Coated With Fur: A Vet's Life
Page 8
At the sight of exposed bone, blood rushed from my head to my toes. My heart pounded. Surroundings faded away, and I crumpled over the sink. Allie grabbed my left arm. The room spun. I felt my body slide down the cabinets and onto the floor.
A distant voice told me to put my head between my knees. I pulled my legs toward my abdomen and leaned forward. The room kept spinning. For a moment, the pain disappeared. I felt like I was watching myself from afar. “Take deep breaths,” the voice ordered. I closed my eyes and hugged my legs. “Inhale, hold it ... exhale.” I tried to follow the commands. Slowly, the sense of panic left my body. I realized that I was sitting on the floor but had no idea how I got there.
“Wow,” I said when I finally opened my eyes.
“Yeah, I thought you were going down for sure.” Allie smiled. “You looked like those hunters who tell us all the gory details of killing an animal and then faint when they see stitches on their own dog.” She let go of my arm, the one without visible bone. “I’ve never seen you so white.”
“I felt shaky but OK until I saw the damage,” I said. “Allie, it’s different when it’s your own body.”
“Well, don’t look again.” Allie placed a folding chair next to me. I rested my injured arm on it. With the return of reason, I kept it higher than my heart. Allie retrieved two ice packs from the freezer, wrapped them in a towel and placed the compress on my arm. I wrapped an extra towel around my shoulders. The ice packs and ordeal made me shiver. Allie handed me a can of Sprite with orders to drink all of it. The soda made me colder still.
Our normally boisterous birds sat quietly in their cages with their eyes fixed on me, sensing that something was wrong. Bongo called out to me with the only phrase she knew, “hello, how are youuuuuuuu?” She always drug out the word “you,” which mimicked me pretty well.
“Not so good, Bongo bird,” I answered.
Genny poked her head out of the office doorway. She was not used to seeing me on the ground. She sniffed my lab coat until she reached the stains. The scent of blood and mangled tissue made her raise her lips and expose her teeth. She used her front feet to roll the lab coat into a ball, with the soiled area buried in the middle, and pushed it under the counter. With that mess cleaned up, she hopped over to me and rubbed my leg. True to one of her nicknames, she was nothing if not a helper cat.
Minnesota requires 10 days of observation at an approved facility for a non-vaccinated dog who bites a human. I did not believe that punishment fit the crime. Out of concern for my wellbeing and because of Lucifer’s remarkable strength and proven aggression, I recommended euthanasia and examination of his brain for rabies. Unfortunately, the rescue group did not agree. They thought they could rehabilitate the dog and find it a home. They wanted to “evaluate” Lucifer for themselves.
Lucifer was a loaded gun waiting to explode. It was not a matter of if, but when, he would attack again. Carol ignored my pleas and took the dog back to the rescue center. Her response left me dumbfounded.
After 15 minutes of ice, my whole arm felt numb. Before I left for the hospital, I had to flush the wounds. It is fundamental medicine. I thought of my mentor, a colorful but remarkably skilled veterinary surgeon named Lance Magnuson. Every time we worked on infected wounds, he relished imparting the maxim “the solution to pollution is dilution.” Years later, I still heard his words rattle around my head every time I treated a wound. Now my arm needed a thorough cleaning. I winced at the pain to come.
As I leaned over the sink, Allie thrust the end of the drip set into the wound on top of my arm. She opened the valve wide on the bag of fluids mixed with iodine. The yellow fluid rushed into the wound. Sharp waves of pain radiated up my arm. I gritted my teeth and clenched the counter. My knuckles turned white. My body trembled.
“Are you OK?” Allie asked. I nodded without looking up. Flushing out the wound was critical to a successful outcome. I simply had to bear the pain. Bite wounds are like icebergs –̶ the real danger hides below the surface. The mechanical action of a bite rips and destroys the tissue below. Lucifer tore my skin away from the underlying muscle and bone and crushed the muscle. The yellow fluid poured into the wound and pocketed below the skin. The pain was excruciating. With new understanding, I felt pity for my patients that have endured this procedure.
Finally, the bag emptied. Allie wrapped my arm with cast padding. Next she applied a layer of gauze followed by a product called vet wrap. She chose a bright color so I would get lots of sympathy. She held my jacket as I slid my left arm in and then hung the right side over my shoulder.
“I’d feel better if you’d let me drive you to the hospital,” Allie said with emphasis.
“You need to stay here and take care of the clients.” I winked at her. “I’m fine ... now that I can’t see it anymore.” Allie was undeterred. She studied my face intently. “But if you wouldn’t mind, call Steve and let him know what happened. Try to low-key this. I know he’s going to be very worried.”
An hour later, I sat on a bed surrounded by plain beige curtains in Fairview’s emergency room. X-rays of my arm revealed significant soft tissue swelling. With gratitude, I saw no damage to the bones and no foreign bodies. I was lucky that Lucifer did not leave any of his teeth embedded in my arm.
The ER doc had them flush my wounds again. It has always seemed that veterinarians get superior training to our human counterparts in bacteriology and the like. This flush was much less invasive, and its therapeutic efficacy questionable. The nurse held the end of the drip set over the wound and let the fluid drip onto it. When I encouraged her to place the end inside the puncture hole, she refused. She said this was how they always did it, and her decisive gestures told me that arguing was pointless. It was obvious this nurse never scrubbed with Lance.
When she left the room, I replaced the ice pack over my arm and listened to the noises around me. It sounded just like my veterinary hospital, minus barking. The familiar din comforted me. I tried to listen to the conversations and figure out the emergencies to keep my mind off my own injury. Suddenly, the curtain of my partition slid back on the metal rod. In walked Steve dressed in a suit with a green tie hanging loosely from his neck.
He put his arms around me and held me close. Tears streamed down my face. As soon as I saw him, I could no longer control my emotions. He caressed my hair, kissed my forehead and waited for the tears to subside.
“I’m fine Sweets.” I removed the ice pack from my arm and wiped my face with a tissue. “I’m just a little emotional right now.”
“Understandably so,” he responded, staring straight into my eyes. “How did this happen?”
Before I could answer, the emergency doc returned with a prescription for antibiotics. He chose Augmentin, the human version of my favorite antibiotic for bite wounds. He warned me to take it easy for a few days. He hoped the numbness in my pinkie and ring fingers would go away when the swelling decreased, but reminded me there were no guarantees. Lucifer might have permanently damaged the nerves to those fingers. One of my worries was my future as a surgeon. Steve now understood what hung in the balance.
“Nerve damage?” he asked as the doctor left the room.
“We’ll talk on the way home,” I said.
Chapter 10
Lucifer
The next morning I awoke with a grotesquely large arm. Sizeable bruises covered my skin. Blood oozed from the two deepest puncture wounds, soaking the bandage. Overnight, the swelling spread from my forearm down to my fingers. I had been bitten in the past – an occupational hazard – but nothing like this. My pinkie and ring fingers had no sensation. I was scared. Just months into owning a clinic, my career might be over.
All night long, images of Lucifer haunted me. His brown eyes pierced the night like an evil spirit. I felt his gaze on me. I turned, and there he was with the worthless muzzles jangling around his neck. A second later, he transformed into a being from another world as he flew at me. I woke up kicking the covers. It was an awful night.
The rescue group evaluated Lucifer for potential adoption and decided against it. They came to the conclusion that he was an aggressive alpha male. They felt a very large, dominant man who could put him in his place was the only kind of person who could live safely with him. He could not be trusted with women, children or other animals. Ideally, they wanted a man who lived in the countryside without any other pets or visitors. Because finding this kind of a situation was unlikely, the group relented and requested euthanasia for Lucifer.
Five days later, they brought him in wearing two heavy-duty muzzles. I slipped the noose of a rabies pole around his neck and tightened it down. With some feeling back in my right hand, I pinned him against the doorjamb. Carol held the door partially closed to protect Allie as she injected Lucifer’s back leg. He assumed a defiant stance and growled at me. Saliva dripped from his lips onto the floor. Hatred filled his eyes. They seemed to glow from his head.
When the sedative took effect, Lucifer slumped onto the floor. Carol knelt over him and wept. Although she knew that euthanasia was the only viable option, she felt guilty for not being able to save Lucifer. She looked so small and frail next to the massive dog. I was thankful he never went after her. His bite would have snapped her arm like a dry twig. She left before the final injection.
Allie and I worked quickly to finish the procedure. I shaved his front leg to expose the skin. Allie placed both hands around his elbow and held off the vein. I injected the pink euthanasia fluid in one smooth motion. Lucifer took one last deep breath; then his heart stopped. He lay on the floor with his eyes open, still staring at me, piercing my soul. I shuddered. Lucifer was defiant, even in death.
Without saying a word, we slid a thick plastic body bag under his rear end. I listened to his heart with the stethoscope. I wanted to make sure he was really gone. At my word, Allie removed the muzzles and pulled the bag up over his head. She gathered the ends and twisted them together in her hands. Once the bag was closed, she applied tape with a long tag. With a thick marker she wrote “Lucifer” followed by “Rabies Suspect.” I helped her place him in the large cooler.
Later that evening, Steve and I drove north from Burnsville with Lucifer’s body in the trunk. We dropped it off at the University of Minnesota, College of Veterinary Medicine Diagnostic Lab (D-Lab). A veterinary student wearing dark brown coveralls (my class color was navy blue) met us at the door. The D-Lab would remove Lucifer’s brain and send it to the state public health lab for further testing. After reviewing the paperwork, the student placed Lucifer in the walk-in cooler. She was blissfully unaware of the danger this dog once presented and the anxiety he wrought. To her, it was just another specimen headed to the cooler.
“You should have the results in about 10 days.” She handed me a receipt. “Thanks for bringing him in.”
Steve and I got back into our car without exchanging words. He watched me wiggle my fingers and touch the wounds on my arm. “Krissy, I have a special treat for you,” he said.
“What kind of treat?” I asked.
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” was his answer.
Instead of driving south from the D-Lab back to Burnsville, he drove east through the Minnesota State Fair Grounds toward Como Park. The Veterinary College is adjacent to the fair grounds, which was always problematic when we needed to park during the fair. For two weeks each year, the site buzzed with activity as Minnesotans celebrated all manner of food on a stick. Now the grounds were desolate; not even a stray cat was visible. Steve slowed the car to five miles below the speed limit just to be safe because the police often set up traps on the main street.
We crept over the enormous speed bumps and through the main gate. On the other side of the gate, we spotted a squad car parked along Snelling Road. Some things never change. Steve and I smiled at each other as we turned onto the busy street.
We used to take long walks around Como Park when we were dating. One glorious summer night, we found a leather wallet along the walking path. When Steve picked it up, the wallet flew out of his hand. Two teenage boys, one with a string wrapped around his hand, grabbed their bellies as they howled with delight from behind a bush. The young rascals had pulled a fast one on us. Como Park is a tranquil oasis in the City of St. Paul. Hand-in-hand, we – like many couples – loved to walk the trails around the lake.
On this night, at the corner of Lexington and Larpenteur, Steve turned left instead of right toward the park. Moments later, a familiar strip mall came into view. We were going to Ol’ Mexico, one of our favorite date spots. Over chips and salsa we reminisced about some of the adventures we had shared, including our first date.
Steve and I met at a veterinary hospital. I was there to observe surgeon Lance Magnuson at the invitation of my friend and veterinary classmate, Katie. Years before, Steve started working for Lance between semesters in college. I chatted with Steve and tried not to stammer as he prepared an animal for surgery.
Steve was tall, dark and handsome. His tangible compassion for animals sealed the deal. I left the clinic in love. Unfortunately, on the ride home, Katie told me that Steve had a girlfriend. My heart sank.
Whether debriefing after a test in vet school or in matters of love, Katie was confident in her position. But she was not always correct. Steve did not have a girlfriend! In fact, about five months later, we reconnected and he wondered if I would like to carpool to work. Girls do not always get a second chance, so I did everything in my power to attract his attention. Each day, I stood for a long time at the mirror curling my hair and putting on makeup. The fact that I would cover it up with a surgical cap and mask did not matter. The more I got to know Steve, the more I liked him. Daydreams filled my thoughts … if and when would he ask me out?
I have always been driven and worked hard for what I wanted. Three weeks after we started carpooling, I decided to see if I could speed things along. I called Steve on a Saturday afternoon to tell him I could not carpool the next day. After a few minutes of idle chatter, he asked me what I was doing for the evening. Here was my chance. I took a deep breath. “Nothing,” I replied, my heart racing. “I just moved into a new apartment, so I’ll probably work on the curtains and watch TV.”
“You shouldn’t stay home on a Saturday night,” he responded. “You should go out and have fun.” I jumped off the sofa with delight. My plan worked!
“Well, I would if I had someone to go with.” I clung to the phone hoping beyond hope he would ask me out.
“Ah,” he paused. I crossed my fingers and toes. “Well, I need to go, Kris. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He sounded nervous and hung up. That was it. No invitation. I felt my heart sink again. For the next 24 hours I dissected our conversation. Everything seemed to be going perfectly. What went wrong? Perhaps I had been too aggressive and scared him off. Perhaps I sounded too desperate. I worried I would never get a chance to date him. Thank goodness, Steve had other ideas.
After our shift ended on Sunday, Steve asked me if I’d like to listen to some jazz music at the Music Festival on Cedar Avenue. I agreed, of course, thrilled beyond words that he asked me out. Unfortunately, all we could find at the festival were country-western bands catering to bikers. Our jeans and polo shirts s
tuck out among the leather and studs. Neither one of us felt particularly safe, so we decided on an alternate plan.
“How about dinner?” Steve suggested since the music was a bust. “I know a great place on the river by St. Anthony Falls.”
Close to the lock and dam, this had never been a great neighborhood. We drove down a dark abandoned street that was eerily quiet. From the glow of a harvest moon, we could just make out the boarded-up windows of this once-thriving hotspot. Some first date. With two strikes against him, Steve panicked. The only way to salvage this date was to spend some serious money on dinner.
At 8:45 p.m., we walked into a French café named Yvette’s. The manager escorted us to a romantic table on the patio. We sat next to the sidewalk with a beautiful view of the river and city skyline. The falls rumbled in the background.
Halfway through the meal, two homeless men approached our table from the street. They smelled rancid. They stopped on the other side of the railing that separated the tables from the street. At first, they just looked at us.
“Get out,” the taller one ordered, slurring his words. The smell of alcohol clung to his breath.
“Excuse me?” Steve answered.
“I told you to get out. We live here, and you don’t. So ...” He stopped talking and stared at me. He raised his hand and pointed at my face. I leaned back in my chair, away from this strange man. I grew up in the country, on a hobby farm with lots of animals. Homeless people from the city were not part of any experience I could draw on for insight. I was unsure how to respond or what to do. “Hey,” he drawled on before I could react, “she’s pretty.”
“I know,” Steve replied. “That’s why I asked her out.” My heart jumped for joy, but I was still scared and uncertain. “As soon as we finish dinner, we will leave. I’m sorry that we came into your home uninvited,” Steve continued, trying to placate them. The men looked at each other but did not leave. To my horror, they moved even closer to me.