SPRING 2005Elizabeth Carver
Woodbury MM
first met Penny, a friendly Dalmatian mix dog, when she came into the clinic after a dog fight. She had several punctures all over her body, and a two-inch laceration above her elbow that required stitches. I looked down at her.
“The other dogs started it,” she said automatically.
I looked at her owner, who explained that Penny was the dominant dog, and usually started the arguments. I looked at Penny again: “Are you sure?”
“Well-l-l-l, maybe I bit them first ... but they made me do it,” she sheepishly replied.
I sutured her up. My new boss complimented me on the neat job I had done. It was then that I think she realized my fear of surgery was emotional, within me, not a technical lack. I do excellent surgery; I just don’t like to do surgery.
Several weeks later, her owner was back with one of her other dogs—she has about ten of them— for routine vaccinations. I asked about Penny. “She had a nose bleed the other night,” the owner said.
Penny had healed up uneventfully. I wondered about the nose bleed. Thinking about tick fever, I advised that if it only happened once, that was fine, but if it happened again she should not ignore it.
A week later she brought Penny in with another nose bleed. It was clotting fine, but I did blood work and started her on an antibiotic for tick fever.
Seven more days, and she was back. She had been getting better—but now she was worse. We anesthetized her and checked for foreign bodies and other problems. All we saw was inflamed tissue. Could this have been a wound from the fight? By now the swelling had crept up, and half of her eye was covered by the third eyelid. We continued the antibiotics.
A week later she was back again. We x-rayed her head. But all we saw was an increased density on that side of her nasal passages—which could mean anything or nothing. We referred her to a specialist who diagnosed adenocarcinoma and gave her a month to live.
After that, Penny dropped in for regular visits. For a while she was getting better, then steadily became worse. Although her owner normally indulged her dogs, Penny was now treated as a queen. When she came in, she would tell me of the extra-special treats and privileges that she had received. Her owner was totally devoted to each of her dogs as individuals, and now she was about to lose one of them.
“We’ve decided that when the time comes, we would like to euthanize her at home. Is this possible?”
Although it was against clinic policy, I did not hesitate. “Yes,” I said. “Just call me.”
Each time she came in, she would ask me: “How will I know when it’s time?”
“You’ll know,” I would say. Then finally I added: “When it’s not a question any more.”
Then, finally: “It’s time.”
I went out to her house. Penny was bright and alert as usual, sniffing the bag that held the euthanasia equipment and asking for handouts. Then I saw it. The one eye that I could see had lost its fire. Penny was ready.
She had a quiet, gentle death in loving arms.
Three days later, her owner was back in the clinic with another dog for routine vaccina tions. She handed me Chicken Soup for a Pet Lover’s Soul. “Thank you,” she said.
I looked at the book. It was just what I needed to help heal some open wounds in my soul. How did she know? “Thank you,” I answered.
Although I received the book as a gift from a friend, I have paid very dearly for it.
[The author, who grew up in Woodbury MM and remains a member there, practices veterinary medicine in Mesquite, New Mexico.—Ed.]
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Last modified:
Tuesday, March 08, 2005 at 08:52 AM
