For much of the prior year, I had spent free time searching for a clinic – a clinic of my own. I looked at several existing hospitals, but the price tag was always too high. Most owners wanted a young veterinarian who would buy into the practice a little at a time until the owner was ready to retire – the traditional method of sale. I would provide most of the labor while the older veterinarian received most of the profits.
Instead of pursuing that route, I decided to start a clinic from scratch. I had already served as medical director of a start-up. I routinely put in 10-hour days to make the clinic a success. Now, with Steve’s support and encouragement, I was ready to try it on my own. I used funds we’d saved for a house down payment as seed money. Everything we owned was on the line – our cars, our furniture and our cash. Although Steve was a portfolio manager in a trust department, he was early in his career. Our future depended on my success.
After months of searching and after several potential locations fell through, I finally found a place to rent. Located in an industrial complex, the building was not much to look at from the outside. Gray cement blocks formed the exterior. Skinny floor-to-ceiling windows and glass doors interrupted the otherwise drab exterior. It was a low-slung, non-descript strip mall, the kind easily overlooked while driving down the road. In spite of the ordinary appearance, its location next to a boarding kennel was terrific. I hoped to garner business vaccinating pets for owners frantic to get out of town. Without current vaccinations for their pets, they could not board the animals.
Built in the 1970s, the original occupant transformed the raw shell into a small animal clinic with four exam rooms, a lobby and pharmacy/laboratory area in the front. The back half housed the treatment room, kennels, radiology suite and operating room. Orange paint and wild wallpaper covered the walls. The colors made a bold statement next to the dark wood cabinets and brown linoleum floors. It was groovy, I guess.
When the clinic owner moved to a new location, the facility became an emergency clinic owned by a group of local veterinarians. They kept the clinic well stocked with drugs and necessary equipment, but spent no money updating the décor. Overcome by the sight, clients used to freeze in the lobby. Now, I had one weekend to bring the space into the ‘90s.
“Dad, did you ever think this day would come?”
“No,” he replied. He tucked the back of his plaid shirt into his dark green work pants. “I was hoping Steve would get stuck with this job. You know how I love to paint.”
I offered a short prayer, then slid the key into the lock and opened the door. Tears welled up in my eyes. Unfortunately, they were not tears of joy. The room reeked. The rotten odor made my eyes water and my nose run. I covered my nose and mouth with a hand. Dad pulled a white hanky from his pocket and covered his nose.
We walked through the waiting room, into the pharmacy area. Panels from the overhead lights hung from the ceiling. The bulbs were gone, stripped from their sockets. Boxes and bags littered the room. Cabinet doors hung half-open, exposing empty shelves.
The foul odor seemed to come from the kennel. We continued through the treatment room to the doorway to the darkened kennels. I swallowed hard to fight the increasing waves of nausea. I fumbled for the light switch. Bam! A sharp crashing sound radiated through the room. The tip of my tennis shoes hit something metal lying on the floor.
Light flowed from one naked bulb that dangled over the kennels. Copper pipes littered the floor along with pieces of drywall and ceiling tiles. The prior tenant had ripped out the oxygen system. We stood frozen for a minute. Our eyes darted around the room from floor to ceiling. It looked like a war zone with debris scattered all around.
We decided to split up. Dad headed off to the radiology suite. I poked my head into the dark room used to develop X-rays. Exposed pipes with ends smashed stuck out from the walls. Glass shards lay on the floor from the safe light.
Around the corner, I spied the bathtub. A mixture of black and rusted material ran down the sides and spilled over the front edge. I stepped back to avoid a puddle. As my foot hit the floor, it slipped almost sending me to the ground. I grabbed the bathtub with both hands and regained my balance. My hands just missed the brown goo.
I turned around to see what caused my slip. More brown goo covered the floor where the freezer used to rest. The material seemed to move. My stomach jumped to my throat. I found the source of the stench: maggots!
Dad walked into the room with a flashlight in his hand. He aimed the beam on the floor. The maggots squirmed away from the light. He clicked off the beam. “How in the world did they get here?” he asked. I shook my head, as bewildered as he was.
This was the area where the emergency clinic housed a freezer. The former veterinarians placed euthanized pets here until a service picked them up for cremation. Perhaps the freezer leaked blood onto the floor. I shivered in disgust.
“I’ll take care of it as soon as I finish taking some pictures,” I announced. “No one will believe me otherwise.”
A former Seabee in World War II, my dad is nothing if not resourceful. Dad fashioned a small piece of wood into a doorstop and propped open the front door. Scavenging some wire from the floor to open the back door, he strung a long piece from the door handle to the railing outside. We turned the fans on high. I sprayed a mixture of bleach and water over the maggots and bathtub area. While that soaked, I cleaned the bathroom, which looked worse than a state fair Port-O-Potty. By the time Allie arrived, the maggots were a bad memory.
I met Allie through our work. Like all great veterinary technicians, she was able to run a heartworm test, set up a fecal test, fill a prescription and answer the phone all at the same time. She was game to help in any way she could, even if she was unfamiliar with what was asked or expected. I’ll never forget the first time I asked her to hold an iguana. Her eyes widened at the request, but she bravely extended her hand toward the iguana’s head. Thank goodness, he just lay there and let her pick him up.
Allie attacked the laboratory/pharmacy area with a vengeance. This was her domain, and she wanted it clean and well organized. With her curly brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, she was all business as she threw out the yellowed shelf liners and scrubbed the bottom of the shelves and drawers.
When Steve’s parents, Dr. Bob and Barb Nelson, arrived, Barb teamed up with Allie to clean. My father-in-law, an industrial veterinarian, took a day off from work to help. In preparation for painting, he taped the walls in the front exam room that I decided to convert into a children’s play area. I hauled loads of garbage to the dumpster. In between loads, I made a list for what became an endless series of runs to the hardware store. Fluorescent light bulbs and garbage bags topped it.
Suddenly, a loud crash followed by the sound of breaking glass came from the back of the building. Allie jumped and almost fell off the stepladder. Bob poked his head out of the kids’ room with a concerned look on his face.
“What was that?” he asked.
“I think Dad dropped a light bulb.” I rubbed my forehead with my hand. “Maybe I should get two boxes of light bulbs.” Everyone laughed. I walked to the back with a broom and dustpan.
Upon my return, the lobby buzzed with activity. Blue tape was everywhere, along the doorways, around windows and covering electrical outlets. A stepladder stood in the middle of the lobby with the shelf extended. Debbie sat on the ground next to an opened can of snow-white paint.
My sister and I were not very close growing up. With nine years between us, she was a teenager when I was in grade school. I was likely more of an annoyance than a sister. She married and moved out of our parents’ house after her first year of college. I carried vague memories of her from those years ... watching her get ready for prom, eating Grandmother’s Swedish pancakes with her and fighting over the couch in the den. She always won because of her long fingernails. As adults, we grew closer, and it brought me joy to have her there this day.
“The paint is ready.” Debbie poured a moderate amount
into the two paint trays sitting next to the can. Dad plunged a fluffy pink roller in one tray and placed the tray on the stepladder. He then picked up the ladder, made one step toward the small exam room and put it down.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” Debbie asked.
“I forgot to get a rag.” As he turned away from the ladder, his shoulder caught the corner of the paint tray.
“Dad, the ...” Debbie yelled. The paint tray tumbled down the ladder’s side, landing with a crash. A wave of white paint sprayed over the counter, down the front and onto the floor. The paint tray landed face down on the floor just off the drop cloth.
Debbie and I grabbed a roll of paper towels from the counter and frantically tried to mop up the mess. Dad stood in shock. White speckles covered his work pants and threatened to drip onto his leather work shoes. Allie ran behind the counter for more paper towels. She threw two rolls over the counter into my hands before disappearing into the back.
“I’m sorry, Krissy.”
“No worries, Dad. Debbie and I will have this cleaned up in no time.”
I scooped up the excess paint with my hands and poured it back into the paint tray. Allie gave Dad a towel and told him to clean up before the paint dried. Once he was gone, Debbie and I began to giggle. In the coming days, we often would look at each other and giggle even more.
“I could have predicted this would happen,” she smirked.
I sat back on my heels and squeezed the rag into the bucket. “As soon as we get this cleaned up, I’m going to make a run to the hardware store.” Allie pulled a small notepad and pen from her back pocket. She jotted down a few items on the first page, ripped it out and handed it to me.
“Is she always that prepared?” Debbie asked.
I nodded. “That’s why I hired her. She’s really good.” Allie beamed.
After the paint incident, I made a management decision and re-assigned Dad to plumbing. I like to think of my dad as a modern-day renaissance man. He was a carpenter and roofing contractor first and foremost but also knew the basics of plumbing, welding, masonry and electrical work. Now his skills would be tested at my new clinic.
When I formulated my business plan, most of the money went to equipment, supplies and pharmaceuticals. I allotted a small sum for painting and repair. Since it was a functioning clinic before my rental, I thought most of the work would be cosmetic and rather inexpensive. Instead, we encountered a badly damaged space that required time and money to repair. Both were in short supply.
Chapter 3
Ivan’s Hotspot
As I arrived at the clinic, sounds of football practice echoed in the distance. Cheers punctuated with shrill whistles pierced the morning air. I stood next to my car and watched groups of young men dressed in dirty white practice uniforms run up and down the field. Farther up the hill, the brick buildings of Burnsville High School gleamed in the morning light.
The wall clock read 7:45 when I flipped on the lights in the lobby. The clinic had changed dramatically since that first day. Crisp white walls with blue accents replaced the orange and brown décor of a decade gone by. Wooden chairs with thick blue cushions lined the block walls. Two framed posters of dog and cat breeds hung above the chairs, providing visual interest. These charts were a favorite of my clients who enjoyed finding their pets’ lineage among the illustrations.
A large potted plant, a Norfolk pine that had once been a Christmas tree for Steve and me, sat in front of the waiting room window. When we first moved back to Minnesota from Ohio, we lived in an apartment on the north side of the Twin Cities. The apartment complex outlawed real Christmas trees to prevent fires, so Steve and I hung ornaments and a garland on the potted plant. It reminded me of Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.
I placed my coat and bag in the office closet and checked the answering machine. Unfortunately, there were no messages; business was slow. I set a goal of seeing at least one client a day. Yesterday, the big transaction was a bag of cat food. I still counted it toward the goal.
Walking through the kennel doorway, a dull thud from the front of the building stopped me in my tracks. I hurried up front and saw a man walking across the parking lot with a Doberman by his side. The dog’s silver choke collar sparkled like a fine piece of jewelry.
“Excuse me,” I called out. The man stopped, and the dog instantly sat by his feet on his left. “May I help you?” He turned and walked back toward the building. Again, the dog heeled in perfect unison.
“I thought this was an emergency clinic,” he responded.
“They moved out last month. But I’d be happy to help you.” I smiled and introduced myself, trying to mask my desperation. The man looked familiar. He wore a leather jacket and tweed pants that showed off his athletic body. His kind eyes seemed to twinkle when he smiled, reminding me of Santa Claus.
Introducing himself as Rich Harris, he showed me a circular area of moist, pink skin without any hair on Ivan’s rear end. Rich explained that Ivan suffered from hotspots, a staph infection of the skin. He had licked the last one into a bloody mess. The poor dog had to wear an Elizabethan or e-collar for weeks while it healed. Like most animals, he hated the big lampshade on his head. He ran into the door-jambs and chipped off the paint. Rich pulled up his sleeve and looked at the gold Rolex strapped to his wrist. He wanted the dog treated before the infection got worse, but he had to be at work by 9.
I explained that my technician would not arrive for another hour. If he wouldn’t mind helping me, I’d be happy to look at his dog. He agreed and walked into the lobby with Ivan heeling in perfect position. Ivan’s eyes darted anxiously around the room as Rich filled-out the new-client questionnaire. Ivan placed his head on the counter and whined. He knew a veterinary clinic from a mile away and wanted no part of it.
I escorted them into the large pharmacy/laboratory area. The extra space in the main room, gave me plenty of room to work on the big dog. Ivan stood like a statue for the physical examination. I started at his head and worked my way to his tail. Thank goodness, I did not find additional hotspots.
“OK, Buddy, you need to lie down,” I instructed the dog. Ivan continued to look at his owner without moving. Rich laughed and commanded him to lie down in German. On the word “platz” he reluctantly lay down with the hotspot buried beneath his body.
“He’s such a brat sometimes,” Rich joked. Together, we rolled him over. A low rumble emanated from Ivan’s throat. I was glad I had his rear end. Rich shook his head and told him to knock it off. Ivan lifted his lip, looked at his owner and then let it drop into place again.
With Ivan on the proper side, I clipped off all the hair around the hotspot. When I tried to clip the hair right on the margin of the hotspot, the large dog raised his head and growled again. Rich quickly pulled Ivan’s head back into his lap. The faint smell of men’s cologne filled the room. Ivan wiggled his nose and sneezed. This part always hurts. Slime from the moist infection gums the hair down to the skin. I sprayed some lube on the clipper and continued. The gooey hair piled up on the top of the metal blade as I worked.
“You and Ivan seem so familiar,” I replied once the clip job was complete. I picked up a piece of gauze soaked in iodine disinfectant. “Have we met before?” Rich nodded and smiled.
“You replaced his I.V. catheter several months ago,” he replied.
Now I remembered this dog. Rich and his wife, Linda, brought Ivan in for a new catheter. Ivan suffered from severe vomiting and bloody diarrhea and couldn’t keep anything down, even water. His regular vet placed a catheter and treated him with I.V. fluids during the day. At night, Linda administered his fluids. After two days, Ivan ripped-out the catheter when Rich left him unattended to answer the phone. Rich returned to find saline dripped on the carpeting. Blood oozed from Ivan’s leg where the catheter had been. I was the unlucky veterinarian who got to reset it.
Schutzen-trained dogs always make me nervous. Schutzen for dogs is like martial arts for people. These dogs learn how to defend themselves
and their people. The German program starts with obedience and then progresses to protection work. After the basics – sit and down, or “sitz” and “platz,” – the dogs learn bite and attack skills. The bad guy wears a steel arm protector marked with a target over the forearm. Over time, the dog learns to clamp on to the “target” and hold until directed to release by the handler. At the end of the program, many graduates go on to a career in crime prevention.
Rich had held Ivan for me, while I placed a new catheter. I remembered working on his front leg, while his enormous teeth hovered inches above my hand. The dog had growled at me then, too. Linda had assured me he was only talking and that he would not bite unless commanded. I did not share her certainty. The dog’s intense stare had made me feel like a sitting duck.
“Oh, now I remember,” I said. I stopped scrubbing the hotspot and rinsed the area with water. Ivan looked at me with his big brown eyes. The cool water brought relief from the itchy infection. I blotted the area dry and sprayed a topical anesthetic over the inflamed skin. Ivan flinched in response. The medicine burned at first but numbed the area in a few seconds. He smelled like a medicine chest. It overpowered his owner’s cologne.
Ivan licked his lips, exposing his large canine teeth. He swung his head toward the hotspot with his tongue sticking out of his mouth. Rich grabbed his snout and pushed it to the side. I jerked my hand out of the way. Ivan licked the air, narrowly missing his intended target. His neck muscles bulged beneath his slick black coat as he tried again. I distracted him with an ear rub until the medicine took effect. He moaned with delight and closed his eyes.
While I prepared the dog’s discharge medicine, Rich let Ivan off lead to explore. He ignored the medicine cabinets, but enjoyed sniffing the racks of prescription food. Our clinic birds fascinated him. He stood in front of their cages with his eyes darting from one cage to another. The first cage held Bongo, a bright green Amazon parrot with a yellow head, who suffered from horrible eyesight. She stayed high on her perch away from Ivan’s eager nose.
Coated With Fur: A Vet's Life Page 2