Jeff Wells - All My Patients Have Tales: Favorite Stories from a Vets Practice

All My Patients Have Tales

ALSO BY JEFF WELLS

A Veterinarians Handbook for Horse Husbands

Favorite Stories from a Vets Practice

Jeff Wells, D.V.M.

St. Martins PressNew York

ALL MY PATIENTS HAVE TALES . Copyright 2006, 2009 by Jeff Wells. Illustrations copyright 2006 by June Camerer. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Book design by Ruth Lee-Mui

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Wells, Jeff, D.V.M.
All my patients have tales : favorite stories from a vets practice / Jeff Wells.1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-53739-5
ISBN-10: 0-312-53739-5
1. VeterinariansAnecdotes. I. Title.
SF745.W46 2009
636.089092dc22

2008035868

Originally published in the United States in somewhat different form by Hadley, Inc.

First St. Martins Press Edition: April 2009

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

In Memory of My Father

A special thanks to all the folks who made this book possible and helped along the way: Mary Anne Mier, Rebecca Finkle, Jenny Hancey, Jenny Ramsey, and Mike Daniels.

All My Patients Have Tales

Mrs. Perkins was methodically explaining the symptoms that her new cat, Henry, was experiencing. Although she hadnt had him long enough to know him well, she said it was obvious he wasnt feeling up to par. Mrs. Perkins was a vibrant blonde in her early thirties, with the typical Norwegian Dakota accent. Her husband traveled a lot for his job, and she was elated to have a fuzzy new companion.

She looked me up and down skeptically, clearly evaluating the new guy on the block. I had been out of veterinary school for only a few months. Im sure it was more apparent than I would have wanted to admit that I was still a little nervous about every case that walked through the door, afraid that I might not be able to handle the situation or that I might misdiagnose the ailment of a beloved pet.

I just picked him up from the Humane Society two days ago and he was fine then, dontcha know, Mrs. Perkins began. Then last night, he began to howl when he went to use the litter box. It was the most horrible noise I have ever heard a kitty make. Youve just got to help him.

Even though I was a novice, I had a pretty good idea what was afflicting the recently adopted feline. Do you know why he ended up at the Humane Society, Mrs. Perkins?

She pondered for a moment before responding. You betcha, I remember nowthey said he was urinating on the owners carpet the last couple weeks.

These were the classic signs of a urinary infection, and the howling indicated that a bladder stone was now blocking Henrys urethra, making it nearly impossible for him to empty his bladder. I would need to palpate the bladder to see how full it was and take an X ray to determine the exact location of the blockage. Henry was still in the blue plastic carrier that Mrs. Perkins brought him in. I set it on the Formica exam table between us.

I opened the metal-grate door and began to ease my hand in to get hold of the patient. My hand was almost to the cats head when his new owner remembered an important piece of information. Oh, Doctor, I almost forgotHenry is practically feral. You cant pet him or pick him up. I had to coax him into the carrier with food and slam the door. This was definitely information I could have used earlier! Now I stood frozen, with my arm elbow-deep in the cage of an uncivil feline. On instinct, my hand began to pull back, but it was too late. A sharp pain shot up my arm, and the familiar sensation of warm blood washed over my palm. Henry had sunk his teeth into my index finger.

A white furry tornado then spun out the door of the carrier, tearing at my forearm as it made an escape. Henry hit the floor at a dead run and slid on the linoleum tile as he rounded the corner, disappearing through the doorway of the exam room. Still in shock from my own injuries, I bent over, holding my damaged limb against my abdomen, and held back words that would be unacceptable in rural South Dakota. Mrs. Perkins began to tear up. Oh, Henry! Please dont let him get hurt or escape outdoors, she pleaded. Hes so fragile.

This statement brought me back to my senses and I began to imagine how upset Mrs. Perkins would be if Henry did manage to make it outside or got hurt trying. I took off after the frightened feline, temporarily forgetting my shredded hand.

Henry had made it into the reception area and immediately started climbing the curtains. Determined to bolt, he seemed to have reached a maximum level of hysteria, spewing excrement randomly as he scurried from drape to drape. The question I frantically pondered was how to get hold of the frightened cat without exciting him even more or losing a limb in the process. While I stood in the middle of the room, wondering why this situation had never been described to me in veterinary school, he made a full circle by using the curtain rods as a trapeze set, then disappeared into the next room.

Mrs. Perkins yelped as Henry streaked by her in the hallway and made for the laboratory, the one room with the most potential for damage by an overstimulated kitty. Following the trail of rancid diarrhea and wondering how the intestinal tract of just one ten-pound cat could possibly produce so much, I followed him into the lab. By this point, I felt sure that Henry was displaying some as-yet-undiscovered biologic mechanism that generated an infinite amount of fecal material, because it now blanketed the once-pristine countertops and sterile instruments in the room. The only good news was that he had decided to take a hiatus behind the autoclave and was now peering out at me from behind it. His pupils were wide open with fear, and the backs of his eyes reflected the fluorescent lighting, giving them a greenish yellow glow. He sat still as a statue, like young deer or rabbits when approached in the deep grass, seeming to believe, If I dont move, the human wont see me.

Now I had to decide how I could get hold of Henry without making the room even more of a disaster zone. For lack of a more brilliant plan, I turned to the basics. Kitty, kitty, kitty, I called, trying to sound as loving as possible under the circumstances. It didnt work. These words only seemed to alert the frozen feline that I could actually see him, jolting him back into action across the countertop. Oh, no, not those! I hollered, but it was too late. The thirty-plus blood tubes that we had worked so hard to get from the unwilling two-hundred-pound pigs the previous afternoon crashed to the floor with just a little shove from Henry. It had taken hours to extract the blood for viral testing. My inexperience, combined with the determination of the hefty swine, had provided a years worth of entertainment for the farmer and his neighbors. Now I would have to call him, explain the situation, and endure the ridicule of another trip to the farm. I could already picture the scene: Even more locals would be invited this time. Chairs would probably be set up and maybe even tickets sold. But first, I still had to retrieve this cat.