterinarians.

With two years of training under our belts, as unprepared as Christians driven into the coliseum, we marched off to Large Animal Medicine class and the infamous Dr. Fox. It was a glorious spectacle. He began with the assumption that we knew nothing of value and proceeded to try to salvage us as potential saviors of the nation's food animals. He cared not that few of us at that stage intended to become large animal practitioners. He turned up his nose at the thought of any of us considering wasting our time and valuable degree treating what he referred condescendingly to as "chi-hooa-hooas." This last statement was accompanied by a withering sneer of disdain as he spat the word off his tongue. In his world, there were two types of veterinarians-the real ones who treated farm animals, and the traitors posing as veterinarians who sidled into their cozy small animal clinics every morning and did what they tried to imagine was work. I must admit, that after being under his tutelage for my final two years, I was always able to spell Chihuahua without hesitation, although I can never do it without a frightening visual of the look on his face as he spat out the little dog's name. I am positive that if canvased as to our prospective career goals, one hundred per cent of my class would have sold their souls to the devil before they would have admitted to wanting to work on small animals.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from VET NOIRby Robin Truelove Stronk Copyright © 2009 by Robin Truelove Stronk DVM. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: iUniverse
• Publication date: 2010
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1440197350
• ISBN 13: 9781440197352
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 272