Coated With Fur: A Vet's Life

by Kristen Nelson

  “OK, move it along,” a voice commanded from across the street. Two police officers approached the pair and escorted them away. After they were gone, Steve apologized for the evening. I could see the agony on his face for everything that had gone wrong. He felt horrible about the evening. I, on the other hand, liked how it was progressing.

  “I just wanted to spend time with you,” I answered and smiled at him so my dimples showed. “I really didn’t care what we did.” Steve reached across the table and took my hand in his. My whole body exploded with a rush. It was the perfect moment and perfect ending to a memorable first date.

  Now, enjoying dinner at Ol’ Mexico, Steve kept me thinking about the fun and silly things we did when we were dating. By the time we left the restaurant, I forgot all about Lucifer and the ordeal of euthanizing him. For the first time since the attack, I slept peacefully through the night.

  Chapter 11

  Cosmo Saves Us

  With only a day to go before the big Wisconsin hunt, Bridget’s paw was still a problem. I listed her as questionable for the trip. Since her last visit, I had left the wound open under a light protective wrap. Joe and Sally tended to her paw faithfully and called me with updates. Today was crunch time. The hunting party departed tomorrow morning.

  The entire Smith family escorted Bridget into the hospital. She wore a freezer bag over her bandage to protect it from the slushy conditions. The night before, a light blanket of snow had fallen. The morning sun melted the beautiful white flakes into a gray slush that coated everything.

  Some hunting dogs spend their lives in a kennel, never venturing indoors. Their owners consider them tools for the hunt, nothing more. They are a commodity – valuable ones – but still just that. I could spot these kennel dogs every time because they basked in the attention they received at the clinic. We showered them with hugs, reassuring pats and biscuits. Some of the owners told us to knock it off. They believed that spoiling the dog with attention would ruin their desire to hunt. To their mind, a dog could not be a pet and also perform well in the field. As one trainer with a chrome whistle hanging around his neck told me, “Once they sleep on the couch, they’re ruined forever.”

  Bridget Smith threw this theory right out the window. She lived indoors with her human family on a lovely wooded lot. As the first “baby” of the family, she enjoyed life to the fullest. She went everywhere with Joe and Sally. At Christmas, a stocking hung above the fireplace with her name on it. She even got to sleep on the bed when Joe was away on business.

  But when Bridget hit the field, she was all business. She pointed, flushed and retrieved birds with gusto. Her desire to please was remarkable. She let nothing stand between her and the bird. I wished that trainer with the chrome whistle could see her in action. The strong bond Bridget shared with her family made her an unbelievable hunting dog. She would do anything to please them. Now this endearing trait concerned me. I knew she would hunt through the pain of her foot no matter what. I would have to be super cautious with her.

  Bridget lay on her side with her head in Joe’s lap as I removed the bandage. The surface of the central pad had improved greatly. It was thicker and firm to the touch. The actual wound was now about half as long as the original gash.

  “So far, so good,” I announced after inspecting the surface of her paw. Joe patted her head again. All of the sensation had returned to my right hand after the incident with Lucifer, and I no longer took the use of fingers for granted. With my thumb and index finger I gently spread open the edges of the wound. The original hole extended deep into the tissue, almost slicing the pad in half. To my relief, pink healthy granulation tissue now filled the void.

  “Much better,” I stated, still examining her paw. “The wound had healed from the inside out like I’d hoped. It’s about 75 percent closed.” I put down her paw. “Just the surface remains to heal.”

  “Does that mean she can go?” Joe asked.

  “I think so,” I answered. He beamed from ear to ear. I warned Joe and Sally that they’d have to take special precautions to protect the foot. Bridget would need to wear a protective bootie with a non-skid sole on her foot. I wanted them to inspect her paw every two hours. If the wound deepened, she would have to retire for the day.

  Sensing Joe’s excitement, Bridget sat up and licked his face. The entire family hugged her. Joe and Sally always carried a first-aid kit in their pack. They would add a few dog-specific items, just in case. And they promised to bring her back to camp if the wound worsened.

  “Joe, one last thing before you go,” I said. The couple turned to look at me. “No more pad lacerations right before the big trip. I don’t need that kind of pressure in my life.” The entire Smith family laughed. They valued Bridget’s health and well-being more than anything. I knew they would be hyper-vigilant with her on the trip. “Have a wonderful time.”

  “You’re supposed to wish us a successful hunt,” Sally responded.

  “Sorry, but I can’t do that. I always cheer for the animals.” I smiled. “No offense, but I hope you come home birdless.” The family laughed again.

  When I was young, maybe 5 or 6, my Dad took me duck hunting. I set up a hospital in the bow of the boat with blankets, bits of bread and water. When a dog brought a bird in, I dressed its wounds and tried to save it. I wanted to save them all. I still do.

  The other men in the group gave my Dad a hard time about my “hospital.” They weren’t too excited about having a little girl along in the first place. Prior to the “hospital,” I tried scaring away the ducks with non-stop chatter. When Dad ended that rebellion, I quietly gathered the medical tools in the bow, hoping to save any bird that was shot. For my Dad and his friends, the “hospital” was the last straw. I never received another invitation to hunt.

  Bridget pranced out of the building wearing a new bandage and plastic bag. The mail lady watched her go as she entered the building. Ann Delaney loved coming into our office and seeing all the animals. When Romeo the bird was in the lobby, she always stayed an extra minute to talk to him. He responded with chirps and squeaks.

  “What’s wrong with that dog?” she asked as she placed a stack of letters on the counter.

  “She lacerated the big middle pad on her foot,” I replied as I picked up the stack of mail.

  “This Norfolk pine looks sick.” She pointed to the plant. “You should really move it away from the window to a more protected area. They like tropical conditions.” She readjusted the leather strap from the mailbag as her glasses fogged in the clinic’s warm air.

  “I did not know that,” I said. “We’ll move it right away.”

  Ann nodded and headed out the door.

  An official-looking letter with the return address of Minnesota State Public Health Laboratory lay on the top of the stack. I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter. The results of the fluorescent antibody test for Lucifer were negative. He did not have rabies! Finally, some good news involving that wretched dog.

  Buoyed by the news, I opened another official-looking envelope from a legal firm. “Dear Dr. Nelson,” the letter began. “On behalf of my client, I am immediately ordering you to cease and desist using the name Minnesota Veterinary Center.” I continued to read in disbelief. Another clinic with a similar name threatened to sue me if I did not change the name of my hospital.

  Running through my mind was a tally of the precious money I spent on a sign, letterhead, business cards and the like. After selecting the name “Minnesota Veterinary Center,” I checked with the secretary of state to make sure the name was available. When it was, I paid the fee and registered it. Why would this clinic on the opposite side of the Twin Cities do this? After all, there were other veterinary entities with “Minnesota” in their names.

  I called my attorney for advice. He suggested changing the name to avoid a legal fight. In his opinion, this choice offered the path of least resistance since the clinic was so new. I decided against it. After all the time and money I had put i
nto the name, I didn’t want to change it now. Nor could I afford to. I held my ground and asked him to respond with a stern letter.

  As a young business owner, I had already had people try to take advantage of me. One company sent an unordered box of exam gloves to the clinic. Later, we received a bill for more than $200 from the company. A box of these gloves typically goes for less than $10.

  In addition, sales reps descended on the clinic like vultures on roadkill. They showed up without appointments and referred to me as “honey,” “missy” and “dear.” When I refused to speak with them, they stormed out of the clinic upset at my ostensibly rude behavior.

  My scariest incident happened with a man selling office supplies. He wore a black wool coat over a pinstripe suit with a bright red tie. He slicked his hair down with a flourish over his forehead and topped off the outfit with a gold chain on his right wrist. He placed his briefcase on the counter and pulled out an assortment of brochures even though Allie told him we weren’t interested. He refused to leave until he spoke with the owner.

  I marched into the lobby, steaming. “My name is Dr. Nelson,” I announced. “I am the owner of this clinic, and I am not interested in anything you have to sell. Please leave now.” The man did not budge.

  “Missy, you’re only saying that because you don’t know what I have to offer,” he countered.

  “Leave now and never come back,” I said icily. “I will not buy anything from you.”

  “Honey, I love a challenge.” He smiled. “I’m not leaving until you buy your office supplies from me.” He looked at me with an almost sinister gaze.

  “Fine, I’ll have the police escort you out then.” I turned and headed out of the lobby into the pharmacy area. Allie closed the door behind me. As I picked up the receiver, we heard a loud creak. The salesman opened the door!

  “Let Cosmo out,” I whispered to Allie. She hurried off. “I told you to leave,” I yelled, facing him with the receiver in my hand. “Take one more step, and I’m calling the police.”

  “Sweetie,” he smiled at me. “There is no need to do that.” He froze in the doorway with his hand on the doorknob. “Now let me show you how my products will help your business.”

  Inside the first run, Cosmo, a pit bull snoozed on a blanket. His massive muscles bulged beneath his tawny brown coat. The large dog had lacerated his right hock a month before. It became infected and was not healing. Today his owner had dropped him off for surgical debridement of the wound. Allie opened the gate to his run.

  “Come, Cosmo.” She patted her hip. He sprang to his feet and bounded over the kennel threshold. Allie ran to the pharmacy with Cosmo tight on her heels. The youngster loved to play. He loped behind her with a silly grin. His tongue hung out the side of his mouth and dripped saliva on the floor.

  When they reached the pharmacy, Cosmo skidded to a halt in the middle of the room. The smile on his face vanished. He stared at the salesman without blinking. The hair on his back stood up. I walked over to his side and put my hand on him.

  “Go now, or I’ll release the dog,” I told the salesman. As if on cue, Cosmo pulled his lips back to display gleaming white teeth. A low growl rumbled from his throat. Animals are amazing. This happy-go-lucky pup transformed into a guard dog at the critical moment.

  The man retreated behind the door and slammed it shut. We stood frozen in place until the doorbell dinged. I threw my arms around Cosmo’s neck and hugged him. He turned his head and licked the side of my face with his massive tongue. Allie scratched his back with both hands. He arched his back and closed his eyes from the attention.

  “I’m sure glad he was here.” Allie continued to scratch his back. “Did you see the look on that guy’s face? You scared him witless, Cosmo.”

  “Serves him right,” I said. I pushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Why do some men try to take advantage of us? No means no.”

  “Especially when the woman saying it has a pit bull waiting in back,” Allie added. We smiled and looked at Cosmo. He returned the gaze for a few seconds with his ears perked forward, then relaxed into a big doggy grin. The salesman never returned.

  Chapter 12

  Blake’s Christmas Puppy

  With Christmas right around the corner, our phone rang off the hook. People wanted last-minute appointments. Some animals needed vaccinations before the boarding kennel would take them. Others needed health certificates for travel out of state. But the majority of people scheduled examinations for pets that were Christmas presents. My next appointment was a new puppy exam – something I thoroughly enjoy.

  Blake Thomas, a 4th-grader, wanted a puppy more than anything in the world. He checked out books from the elementary school library to learn how to train a puppy. Every week, he saved a portion of his allowance for toys, a collar and a matching leash. Blake’s mother, Jennifer, decided he was finally old enough to care for a pet. This year, he would get a puppy for Christmas. The single mother and son purchased a Bernese mountain dog, Captain, from a local breeder. He looked like a black teddy bear with rust and white highlights.

  Captain wiggled back and forth on the exam table as I entered the room. Every time I looked into his eyes, his tongue popped out of his mouth to lick me. The faint smell of puppy breath filled the room. Jennifer handed me his papers. The breeder had dewormed Captain and given him the first set of vaccinations. All he needed today was a physical examination.

  “Would you like to help me?” I looked at Blake and waited for his response. He jumped off the chair and knocked his backpack to the ground. “I want you to hold Captain’s head so I can examine his eyes and ears.” The boy stood on his tiptoes and put his hands of both sides of Captain’s face. I looked down the pup’s ears and into his beautiful brown eyes. Next, I opened his mouth with both hands. Small sparkling baby teeth lined the jaws. The pup tried to chew on my fingers.

  “No, you don’t, young man,” I admonished. “Those deciduous teeth are too sharp for that.”

  “You’re right about that, Dr. Nelson,” Jennifer agreed. “Blake, honey, show Dr. Nelson your arms.” He pulled back the sleeves of his winter jacket. Long red scratches covered his hands and forearms.

  “Oh my, it looks like Captain thinks you’re a chew toy. You shouldn’t let him chew on you like that,” I said. Blake let his sleeves slide down into place and looked at the floor.

  “I’ve told Blake over and over again not to play rough like that, but he ignores me,” Jennifer said. “Any suggestions?”

  “Rub a little lemon juice on Blake’s hands and arms,” I responded quietly. “Most dogs hate the bitter taste of lemon.” Jennifer nodded and ran her hand down Captain’s back. I listened to the puppy’s heart with the stethoscope that always hung around my neck. When finished, I decided to do something special for Blake.

  When I was 4 years old, our family veterinarian noticed me peering over the table as he examined our pet. Babbette, our miniature black poodle, sat on the table with her eyes focused on the door to the waiting room. Babbette hated her annual trip to the vet’s office. Dr. Anderson spoke to her in soothing tones as he looked in her eyes and ears. She panted and eyed him nervously. When he pulled a stethoscope out of the drawer in the table, Babbie ran to the end of the table. He plucked her from the air just before she hit the ground.

  “She certainly is a feisty dog,” he commented, returning her to the table. His salt-and-pepper hair reminded me of a schnauzer I saw in his waiting room.

  “And she bites sometimes, too,” I added.

  “That’s only when you bother her, Krissy,” my mom added. “When she goes behind the couch, she wants to be left alone.” Dr. Anderson looked at my mom and smiled. As the father of three boys, he knew all about kids. Even though he was perfectly capable of handling Babbie by himself, Dr. Anderson asked me to hold her.

  I stood on my tiptoes and placed my hands around the poodle’s neck. She panted at an even faster rate than before. When he finished with Babbie’s vaccinations, he invite
d my family to the back of the clinic to see the animals. I poked my finger through the cage doors and petted the dogs and cats inside. One handsome orange tabby licked my finger.

  “You have a way with animals, young lady,” Dr. Anderson stated. He looked so impressive in his white lab coat. “Thanks for helping me with your dog.” I beamed and looked at the floor.

  “Krissy, thank Dr. Anderson for giving us a tour.” My mom was diligent about manners.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled, still looking at the floor. When I saw him leave the room, I turned to my mother and pulled on her purse. “Mom, when I grow up, I’m going to be a veterinarian like Dr. Anderson.”

  “That’s nice, dear,” she responded while rummaging for the car keys.

  “No, Mom, I really mean it. I’m going to be a veterinarian.” She stopped and looked at me with her hand still inside the purse. “I said that’s nice; now button your jacket. Babbie wants to go home.” I trailed behind her through the door. I knew she didn’t believe me, but that didn’t dampen my spirits. On that day, in that exam room, I decided to become a vet. Now, 28 years later, a diploma from the University of Minnesota, College of Veterinary Medicine, hung on the wall in my own waiting room. The dream had come true!

  I saw the same spark in Blake and wanted to encourage him as Dr. Anderson had me.

  “Would you like to listen to Captain’s heart?” I asked. His eyes widened. He nodded his head like a bobblehead doll. I placed the tips of the stethoscope in Blake’s ears and held the bell over Captain’s heart. “Captain’s heart sounds like a loud lub, dub, lub dub,” I instructed. “Do you hear that?” He smiled and nodded. After a minute, he removed the tips from his ears with both hands.