The Gift of Pets: Stories Only a Vet Could Tell Read Online Free PDF

to control his breathing and provide the anesthetic gas.
    During surgery, I removed a man-size rock, which Greco had consumed during his macho play. It had lodged fast in the small intestine, obstructing the passage of all gastrointestinal contents. The section of intestine containing the stone, now stretched and bruised to a dark purple, had sustained irreparable damage and had to be removed. But after an hour and a half of tedious suturing, I pulled the gloves off my hands and surveyed the neat row of sutures closing the eight-inch-long incision on Greco’s tummy. Surgery had gone well and I was confident that Greco would recover fully.
    No sooner had Greco opened his eyes after surgery than he was trying to stand. Within another ten minutes, he was staggering drunkenly toward the door. His sentiments and intentions were unmistakable. “Thanks, Doc,” he was saying. “You did good. I’ll take it from here. See ya later.” We literally had to tie him down till he was fully recovered.
    Greco went home the next day, much earlier than most patients do after such invasive surgery. Antonio was pleased that his dog had done so well, and, as agreed, he paid his fees in full with crisp, fresh bills.
    I often think of Greco and Antonio. No one before or since has so clearly articulated the contract between myself, my clients, and my patients. It is indeed a sacred trust to have in my care the object of someone’s love and devotion. It’s a responsibility that is sometimes simple, sometimes tough, sometimes funny, but always full of emotion—hope or sadness, joy or pathos. Some patients, like Greco, recover fully and never look back. Others never improve, stubbornly immune to even our best efforts. Some diagnoses are as stunningly obvious as Greco’s stone. Others are unclear and remain just beyond comprehension, straining our knowledge and experience to fit the pieces of the diagnostic puzzle together.
    Throughout the meandering course of each case, though, I am aware of the bond between the patient and its person, the owner’s paralyzing fear of loss, the level of trust being placed in me. And I am reminded again to “teka de responsibility to fixa de dohg.”

 
    Milk Fever
    All veterinarians can look back to their past and identify a veterinary mentor who fostered their interest in the profession, acted as an adviser and often an employer, and wrote letters of recommendation for admission committees the country over. Mine was Dr. Virgil Boyd, a mixed-animal practitioner in the small farming community of Hutchinson, Minnesota, where I attended high school. He did all of those things for me and more. I worked for him in his clinic in the mornings and attended classes in the afternoons. To this day, I owe Dr. Boyd a huge debt for the interest he invested in me and the experiences he provided.
    Dr. Boyd seemed to me, at the age of seventeen, to be a man of considerable intellect, wisdom, and age. Given my age now, I recognize that he was not really very old at all. But at the time, I viewed him as nearing retirement. This misperception seems especially ironic now, since Dr. Boyd, well into his eighties, with a full head of gray hair and a regal beard of the same hue, is still a solo practitioner in Hutchinson. I visited him at his clinic last fall when I attended my thirtieth high school homecoming weekend.
    Rural Minnesota is populated by a unique breed of people. Minnesotans are a hardy, self-sufficient, and thoroughly dependable people who are firmly grounded in the values of hard work, family, country, and God. Every community, regardless of size, has at least two things: a grain elevator and a thriving Lutheran church. Every self-respecting Minnesota Lutheran, as a way of life, will go out of his way to help a stranger. They do this as an outgrowth of their strong Christian values, of course. But they also do it with an ever-present knowledge that in the clutches of a cruel Minnesota winter, a person in a broken-down