by Ingrid King
Virginia was the poster child for “tortitude”—that unique personality of tortoiseshell cats. She had definitely read the manual. She was feisty, independent, and set in her ways. The only other animal she liked was Marmy, our other hospital cat, a sweet, wise old medium-haired orange cat. You could often find Marmy in his cat bed, with Virginia curled around him, both squeezed into the small bed.
She liked most of the staff members, but this was not always mutual. She thought nothing of using her claws if she felt like someone wasn’t doing her bidding (i.e., not petting her properly, not feeding her on her schedule, or committing any number of transgressions only she knew about). These were not exactly the kinds of qualities you’d look for in a hospital cat. At one point, early on during my time as manager, there was talk of sending her to a nearby sanctuary for FIV-positive cats. I was nervous about doing so, but I set an ultimatum: If Virginia went, so would I. Thankfully, by then Janet and Jack had come to rely on me, and took my “threat” seriously. Virginia got to stay!
She loved me fiercely. She would be at the door to greet me each morning. When I took a few days off, the staff would tell me that she’d been looking for me, and when I returned to work, the look on her face made it clear that she did not appreciate being abandoned like that. She had her routine, and it didn’t vary much from day to day. In the morning, she’d sleep in a cat bed I had placed in front of a sunny window on my desk next to my computer. She’d spend most mornings napping, but she also made sure that I paid attention to her, often clawing at my “mouse hand” to get my attention. As lunchtime got closer, she would park herself on the bench in the exam room adjacent to my office, where most of the staff gathered for lunch each day. She loved to mooch off of peoples’ lunches, with morsels of meat or cold cuts and yogurt, especially peach flavored, being favorites.
For four years, she made my office my home away from home. She showed no symptoms of her disease. Then in the spring of 2002, she started to decline rapidly. She seemed to lose energy, and her always-healthy appetite started to wane. She couldn’t make it to the litter box in time and had frequent accidents outside the box. She wouldn’t come to greet me at the door in the mornings. An ultrasound showed that her heart and liver were in bad shape.
On a sunny April morning, we decided that it was time. I spent her last morning in the office with her in her bed by my side. When I wasn’t crying, I was calling staff members who were not on duty that day to let them know, in case they wanted to be present for her final moments. Many of them came in even though it was their day off. I held her on my lap in the office, surrounded by all the people who had been a part of her world, as she took her last breath. I don’t think there are many cats who get the kind of send-off she did.
I still miss her. She was my introduction to and beginning of my love affair with torties. Little could I have known at the time how much tortoiseshell cats would be changing my life. Virginia still has a piece of my heart.
Oliver
When I first began working in veterinary hospitals, I did a little bit of everything. I worked as a receptionist, veterinary assistant, and kennel attendant. Being a kennel attendant involved taking care of animals that were boarding at the hospital, which included everything from cleaning their cages, making sure they had fresh food and water, walking them, and giving them medications if needed.
I loved kennel duty despite the less-glamorous aspects of cleaning cages and litter boxes and cleaning up after the dogs after taking them out in the hospital’s small backyard. Kennel duty, especially on weekends and holidays, gave me a chance to spend time with individual animals, time that wasn’t always available during the busy workweek when we had surgical patients and pets coming for vet appointments. I became particularly fond of several frequent boarders, and one that still sticks out in my mind after all these years was a cat named Oliver.
Oliver was a nineteen-year-old white cat with some brown and black tabby markings. He was hyperthyroid, and he had kidney disease. He was skin and bones. His owners traveled frequently for a few days at a time. They would board him with us, feeling more comfortable having a veterinarian available in case one was needed rather than leaving Oliver at home in the care of a pet sitter. He was the first of many geriatric cats I fell in love with. There’s something about these wise old souls with their sweet old faces that has always touched my heart.
Oliver needed a lot of special attention while he was boarding, and I gladly gave it to him. He often needed to be handfed because his appetite was hit or miss. He wasn’t always cooperative when it came to taking his medication. But he always, always wanted lots of affection, and he was very vocal about both requesting it and showing appreciation for it—he would start out demanding to be petted with a loud, plaintive cry, and then he’d show his appreciation with a faint but steady purr.
Even when I had a kennel full of pets to take care of during my shift, I always made extra time for Oliver. I wasn’t required to be there all day on weekends or holidays, the animals needed to be taken care of three times a day, and depending on their needs, there was often time in between the morning, mid-day and evening shifts to go home for a couple of hours, but when Oliver was boarding, I usually stayed between at least two of my shifts and just sat with him as he purred away in my lap.
Each time Oliver went home after boarding at the hospital, I always wondered whether I’d see him again. At his age, and with his multiple health problems, I knew he didn’t have that much time left. So each time he was boarding, on my last shift during his stay, I made sure to say a proper good-bye, just in case it was going to be the last one. And I hoped that if, in the end, he reached a point where euthanasia was indicated, it would happen on a day when I was working so I’d get another chance at one last good-bye.
Sadly, I got my wish. A few days before his twentieth birthday, his family brought Oliver to the clinic. I was asked to assist with his euthanasia, and I got to say good-bye to my grizzled old friend one last time. I had assisted with euthanasia before, and usually managed not to cry until after the client had left, but this one was different. I couldn’t hold back my tears as I assisted the vet. Oliver passed away peacefully, surrounded by his family and one veterinary assistant who’d fallen in love with him.
Oliver was the first senior cat I came to love. He taught me how special these grizzled old cats are, and how much love they still have to give, no matter how old or ill they are.
Jordan
Jordan was a four-year-old Golden Retriever. Goldens make perfect family dogs, and Jordan seemed to have the perfect family. Mom and Dad were two of our favorite clients, and you could tell that their young son and Jordan were best buddies. And then the unthinkable happened: Dad backed the car out of the family’s garage, and accidentally ran over Jordan. Mom and son saw it happen, and to this day, I get a sick feeling in my stomach when I think about what they must have felt.
They rushed Jordan into our hospital. He was barely breathing, and one of his legs was bent at an angle that suggested that it was badly broken. Jordan’s family had called ahead, so we knew he was on his way in. Our staff set up emergency supplies: One of our technicians got out the crash cart, a tray that contained emergency drugs that are used to treat for shock and respiratory emergencies. Another technician set out large-sized breathing tubes. The X-ray machine was readied for immediate use. Our receptionist alerted one of the doctors that Jordan was on his way in. Both doctors on duty were seeing regular appointments at the time, but these clients understood.
Two of our technicians had a gurney ready to bring Jordan in from the car, but Jordan’s dad carried him into the hospital himself. Our techs led the way into the treatment room. As soon as Jordan’s dad lowered him to the treatment table, doctors and technicians got to work, and the scene was like something out of Grey’s Anatomy. A technician quickly placed an IV catheter and hooked Jordan up to fluids. After it was established that he was breathing, Jordan was moved to X-ray. While broken bones are a
concern with this kind of trauma, the bigger concern is internal injuries, especially damage to the lungs, chest, and abdomen, as well as internal bleeding.
The X-rays showed that one of Jordan’s lungs had collapsed. This is also known a pneumothorax, a collection of free-floating air in the chest cavity. Jordan needed a chest tube, and he needed it fast. One of our technicians quickly intubated Jordan with a breathing tube that would administer the anesthetic gas to get him ready for the procedure. Once the chest tube was placed, Jordan’s breathing became visibly more regular. The X-rays also showed that Jordan’s pelvis and right hind leg were broken.
While all this was happening, two other technicians were taking blood from Jordan to check his red blood cell count. A low blood cell count, also known as anemia, can be an indication of internal bleeding. Thankfully, there was no evidence of it.
Jordan would need surgery on his right hind leg. Pelvic factures are usually not operated on, and eventually heal with cage rest. But before the broken bones could be addressed, Jordan needed to be stabilized. He spent the rest of the day at our hospital, and was transferred to a local emergency clinic for round-the-clock ICU care.
One of our doctors updated Jordan’s family on his status. She reassured them that he was stable for now, but that the first twenty-four hours would be critical.
Jordan made it, and eventually returned to being the playful, happy dog he had been before the accident.
What I will always remember most about the day Jordan was brought in is how our team functioned as one holistic unit, with only one mission: to save Jordan’s life. Our staff always worked well together, but in emergency situations like this one, watching them work was like watching a well-choreographed play. Everybody played a crucial role, everybody knew what to do and how to do it, and everybody worked toward the same goal: saving a life.
Managing a veterinary hospital can be frustrating at times. It often felt more like a family than an office. When things were going well, that made for a wonderful work environment, but like any family, there were personality clashes and a certain level of dysfunction. However, just like in a real family, in a crisis, all of that fell by the wayside. The way our staff came together to save Jordan made me prouder than ever to be working with such an exceptional group of people.
Jake
Can a misguided crush lead you to your bliss? In my case, it did. As I mentioned in the introduction, a few months after my former husband and I separated, Feebee developed bladder stones. At the time I didn’t know this, but cats are sensitive to their humans’ emotions, and the turmoil of going through a divorce and all that comes with it can certainly impact our cats to the point of causing physical illness in them. In addition to dealing with the aftermath of my divorce, I was also mourning the death of my mother, who had passed away unexpectedly four months after my former husband moved out. Feebee was my primary emotional support during those dark days, so it was no wonder that it got to be too much for him.
I had a house-call vet at the time, but Feebee needed more than what she could provide, so she referred me to a local clinic. The handsome young vet who took care of Feebee couldn’t have been more charming. Bedside manner—the way in which a doctor interacts with his patients, and in this case, the patient’s human—is an important component of what makes a good vet great, and Jake had it in spades. Feebee was diagnosed with bladder stones, and needed to have surgery, and as a result, I ended up spending quite a bit of time in Jake’s company.
It probably wasn’t surprising that I eventually developed a big crush on him. For those few weeks, before and after Feebee’s surgery, Jake became the most important person in my life. I was so dazzled by his good looks, caring and compassionate manner, and veterinary skills, that I overlooked one minor detail: Jake was gay.
Thankfully, what could have become an embarrassing situation eventually turned into a delightful friendship. When Jake left for a job at another local clinic, I followed him, first as a client, and later, as a part-time employee. He continued to hold a special place in my heart, and he continued to take care of Feebee until he moved to Florida a few years later.
I’m pretty sure I would have ended up working in veterinary hospitals even without having ever met Jake, but the initial excitement of my adult crush, followed by the friendship that developed, added a level of motivation that propelled me forward a little faster than I might otherwise have moved along this path toward my bliss.
Kennel Work
Working in a veterinary hospital involves a lot of dirty work. One of the dirtiest jobs is the job of cleaning kennels and cages. When I first started working at veterinary hospitals, and while I was being trained as a veterinary assistant, one of the most frequently assigned tasks was kennel duty. This involved cleaning cages, replacing litter boxes and bedding, making sure there was always fresh food and water, and keeping track of an animal’s “output.”
If this sounds simple and rote, it is anything but, and I’ve always felt that kennel attendants are the most under-appreciated employees at a veterinary hospital. After all, they’re the ones that make sure that pets are comfortable during their stay. Cleaning a cat cage involved a lot of different steps.
First, the cat had to be temporarily moved to a clean cage. Then, everything had to be removed from the cat’s cage. If there was anything in the cat’s litter box, it had to be noted in the cat’s chart or on a cage card. This was an important step, since multiple staff members on multiple shifts would be taking care of each animal, and this assured that anything out of the ordinary would be noted. Then the entire cage—floor, walls, ceiling, and gate—had to be wiped clean with a disinfectant solution. Then the clean cage was lined with a thick layer of newspaper and covered with a soft towel or blanket. A fresh litter box with clean litter was added. After adding fresh water and food bowls, taking note of any special dietary requirements the cat might have, it was time to move the cat back to her newly cleaned cage.
For dogs, the process was pretty much the same, except that dogs also got a short walk in either the clinic’s backyard, or along the side street outside the clinic.
I often worked weekend kennel duty during those initial years. This meant coming to the clinic three times a day. Taking care of the animals could take anywhere from half an hour to several hours, depending on how many animals stayed at the clinic. Usually, morning duty took the longest time, since it involved cleaning everyone’s cages completely. Subsequent visits might only require changing out a litter box. On some weekends, and especially on holidays, the kennels were so full that morning duty ran into lunch duty. At some point during the morning, the veterinarian on duty would come in, and most of the vets would help out with cleaning on very busy weekends.
I’ll never forget the first Christmas after my divorce. I had volunteered for kennel duty. Even though I had had plenty of invitations from friends to spend Christmas with them, I just couldn’t handle the whole idea of Christmas that year, and it just felt better to lose myself in work, and spending the day with the animals. But it was an awful lot of work for one person. Jake (he of the crush) was on duty that Christmas, and without so much as a word, after taking care of the two sick animals in the hospital that day, he started cleaning cages and helping with other kennel duties. I was trying hard not to cry; I was so touched by this generous gesture on his part.
I’d be lying if I said kennel work was always fun. It’s hard, stinky, dirty work. But I still have fond memories of some of those weekends. There were times when I only had an hour or so between morning and midday duties, and it wasn’t enough time to go home, so I’d take one of the dogs for a long walk in a nearby park. Other times, I’d take one of the cats into an exam room with me to give her some out of the cage time. I vividly remember one dog and cat family: Katie was a brown Labrador retriever mix, and her cat friend Jasper was a big white-and-brown tabby. They were totally bonded, to the point that their guardians even requested that they be housed in the same cage. I’d t
ake both of them into an exam room with me, and I’d sit there for an hour with Jasper in my lap and Katie leaning against me. Even now, when I think about it, I can still feel the happiness in that room.
The next time you go to your vet clinic, show the kennel attendants some extra love. They’re the ones who keep your pets happy while they’re staying at the clinic.
Before I went to work at a veterinary practice full time, I worked part time at my corporate job, and part time at veterinary clinics. Much of the work at veterinary clinics, especially in the early years, was spent doing kennel work. I often worked 13 days in a row without a break, some days, I went straight from my corporate job to the veterinary job. And yet, I was happier than I had been at any other time in my life. It just goes to show that it’s not what you do that matters, it’s that you love what you do that matters.
Finding a New Vet
I left the veterinary profession in 2006 to start my own business. For the first time in more than fifteen years, I found myself in the position of having to find a new vet. I found that it’s not an easy thing to do.
During the years I worked in veterinary hospitals, I always had an “up close and personal” knowledge of the vets who worked on Feebee, Amber, and Buckley—from their medical skills and proficiency to their dedication and “bedside manner.” I thought I’d never find better vets than the husband-and-wife team who owned the practice I managed for eight years. Janet and Jack were the kind of veterinarians you read about in James Herriot style books. They were both completely dedicated to their profession. In addition to practicing exceptional, cutting-edge medicine, they had elevated the art of compassionate care for their furry patients and their humans to levels that are rare—even in a profession that is based on caring for animals. There were many nights when instead of leaving a sick pet at the practice overnight, they’d take him home and watch over him in their bedroom or bathroom. Both of them loved their work, and they were always learning and growing in their fields. They were a tough act to follow.