The Accidental Veterinarian Page 3

  Being wide keeps things interesting. Being shallow keeps things scary. As with most things in life, the key is in getting the balance right. And in leaving the hippos to the specialists.

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  3His best-known book, widely referred to among veterinarians as All Creatures Grunt and Smell.

  The Naming

  One of the unsung minor perks of being in small animal practice is the exposure to the ever-changing landscape of pet names. This might not seem like a true perk, but I enjoy learning the names and, for the unusual ones, asking their owners how they came up with them. For obvious reasons people allow themselves far more latitude for creativity with their pets’ names than with their children’s. That said, there is also a lot of overlap, and there has been more than one family where I have had to be very careful not to refer to the dog by the daughter’s name because, honestly, Bailey is a far more common dog name than human name (with all due respect to you wonderful human Baileys out there).

  The range of pet names is breathtaking. I normally change all the names in the blog, but for the purposes of this discussion, I’m sure nobody will object if I just list the names of all the animals I saw at work yesterday as an example of what I mean: Tikka, Snerkle, Junie, Gunner, Silvester, Kayne, Kirby, Annabell, Maggie, Milkshake, Poppy, Stewie, Ben, Wimbley, Rico and Castle. This is absolutely typical. Nothing too wild, but clearly a lot of thought and some creativity there. And each of them an individual suited to their name.

  Some common names are presumably easy and quick to think up — Tigger for a tabby cat, Blackie for a black Labrador — but many probably involved a lot of debate in the family. For those of you for whom this was the case, isn’t it interesting how a name that was so difficult to come up with, and that you were a bit uncertain about at first, now seems so inevitable and perfect in retrospect? This even happens for objectively inappropriate names. I had a cat patient named Bob for a number of years. Bob was a girl. Bob’s owners had been told that she was a he when they got him/her, and they didn’t think to double-check. I had to break the news to them when they brought Bob in for her first shots, at which point the name had already stuck. They didn’t try to feminize it to Bobbie or Roberta, saying that she still “looked like a Bob.” And you know what? They were right. I now can’t imagine her being called anything else.

  My own dog’s name of Orbit came about after trying on several others that just didn’t feel right. One day we were watching him rocket around the house in circles, and we started saying Sputnik. Yeah, I know, that would have been wrong in so many ways, but it did get us going on that theme, from which Orbit emerged. It also helped that he ate everything in sight, and that roadside trash containers in Manitoba when we were growing up were called “Orbit,” as in “Put your trash in Orbit!” Our one cat, Lucy, was named by my daughter after a second cousin in Germany who had made a strong impression on her. We got the second cat shortly after, and Isabel thought she should have a German human name as well. For fairness and symmetry, you know. Many were considered and rejected until she settled on Gabriella, which instantly became Gabi.

  But of course the best part of discussing pet names are the weird ones and the funny ones. Unfortunately, although my memory is generally really very good, it has a glitch when it comes to names. They appear to reside in the mental equivalent of a sock drawer. So while I originally intended to present something like a “Top 20 Fun and Wacky Pet Names I Have Encountered,” sitting here right now I can only come up with three.

  In no particular order, then:

  Russell Bertrand — As in, the cat’s name was Russell, and the owner’s last name was Bertrand. The fact that this amuses me speaks strongly to my geekiness. The reverse, Bertrand Russell, was an important English philosopher, writer and Nobel Prize winner who lived from 1872 to 1970. The best part is that the owners seemed unaware of this coincidence and gave me a funny look when I laughed and said, “Ha! Russell Bertrand! That’s great!”

  Maximillian Samba-socks — Another cat. I don’t know why, but this one still cracks me up years later. Even this bizarre name suited him perfectly. Maximillian Samba-socks could only be Maximillian Samba-socks.

  Satan — They thought it was hilarious naming their little black poodle Satan. At least, they thought it was hilarious until they found out that he had a habit of disappearing deep into their big yard at night and often had to be loudly and repeatedly called back to the house: “Satan! Satan, come here!”

  Mismatch

  Among the more venerable internet memes are the photos of people who look like their pets. Or who allegedly look like their pets. Honestly, in most cases it seems to come down to some similarity in hair/fur and being photographed when they happen to have (or, more probably, have been coached to have) comparable facial expressions. Put a little wig on a potato, and you could just as easily come up with photos of people who look like their potatoes. That being said, there certainly are a few pudgy, flat-faced people with pudgy, flat-faced dogs, as there are a few tall, elegant people with long noses who have tall, elegant dogs with long noses. It is safe to say, however, that the overwhelming majority of people do not resemble their pets at all. And this, you’ll agree, is a good thing.

  What strikes me as far more interesting than owners who match their pets are owners who are wild mismatches for their pets, not only in appearance, but in temperament. It goes without saying that veterinarians see all kinds of combinations of animals and people, but the ones that really stick in our memories are the ones that seem the most improbable. I’ll share two short stories with you about such mismatches.

  The first pair is Tim and Mindy. Tim is the owner and Mindy is the dog. This is important to clarify because I can’t count the number of times I have accidentally called the owner by their pet’s name and vice versa. Consider yourself forewarned if you give your pet a conceivably human name. But I digress. Tim made a vivid first impression with his considerable size, his forceful handshake, his loud, expletive-laden style of talking and the impressive array of smudgy blue tattoos that looked suspiciously like they had been done in prison. But, as we all know, first impressions can be misleading. Two facts immediately emerged that ran counter to that impression. First of all, Tim turned out to be very friendly and very eager to learn everything he could about looking after his pet. And second of all, Mindy was a small, quiet female Shih Tzu who sported pink bows in her beautifully groomed fur. There were no pink bows anywhere on Tim. Nor was he especially beautifully groomed. They did not resemble each other in the slightest. In fact, they could have been considered polar opposites.

  Tim was a long-distance truck driver, and Mindy was his companion on the road. “Been with me to 43 states and eight provinces!” It appeared that Mindy was his only family as well. To see Tim transform instantly from brash and boisterous with me to tender and calm with her was as astonishing as it was heart-warming. Utterly unselfconscious, he would gently and repeatedly kiss Mindy on the top her head while I explained something to him. Almost everybody loves their pets, but Tim’s devotion to Mindy was in a category of its own. All of us adults know by now that love is a strange thing that cannot be predicted or judged. This was a prime example of that truth.

  I typically saw Mindy once a year in the early spring for a check-up and to make sure that her shots and paperwork were in order for her frequent border crossings. Tim was also one of the few clients who insisted on regular blood work to follow baselines on her organ functions. He explained that he wanted the peace of mind and pressed me about whether there was anything else we could do to ensure Mindy’s health. He gave up smoking when he got Mindy because he was worried about second-hand smoke, and he planned his rest stops around where it was best to walk her. I said he was devoted, and I meant it.

  You might be girding yourself for a heartbreaking ending to this story, but fortunately, to the best of my knowledge, Mindy remains healthy as I write this, and I expect
to see her again next year. One day there may be an anguished phone call from Alabama or Arizona, but it hasn’t happened yet, and, I tell you, I don’t even want to think about it.

  The second mismatched pair is Mrs. Abrams and Max. Max was a German shepherd. Actually, “Max” is almost always a German shepherd, unless he is a Boxer or a black cat. I picked this pair for the second story because it is in many ways the inverse of Tim and Mindy. Mrs. Abrams was small, quiet, elderly and fragile looking. Max, on the other hand, was large and loud and rambunctious. He weighed as much as Mrs. Abrams, if not even a little more. Her son had given him to her for protection. I suppose this was effective as Max would lunge and bark furiously whenever someone other than Mrs. Abrams moved towards him. Actually, he would lunge and bark furiously whenever the wind blew a scrap of plastic towards him as well. Fortunately he was a classic example of the bark being worse than the bite, and there was no need to be afraid of him, but unfortunately all that lunging made walking him dangerous for Mrs. Abrams.

  One day she came in sporting a cast on her wrist. Max had pulled her down again. Apparently he had seen a particularly irritating squirrel. Mrs. Abrams always excused his behaviour with a chuckle and a “dogs will be dogs.” After I addressed the rash that he had been brought in for, I talked to her about safer options for walking him. I had talked to her about this before, about halter types of collars and training methods, but the answer was always the same. In her soft voice she would say, “Oh no, he wouldn’t like that.” And that was the end of the discussion. What Max liked and did not like was always the decisive factor.

  Eventually it came out that Max was also pooping in the house. Here too excuses were made and any type of training that would inconvenience Max in any way was dismissed out of hand. She would smile at Max like all the light in the world emanated from him. Like with Tim and Mindy, this was clearly also love, and love like that should not be judged, but my God, it was hard not to judge. Max was so manifestly the wrong pet for her. Wrong size, wrong temperament, wrong breed, wrong everything. But she felt safe with him, and she loved him with all her heart, and these two things obviously made broken wrists and poopy carpets seem like trifling inconveniences to her.

  When Max eventually passed away, I didn’t think I’d see Mrs. Abrams again. She seemed incalculably ancient, and there sadly comes a time in many people’s lives when looking after an animal is just too difficult. I was surprised, then, to hear that she had booked an appointment with a new pet. Perhaps a cat, I thought, or a little Yorkie? Nope. Another German shepherd. Also named Max.

  Supersonic Octopus

  June 1.

  First receptionist: “Philipp, Mrs. Patterson is late, can I set up Mr. Cho instead?”

  “Uh, sure.” I’m trotting down the hall, hoping to get to my computer to catch up on files.

  Then it occurs to me. “Mr. Cho? I don’t remember seeing him in the schedule.”

  “No, he’s a squeeze-in. Killer collapsed, and he says ‘stuff is coming out of him’!”

  “Oh, OK.” I turn around and head to the exam room.

  Second receptionist: “Mrs. Patterson just showed up. She apologizes, it was the traffic, but she has to see you today. And your next appointment is here too. They’re a bit early.”

  “OK, well I’ll look in quickly on Killer, and then I’ll see Mrs. Patterson’s dog.”

  First technologist: “Philipp, can you come into the back? I think Dodo is having a seizure.”

  Third receptionist: “Can you pick up the phone first, please? Mrs. Wilson says she has left three messages and needs to talk to you right now before they leave for the cottage.”

  “Um.”

  First receptionist, back again: “Before you see Cho and Patterson, the Samsons are here to pick up those prescriptions you told them you’d have ready.”

  First colleague: “Philipp, can you squeeze in an ultrasound soon? I think Buzz Firth is bleeding internally.”

  Second technologist: “Buzz’s owners are here now visiting him and want to know what’s going on. Did you do that ultrasound yet?”

  Second receptionist again: “I set up Mrs. Patterson, she brought her other dog too, hoping that after you see Bruce for his chronic diarrhea, you’d have time to discuss Brent’s chronic skin condition, which has gotten a lot worse.” (Yes, a pair of cockers named Bruce and Brent.)

  Third receptionist again: “Before you talk to Mrs. Wilson, can you quickly answer a question from your last appointment? Mr. Schmidt’s at the counter still and has his wife on the phone, who reminded him what he was supposed to ask.”

  I haven’t checked phone messages in two hours. I haven’t written on files in three hours. I haven’t been to the bathroom since I got to work. Then my brain begins to liquefy, and I slump into a gibbering heap on the floor.

  OK, that last bit isn’t true. Not exactly. And the very first line is misleading too — June 1 is truly the epicentre of our ultra-busy heartworm season, but I’m not at the clinic today. Today is my day off. Today I am mowing the lawn, drinking beer and writing this.

  When the kids were small and they would pepper me with a series of complex overlapping requests, I would joke with them that I was not a “supersonic octopus.” This expression comes back to me frequently this time of year.

  A Public Service Announcement Postscript

  It is critical that you give your dog heartworm prevention medication. However, it is not critical that you give the first dose right on June 1 (or whenever is recommended in your region). Please do not phone your clinic in a panic today or tomorrow. As long as the first dose is given within a month or so of the first mosquito bite, it will still work well. The medications kill the first larval stages of heartworm in the bloodstream before they can do any harm.

  An Open Letter to the Client in the Park Whose Name I Forgot

  Dear Client,

  It will come to me. Just give me a little longer and it will come to me. But in the meantime, I do apologize. It was clearly awkward for both of us. You saying a friendly and hearty “Hi, Dr. Schott!” and me saying an I hope equally friendly, but unfortunately slightly less hearty “Hi . . . !”

  I recognized you for sure. I just couldn’t remember your name. Or that of your pet. Or pets. Or their species. Or whether they were still alive. So I had to substitute, “How’s [insert name of pet(s) here] doing?” with “How are you?” which is OK, but not as good. I wish you had had your dog(s) with you. That would have helped jog my memory. Should that have been a clue? Maybe you don’t have dogs.

  But the awkward bit was when it was obvious after you stopped to chat that I should introduce my family. This is when I could tell from your face that you realized I didn’t remember your name. You’re a kind and understanding person, so you weren’t hurt or disappointed; rather you felt bad that you’d put me in the position of having to try to remember. And I felt bad that you felt bad on top of the feeling bad that I couldn’t remember. And now you probably feel bad that I felt bad that . . . never mind.

  So here’s the thing. I’m sure that you are smart in addition to being kind and understanding, so you know this already, but it still bears explaining. The thing is that you have a box in your brain marked “veterinarian” and another marked “dentist” and another marked “piano teacher” and so on. Each of these boxes contains one, or perhaps at most a handful, of names and faces. Pretty straightforward to connect those names and faces. I have a box in my brain marked “clients.” It contains upwards of 6,000 names and faces. I have a decent memory, but . . . well, you get it.

  What you might not get, though, is that you don’t even necessarily want to be one of the names I can connect to faces. Just like with a newspaper, where far more bad news gets printed than good, far more names connect to faces when they are associated with something bad. It’s just more memorable.

  So if I do remember your name, it often means one of two thi
ngs: that you are one of those wacky clients staff talk about all the time, or that your pets are way too sick way too often.

  In other words, you should feel really good that I didn’t remember your name. But give me a bit more time and I will remember. It’s on the tip of my tongue. Just like when you’re trying to remember that actor who was in that movie with what’s-her-name who used to be married to what’s-his-name in that other movie, you know? Right? Yes, that one.

  Once again, my apologies.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Philipp Schott, BSc, DVM

  Please Repeat That in English

  Every veterinarian gets this from time to time. We have just finished painstakingly explaining a complex medical condition to a client and then, after a brief silence, the client says, “Please repeat that in English!”

  We have failed to communicate clearly. We have used jargon, or at least we have used words that didn’t seem like jargon to us, but clearly seemed that way to the client.

  Why does this happen? Three reasons:

  When we are first starting in practice, we sometimes use big words and convoluted explanations to demonstrate our knowledge and win the client’s trust in our competence. I looked very young when I graduated in 1990. I got called Doogie Howser a lot (the reference itself tells you how long ago that was). Consequently, I tried to impress with Latin. Look, I really am a doctor! I don’t do that anymore. I don’t need to. Now I get called “the old guy.” I’m undecided which is better.

  We don’t want to insult clients by dumbing it down. In reality only peculiar people are insulted, and there is no pleasing them anyway. Most clients who prefer that you use more technical language will politely tell you so, and often be pleased that they have the opportunity to tell you so.