The Gift of Pets: Stories Only a Vet Could Tell

by Bruce R. Coston

  When the biopsy came back from the lab five days later, I was disappointed, although not surprised, to see that the growth had indeed been a malignant tumor of mammary origin. The tissue surrounding the growth had been free of cancer cells, so I hoped that removal had been curative. Time would tell. News of the results produced in Sue Anne the same terrified but resolved response. I gave her instructions to watch the area carefully for any sign of regrowth.

  Three months later, Sue Anne and Meisha were back. The record said I was to check another growth. Sue Anne’s face showed the fear in her heart as soon as I entered the room.

  “Another nodule?” I asked.

  Sue Anne just nodded her head, avoiding my face with her frightened and emotion-filled eyes. I took Meisha from her lap and placed her on mine, cupping my hand under her belly and feeling along the mammary chain where the first growth had been. I could feel the surgery scar but did not feel a lump under it. When I went to the other side, however, my heart jumped. There, along a line of mammary tissue on the opposite side, I felt not one nodule but three.

  “Oh, Meisha,” I said. “That’s not good.”

  Any control Sue Anne had maintained until then evaporated in a torrent of emotion, which continued unabated for quite some time. I sat silently on my stool, patting her arm empathetically. I knew the immensity of the impact this was having on her. No words I could share would lessen it. Finally, Sue Anne turned a tear-streaked face to me and entreated in a pinched voice. “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “There really isn’t much at our disposal,” I said sadly. “These tumors are not very responsive to chemotherapy in other species, and a rabbit does not handle chemo drugs well anyway. Removing the tumors would not help. Since these came back in a different location, I suspect others would just pop up somewhere else. Besides, she can’t undergo a whole lot more surgery. I think we only have one option. We’ll just keep her as comfortable as possible till the tumors get so large that we can’t control her pain. Then we’ll have to make an awful decision for her good.”

  I sent Sue Anne home with pain medications and my deepest sympathies. I wasn’t sure how much time she still had with her friend, but I knew it would not be long. Unfortunately, my suspicions turned out to be correct. Within about a month, Sue Anne and Meisha were back for their final visit.

  The room was somber when I walked into it that fateful day. Sue Anne sat on the corner bench in a pair of blue jeans, her legs curled up under her. Her head was down and her long hair fell like a curtain over her lap, where Meisha lay, her breath coming now in short gasps. Sue Anne didn’t speak when I entered the room, but her shoulders began to shake. Taking my cues from her, I sat down on the stool, scooted it close, and put a hand on her shoulder. After an extended silence broken only by Sue Anne’s sniffling and Meisha’s labored breathing, I spoke.

  “It’s time, huh?”

  Sue Anne just nodded her head, the tears continuing. She let her legs swing to the floor and handed Meisha to me. I took her and placed her on the exam table. Sue Anne rose and stood on the other side of the table, comforting the frightened bunny with quiet words and gentle touches. The difference from when I had last seen Meisha was remarkable. The tumors, which had been the size of peas then, now ranged in size from golf balls to baseballs, stretching the skin over them and making it difficult for Meisha to move. From her labored breathing, I knew that the tumors had either invaded her lungs or were now causing so much pain that she continuously grunted with discomfort. Either scenario was untenable. As Sue Anne knew, it was definitely time to ease the suffering Meisha was experiencing.

  I drew the euthanasia solution into a syringe, anxiety flooding my mind. Rabbits have the tiniest of veins, a fact that makes it very difficult to administer intravenous medications. I did not want this procedure to be prolonged by futile efforts at hitting a vein. With Meisha now back in Sue Anne’s embrace, I shaved her ear so I could easily see the minuscule veins that ran along the periphery of the huge ear. They were no bigger than a thread as they snaked their blue way under the skin. It would be difficult to hit this vein in the best of circumstances, but with the swirling emotions of the day, I knew this task to be well nigh impossible.

  With Meisha cuddled on the tabletop in Sue Anne’s trembling arms, I poised my needle over the vein. Carefully penetrating the thin skin with the needle, I held my breath as I advanced it into the tiny vessel. I was pleasantly surprised to see the solution flow from my syringe into the vein as I slowly pushed the plunger. I had hit the vein. As the fluid flowed into Meisha’s system, her breathing slowed and her little body relaxed in Sue Anne’s arms. It was a peaceful and dignified end to many years of devotion. I slipped the needle from the vein and placed my stethoscope over the rabbit’s slowing heart. Before long, I heard the steady rhythm stop. She was gone.

  Sue Anne searched my face as I listened, her breath held in like the emotion I knew was roiling inside. I met her eyes and nodded solemnly. There was silence for a moment. Then from across the table there arose a slow and growing moan of anguish from a crushed heart. Her knees began to buckle and she began to sag down, as if she were bearing more weight than her strength would allow. Her eyes shifted up in their sockets, as if she was searching the ceiling for a rational response to the unanswerable question of why we must endure such loss. Meisha began to slip from her loosening grip.

  It was at this point that things began to take a totally unexpected swing into the surreal. I raced around the table and took the deceased rabbit from her arms. Sue Anne’s consciousness was rapidly deserting her, and I knew that in just a moment or two, she would be an inert form on the floor if I didn’t help.

  I directed her with my free hand back to the corner bench and helped her sink down onto it, all the time repeating her name loudly and as comfortingly as I could. I watched with horror as the color drained from her face and her lips formed voiceless words of sadness. The tears fell unchecked from her unseeing eyes.

  I knelt on the floor in front of her with the bunny’s limp form cradled in the crook of my left arm. I bent over so I could look directly into Sue Anne’s face. Since she was huddled forward, I had to lower myself well below the level of her shoulders to look up at her. I could not get her to open her eyes and acknowledge me, even though I was patting her hand with some force. In her unresponsive state, I could not tell whether she was simply overcome with emotion or truly slipping from consciousness.

  “Sue Anne,” I said, and then, louder, “Sue Anne. Can you hear me?”

  Apparently, she could not, because about that time, she slumped forward, unresponsive now. Because I was still holding Meisha’s body in my left hand, I had no way to slow her fall except to catch her head on my shoulder and reflexively push her back against the wall with my torso, an action that resulted in my body’s being suddenly and uncomfortably close to hers. With my right hand, I reached around and began to rub her back comfortingly yet firmly, hoping with this contact to bring her back to a level of awareness.

  As I vigorously rubbed her back, it struck me like a lightning bolt that I did not feel any bra straps. Sue Anne was not wearing a bra! Sue Anne was not wearing a bra? The compromising situation I found myself in suddenly hit me with a clarity that made me back away from the inert body, which was even now cradled on my shoulder in an intimate embrace. I jerked my hand up and back behind me. When I did, though, she slumped again toward the floor, and I had no choice but to move in toward her again. It was either that or let her sink, helpless, to the floor.

  I nearly panicked. I envisioned the headlines that would be seen when the news hit the community. VETERINARIAN ABUSES AN UNCONSCIOUS CLIENT AFTER KILLING HER BUNNY. I would be a pariah, a felon. I would no doubt lose my license, my practice, maybe even my family. My clients would desert me in droves. My staff would revolt. My career would be over. What to do?

  It was about lunchtime on a Wednesday and the office was nearly empty. With no other clients in the building, my receptionist was
downstairs in the break room eating her lunch and waiting for me to complete my awful task. I felt very alone. Still not able to rouse Sue Anne from her stupor, I mustered my strength and began to call the receptionist.

  “Beth,” I called. When there was no answer, my calls grew progressively louder and more frantic. Before long I was bellowing at full voice through the closed door, Sue Anne, still unperturbed and unhearing, nestled on my shoulder like a mistress. “BETH … BETH!”

  Finally the door of the exam room opened and Beth entered. I don’t know what exactly she expected to find when she opened the door, but from the look on her astonished face, I was sure this loving embrace was not it. Embarrassed, she started to close the door again, apparently to afford us a measure of privacy. I watched the look on her face change from shock to confusion, which transfixed her for a moment before she spoke.

  “Which one of you called me?”

  This question struck me as incredibly unnecessary under the circumstances. Of the three individuals in the room, I was the only one capable of speech. One was clearly unconscious on my shoulder, and the other was dead in my arm.

  “Who do you think called you, Beth?” I snapped.

  She stood at the door, unsure whether to enter the room, indecision cloaking her face.

  “Did you need something?”

  “Yes, Beth, I need your help. Doesn’t it appear like I need a little help at this moment?”

  Still she stood there as if glued to the floor, making no movement to come to my aid.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked tentatively.

  “Why don’t you start by taking the rabbit from my left arm and putting it on the table. Then come and take Sue Anne off my shoulder.”

  When the reality of what was happening came clear to her, she began to move more quickly. In no time she had Sue Anne laid out on the floor and was bathing her face with cool water and a clean towel. Even so, smelling salts wafted under her nose were required to bring her fully around.

  I tried to stay clear of Sue Anne during the forty-five minutes or so it took for her to recover adequately enough to drive her pickup home. I did sneak in a time or two to express again my deepest sympathies at her loss and try to furtively discern whether or not she had any memories of the period during which she was unconscious or if she harbored any intentions to pursue legal action against me. But she was only grateful for my sympathy and saddened by her loss.

  It was not until she had gone and the intensity of the emotions had waned that the humor of the situation began to sink in. Every time I pictured myself in that room with one dead rabbit and one pretty girl in a dead faint, both of whom were wrapped in my helpless arms, I broke into laughter.

  Wednesday was my afternoon off, and I had arranged to go golfing with three good friends. As we drove to the golf course, I found myself involuntarily smiling to myself again as I reviewed the events of the morning. Just when I was ready to tell the story to my friends, I happened to glance at the pickup truck we were passing. It was pulling a stock trailer and traveling slowly. Absentmindedly, I glanced at the driver—and froze! Instinctively, I sank as deeply as possible into the seat and turned my face away from the truck.

  “Don’t look at that truck!” I screamed, suddenly frantic.

  The car went strangely silent, my friends confused now and looking at me as I hunkered down in the seat. With my hand obscuring my face and my head down, I’m sure I looked like a fugitive at an FBI picnic. My face turned pasty white and my mouth went dry.

  “What in the dickens has gotten into you?” one of my friends asked.

  “That truck,” I yelled in response. “Pass it, quick … and don’t look at the driver!”

  In an incredible twist of fate, we had happened upon this truck, and I had recognized the woman driving! With her long, dark hair, she was very familiar to me. She was driving slowly, her head hanging sadly and her hand clutching a Kleenex, with which she dabbed at her weeping eyes. It was Sue Anne!

  William

  My history is imbued with richness—not monetary wealth so much—but after eighteen-plus years in the same small town, there is much texture and color woven into my memories. I find it odd that my memories of two decades of life diminish the difficult times and wreathe the good ones in garlands of glowing gladness. I still smart at the significant losses, of course, but the day-to-day annoyances and frustrations are mostly gone now as I think back. What remains in my mind are the bright patches of emotional color that make up the quilt of my experience.

  Much of this richness accrues by virtue of the personalities and characters of the people whose pets I have treated over the years and whose experiences and memories intertwine with mine. At any one time, there is a matrix of such people whose dogs and cats make up my patient list. But because some patients pass on and because people change jobs and locations, the makeup of that matrix is constantly in flux. When a special client slips from the network, it is with nostalgia that I recall that person and the place of prominence he or she once held in my professional world. I was reminded yesterday of one special personality, whose memory always brings a fond smile.

  Susan met me in the treatment room one day with a cat carrier, from which she extracted a cat of the Siamese denomination. Though close observation revealed that he might not have actually been Siamese, he did look like a recent convert who was trying hard to become one. His coat was a little longer than that of most Siamese. His coloring was the same, though it lacked the sleek, spoiled sheen typical of the breed. Instead, it had the coarse, rough texture of a cat that made his own way in the world. Neither did he display the confused, cross-eyed Siamese expression; instead, he fixed on me focused eyes of penetrating intelligence. There was about him a certain presence that made me take notice.

  “What do you have there, Susan?” I asked with interest.

  “An old lady just dropped him off for us to look at. She says he’s limping on one of his back legs. She doesn’t know exactly what happened, but he came back in after being gone for a few days and was holding up his leg. She says to do whatever is necessary to fix him. She couldn’t stay for an examination; said she had some errands to run and to just call her when you have more information.”

  It was a story pocked with red flags, having all the hallmarks of a dumped cat. I have had cats abandoned at the practice many times over the years by irresponsible people who cared little for the animals that adored them. They typically were too “busy” to wait for me to examine the pet, and left phony names, addresses, and phone numbers. Once the hapless patient was successfully deposited within the confines of the office, the owner would skip and we would never hear from him or her again. With bad information, our attempts at contacting the person would be fruitless. It was how Rush had ended up in my home. What to do with this cat?

  “Have we ever seen any of this lady’s pets before?”

  “No, this is the first one.”

  “Does this cat have a name?” I asked. Many times, dumped cats come without names or with names in which no creative energy has been invested.

  “The lady said his name was William.”

  “William, huh? Not Bill? That’s a big name for a cat. Let’s take a look.”

  I had already been watching William make his way around the room, holding his right hind leg off the ground carefully. I had already noted how it formed an odd angle below the hip and how the foot hung a little too loosely. I already knew William had a broken leg. It was a simple thing to confirm a fracture of the femur with just a quick feel of the bone. There was grating of the broken ends of bone against each other and severe bruising on the inside of the leg. It always amazes me how stoic my patients can be when they sustain injuries that would leave us humans screaming for morphine. William reacted to my probing simply by turning his head and flinching slightly.

  The rest of William’s examination was unremarkable, if you call the ability to stave off shock and unremitting pain in the face of serious injury
unremarkable. In all other respects, William seemed normal. I estimated him to be about three or four years old. He had been neutered, was in good flesh, and free of fleas. He seemed to have been provided with good care. Still, though William seemed okay, reservations about his owner remained.

  I fully expected to dial a nonworking number as I lifted the phone to my ear to call the owner. To my surprise, the phone was answered promptly by a woman with a voice that belied many years of experience and also an impressive degree of education and sophistication. Hers was a deep voice, not only in tone but in character. My concerns were allayed.

  “Is this Mrs. Moynihan?”

  “It certainly is. Who is this?”

  “I’m Dr. Coston, ma’am. You just left your kitty, William, at our hospital.”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you for calling so quickly. William is such a dear. What’s wrong with poor William?”

  “He has a broken leg.”

  “I was afraid of that. You know, he’s such an independent soul. He absolutely insists upon going outside and roaming the neighborhood while we’re out here in the Fort. He stays inside when we’re in the city. But here, he just must be let outside. I was afraid he’d get hurt at some point. And now he’s gone and done it. What do we need to do to get William back on his feet again, so to speak?” She laughed easily at her play on words.

  I knew without explanation that “the city” was Washington, D.C. There was an ease of interaction, an assumption of acceptance about her that I sensed had arisen from living among the privileged who resided in the stately 1930s- and 1940s-era homes within the Beltway, not from the straining ambition teeming in the northern Virginia suburbs. No doubt she was one of the many D.C. residents who sought serenity on the weekends and in their retirement years in the quietude of the outer reaches of Shenandoah County.