Those walks were normalcy. She had been Emma, not Sick Emma. I’d never thought of this when I instructed an owner not to walk their sick dog, whose heart or lungs were too fragile for exertion. I was strict: “No, not more than five minutes, no hills, no stairs. Only out to pee and straight back in.” I hadn’t understood what my prescription had taken away.
Her mass had reached the size of inclusion in polite conversation, and, as her owner, I was forced to explain her disease over and over. Hiding my sadness behind a smile, patiently explaining why we couldn’t “just remove it.” Purposefully not disclosing my profession to strangers, preferring to inhabit the persona of Emma’s owner, not her veterinarian. I had never been so viscerally and tangibly confronted by a disease.
When the year turned into 2016, and Emma was still wagging her tail, eating well, and hopping onto the couch in the evening, it was easy to justify her still being a part of our family. But when she’d sometimes wake up stiff, reluctant to go downstairs, and less active—moving only when she had to—I questioned if her life was as good as her tail-wagging made me believe.
But she keeps going, still hoovering up cat food off the floor when my back is turned, stubbornly and preposterously jumping into the car without help, still sleeping in the armchair she commandeered when she first came home. She has forced me to acknowledge that science is not enough. That the veterinarian I once wanted to be is far from the veterinarian I am. And that the only way to get there was to make the journey, no matter the challenges.
Every time I look at Emma I am confronted by a disease I cannot cure, a disease that is going to kill her. And the loss is not only in the futility of being a veterinarian who cannot save my own pet; it is in the knowledge that, although I can take what she has taught me and use it to treat my patients and build relationships with new animals in my family, I will never rekindle the particular love we shared once she is gone. This love, and the love each of us experiences for those we take care of, whether human or animal, is greater and deeper than anything science can teach.
FOR ROB AND WREN
I love you as high as the sky until it says stop.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my mum and dad, who have provided limitless support and encouragement for all of my and my sister’s endeavors—ranging from hamster husbandry to trampolining to writing. Thank you for always believing that I could do anything I set my mind to. This story would not exist without you. And I would like to thank my sister for always “letting” me sit behind the driver.
Thanks also go to Tish McAllise Sjoberg, who reminded me how much I love writing and started me on this journey five years ago.
For taking a chance on a vet who wanted to write, thanks to Tod Goldberg, Agam Patel, Mark Haskell Smith, David Ulin, Emily Rapp Black, and the faculty and students of the MFA program in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts at the University of California, Riverside–Palm Desert.
I am indebted to my dear friend and writing partner, Kit-Bacon Gressitt, whose wisdom and generosity are limitless. And to Maggie Thach Morshed, the best cheerleader and friend a girl could ask for.
Annie and Ian McKie, thank you for introducing me to the magic of the Forest of Dean and for sharing your idyll.
My agent, Mary Evans, has guided this book from the very beginning, answered endless questions, and introduced me graciously to the literary world—thank you.
At Spiegel & Grau and the Penguin Random House Group, thank you to Julie Grau, Laura Van der Veer, Annie Chagnot, Janet Wygal, and everyone who helped usher this book into being. I couldn’t have been in better hands.
It would be impossible to individually thank every student, intern, resident, technician, receptionist, teacher, and colleague who has impacted my life as a veterinarian, but I am grateful to you all.
To my clients, some of whom I’ve known for a day and some for a decade, thank you. And to my patients, who will never read this book, thank you for everything you have given me. Well, everything except the ringworm.
Cheers to the myriad people who have propped me up, pulled me together, and kept me going, even when I didn’t deserve it.
Finally, I’d like to thank my husband, Rob, to whom I owe an endless debt of children’s-birthday-party-and-swimming-lesson attendance, and without whom our family would have disintegrated from neglect while I wrote this book. There are no words to describe what you and our daughter have given me.
Thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUZY FINCHAM-GRAY is a veterinarian and board-certified small-animal internal medicine specialist. She works in private practice, where she takes care of cats and dogs with complex medical problems. When pressed, she admits to being a cat person, but dogs come in at a close second. She holds an MFA in creative writing and writing for the performing arts from the University of California, Riverside–Palm Desert. She lives in San Diego with her husband and daughter, three cats, and two dogs. Her extended family still live in England, but they often visit with suitcases crammed with Marmite. My Patients and Other Animals is her first book.
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My Patients and Other Animals Page 29