October 31, 2011

You find yourself descending a steep unstable slope helping the owner carry his dearly departed dog to his grave. Lucas, (not his real name) the Shepard mix who, with your merciful help, had succumb to metastatic adrenal carcinoma,. The perfect Halloween scenario finds you carrying the deceased with his hearing-impared muscle man owner who is misdirected down the slope to the palm tree 20 metres below. You recommend an existing pathway below and carry the slinged dog in that direction under the unforgiving fall afternoon sun and down near the palm tree when you realize that the site was another location back up the hill that leads to scaling said dusty slope upward to the final resting place. Five pounds of dirt in your shoes later the pet is not adequately covered by earth shoveled by the man and you find yourself directing him with difficulty (since you only know pig-sign language) to rebury the dog and that erosion will soon unearth his dear Lucas and this is basically why it is not recommended to bury your pet except in a pet cemetery or have cremation and return of cremains but in the interest of cost-saving combined with the need for a traditional pet burial on one’s property the practice will continue much to the delight of roving wildlife and the chagrin of concerned citizens.

Eleven Eleven Eleven

Finds you busy all day back and forth through traffic cross town back again where you were last night up the treacherous hills of Franklin Heights to help a poor little dog with cancer and alleviate some pain. Today is the day to end the suffering and it is hard to let go of a friend who loved you unconditionally without argument or pretense with loving eyes always even when you scold her and yet you want a few more days or hours to hold your beloved in your arms never to let go but let go you must for the sake of your woeful friend and your own anguish. That is what you have come to understand all these years helping pets live as long as possible comfortably and to help them out of this world as comfortably as possible. You’ve experienced human suffering of a family member and the inhumanity of sustained “life”. People should have access to the humanity you provide for pets. But all this is in the back of your head as you drive through city traffic trying not to aggravate your neck and shoulder spasm by gripping the wheel too hard and trying to navigate the GPS as you yack with dispatch. You speak to the little dog in the back telling her she is the lucky one. She lived the life of luxury up on the hill overlooking the city with your beloved mom and human brother.

The day continues with the theme of re-visitation as you revisit the ivy-covered home of the novelist a nice lady with a propensity for daytime imbibing and multiple feline friends. She was told by her previous vet that her cool Orange cat Henry (pseudonym) is old and must be put down. You beg to differ that Henry simply has a snotty-nosed cold and is a bit under weight. The novelist is so thrilled that she found you and that you can actually provide medical care for her cats and not simply want to put them away when they are old and you explain the saying you once learned that “Age is not a disease” you can’t cure aging only disease and this reverberates with you personally since lately some of your contemporaries have fallen making you cherish each day and stay up as late as you can and live as many hours as possible. Henry is tested and treated and apparently unfazed as he looks at you sitting in his bedroom as if to say “what the hell are you doing?” You tell him telepathically that you will be back to take him to have his teeth done since two are rotten and a possible cause for his sinus infection but Henry pays this no mind and strolls away.

You head back from Toluca as the rain falls from an anemic storm whose bark seems much worse than its bite and has threatened the Southland like the ever-present threat of terror. And the GPS goes out in the Highlander with perfect timing as you kinda sorta know your way around Silverlake hills and need to take the non-freeway route back to the clinic to see the shaky Chihuahua cross but aren’t really sure if left or right on Sunset in the correct choice and traffic is crawling up your butt and you must make a decision or be scorned and ridiculed by the public and it’s not good PR to screw up in a branded vehicle; a decidedly counter-marketing move. You make the correct choice and eventually return to the clinic.

Shaky Suzie Shiver (not her real name) has been shaking with jerks and tremors for 36 hours now and it’s either the longest “seizure” on record or she got into a toxin or has a liver shunt or is hypoglycemic or…she jumps at noises like a Strychnine poisoning but has not fever and no history of exposure. You rack your brain and temporarily calm the tremors with some valium and run some tests only to find dehydration but could she have gotten into your chocolate, flea spray, household product, your marijuana, anything on the street but the owners come back uniformly: not that they know of. You place your bet on epilepsy and wait it out and look for a pattern. After the valium wears off you expect a phone call about now.

Nothing yet.

Or yet.

The hope for dinner with the family is quickly squashed by a call from the Service that a dog got her collar stuck on her leg (WTF?) and there’s blood everywhere and can you hurry at 6PM on a Friday night back to Fairfax and Beverly? No problem you think as you ask for an hour and you suggest the throw a heavy blanket on the dog to prevent further self-trauma. What a strange circumstance you think how does a dog get its collar stuck on her leg? You marvel on recent things that entrap a dog like the marrow bone around the lower jaw or the dog that got his leg stuck in a table. No this was a totally new entrapment. You arrive after an arduous traffic-filled drive to find a bloody scene and a dog on the ground contorted with her rear leg pulled forward and the neck downward. Somehow the choke collar was stuck but you could not tell since Betty (not her real name) the mini-Aussie was in pain when she moved cause when she was calm and still she was oK so nobody makes any quick moves. The owner and her two friends assisting stood idly by trying to help by petting Betty unsuccessful attempts to muzzle her were aborted in favor of slipping her an injectable anesthetic. The poor owner in her attempts to free her pet from bondage had sustained several nasty bites from her frightened little girl that are sure to hurt for several weeks as with you are too well acquainted and as it turns out the blood was all human blood. You could not find a cut on little Betty but what you did find was the clasp of the leash clasped over Betty’s Achilles tendon and still attached to her collar. The choke chain was so tight you could not release it off of her neck but forced to cut the chain with the handy dandy pruning shear you used to cut the marrow bone off the Shepherd’s mandible which works like a charm once again now allowing you to unclasp the dog’s Achilles

Yes you are a hero to these owners and that they had no other alternative than you to save Betty tonight Friday and you bid them adieu. You pull off with a growling stomach to cross the city this time by freeway less crowded to find your cooled tin-foiled dinner on the table and the family all done for the night. But you had to write it down before you forget and the stories blend together in a blurry continuum of never-ending rescue missions.

ATTACK WEEK

You build a summary of a strange week of animal on animal attacks:

1. Akita on Doxie
2. Raccoon on Cat
3. Akita on Sharpei mix
4. Cat on Cat
5. Coyote on Terrier

Sausage Baron’s Dog Takes Bite of Wiener Dog

You respond to a call on Venice Boardwalk: a small dog has been attacked by his roommate dog. The poor woman moved in to a vacant room and has been also forced to share the apartment with a young male Akita. She had even mistakenly thought her doxie could be the new little Mascot for The Sausage Baron on the Beach. But no no no. The Baron’s dog would not have it and you are assigned repair duty. The shaken ex-new roommate tells you this is not the first time that Jordan (not his real name) the chewed up Dachshund has been tasted by the Akita who lives above the Sausage Empire with jewels intact simply protecting his territory from any would-be new cute little “Mascot” with any designs on being favorite to the Baron.

You stabilize and transport the victim to the clinic for surgical repairs and hospitalization and this where the trend begins and a new character also emerges

Rocky Raccoon

A beautiful early morning drive to the Far Continent as you call it owing to the fact that every destination in Palos Verdes is 8 miles from the freeway a painful tragedy of civil engineering flaws in the system and you end up on the bluff overlooking grand ocean cliffs and Donald Trump’s golf course with ridiculous vacant estates down below. It is here you find the lovely caretaker of animals indoor and out and she asks you in and she leads you past picture window sweeping views and into a room to a cowering little Torti under the bed.

Rocky (real name because of her nickname) plays a game of chase me here and there down the stairs up again and into the bathroom. She is snuffling snorting through her nose. You find Rocky has been bitten in the face mostly likely by a raccoon judging by the story of our caretaker, the puncture wounds into her sinus. You picture a curious cat nosing up to a cowering raccoon outside since the raccoon enjoy cat food as much as the next wild animal and the pickens are getting slim much like the look of the coyotes.

Rocky heads 8 miles out from the Far Continent back to Metropolis and the clinic to be radiographed, surgically repaired, and hospitalized. She is a lovely little cat as it turns out and a staff favourite.

You grow quite fond of her during her stay in her own private suite and your office. She is even more of a joy on her SECOND round of hospitalization…but that’s a later episode as ATTACK WEEK continues…Standby Rocky.


You erroneously assumed that a couple fun hours with the family at the bowling alley could go by without the service summoning you again. You ask the caller to hold while you gutter two balls not distracted at all by this, the third attack, this time dog on dog.

The Sticky Goo of A Power Grab While Owners on Vacation

It’s a typical struggle of young vs. old, strong vs. weak, Akita vs. Sharpei Cross, owners-on-vacation variety of attack. The caller is your neighbor who was roped in as dog sitter while the previous dog sitter has a medical emergency of his own. Now you come to understand the Sharpei is under the house and was attacked LAST NIGHT. You envision wounds starting to fester and the dog going septic aka bacterial blood infection when you hear the dog is not eating. You inform your family of a shortening of the evening of bowling ending on just one single game once again they all painfully acquiesce and head back to your SUV.

You arrive at the dark residence to find a frightened bloodied Sharpei/Shepherd mix Agatha (not her real name) being consoled by your neighbor Patty the defacto dog sitter. You calmly examine Agatha and sedate her and soon she is calm and carefully whisked off by you and Alex the Tech to the clinic for some surgical repair and hospitalization.

Agatha look-a-like

You are rudely reminded while suturing and debriding a Sharpei that the cut edges of this breed’s skin is like a sort of “goo”, or sticky gel. Most unusual. In fact, certain of the small lacerations and punctures have automatically glued back together by the goo. You piece the dog together and place drains and keep Agatha at the clinic in her own suite. Yes lodging in the same suite as Rocky Raccoon the previous attack victim.

The previously aggressive dog has becoming quite loving here in her safe environment where she stays to heal her housing situation up in the air. Can she return to the hostile home with the young Akita or should she find a new place to live? Was the balance simply upset by the extended leave of the owners on vacation as you have found to be a verified phenomenon. The owners may have created a power struggle and their absence triggered a power grab by the Akita since they certainly must have punished his outbursts against his elder aunt Agatha the shear disrespect has raised the owners ire leading to reprimand after reprimand of the juvenile mush dog creating further imbalance. The stage was set by PREVENTING a natural pecking order to occur. If the Akita is meant to be dominant then it should be so.

You discharge the damaged, yet recovering Agatha who jumps for joy to see the returned vacationing owners of the dogs. They admit scolding the Akita for attempting to dominate the previous Alpha Agatha. But the change would have happened and peace restored quickly and naturally if it weren’t for owners’ (although well-meaning) interference of the process and the damage may have been avoided or at least postponed for awhile. Can’t we all just get along?

Marauder Cat Disrespects Territory of Beverly Hills Cat

After the third ATTACK you fully accept the arrival of the FOURTH in the series when a frantic previous client calls and is in need of assistance getting the cat into a carrier and to the vet. Instead you offer a home visit to assess and treat on site or transport with sedation as needed.

Upon arrival to suburban Beverly Hills, you exit the vehicle in the driveway to meet the worried owner and both look down on the ground between the adjacent neighbor driveways to find multiple tufts of fluffy white hair and both surmise that we are standing on the battlefield where BOOTS (not his real name) stood his ground and made a stand on the border. The woman proclaims that the marauder cat should know better and not have entered her cat’s territory. It’s a rule of catdom, she espouses. You beg to differ. Cats who spend anytime outdoors are at risk of getting into a fight, hit by car, catch a virus, some deadly and so on.

You extract the poor, shredded kitty from (where else?) under the bed with kindness and sedation. The owner continues to maintain that the marauder should respect poor Boots’ land.

Due the severity of the injuries and multiple locations you decide it be best to bring the cat in for repairs under gas anesthesia at the clinic. Boots hangs out with you for the day and is released in the afternoon without an E-collar that you had advised. You’ve come to accept people’s personal dissent with certain veterinary standards like neutering before puberty or rejection of antibiotics or corticosteroids as well as the rejection of post-op recommendations. But fortunately Boots leaves your sutures alone. And returns to his chaperoned visits within the high-walled-in backyard with his mom and only looks longingly now and then through living room picture window overlooking the front lawn formally known as his territory.


Coyote Loses Silky Meal in Shocking Fashion

Sunday comes around and a full day of family fun and treatment of the attack victim in-patient, Rocky Raccoon who has survived a Raccoon chomp to the face and has now revisited your clinic due to an adverse reaction to a certain anti-inflammatory and must repair his kidneys with IV fluids etc but now the day has ended or has it you think as you lay your head down tentatively upon a cold pillow just as the Service buzzes the iPhone. You snap to coherence for the consult with the frantic owner. His little dog, Ty (not his real name) was attacked by a Coyote and they need you to come finish off the poor dog. The owner describes the lack of breathing or shallow breathing and the condition improves with his every word and now the dog is sitting up and how weird it was that he looked half dead and you explain he was actually in shock and has snapped out of it and the owner sees blood and implores you to come.


Webster (not his real name), the urban coyote

You arrive bleary-eyed at the Los Feliz estate the housekeeper motions you inside the property gate that swings closed behind. You are greeted by an energetic Aussie and bulldog that lead you up the steps into the house as if they know you are there to help their wounded friend. The mom and dad of the house greet you and lead you to the fallen Ty cowering in a dog bed in the hallway. You give the pup a painkiller after determining his stability and surmise that several deep puncture wounds in the neck are in need of surgical attention. You wrap Ty’s neck with bandage materials and padding as the dad explains that the coyote had grabbed the dog by the neck with his collar in his mouth as the horrified housekeeper was screaming all the while and thereupon reaching the gate the coyote must have received a nice jolting shock and dropped Ty. You come to understand the victim dog, as well as the other pets, are equipped with a shock collar associated with Invisible Fence surrounding the property. Thus, Ty is saved by the electronic collar which the coyote broke off and dropped in the yard.

You transport Ty back to the clinic for repairs where he mends over the next few days finally going to the confines behind the Invisible Fence and its previously unforeseen additional level of protection. And so ends ATTACK WEEK… till we meet again

Allergy, the Miracle and Maneuvers

August 15 2011

You head out to another Sunday night emergency they come like clockwork especially during the full moon when the crazies are out and the police copter searchlights the area and now you’re stuck at La Brea near Olympic where the cops have walled off the block and you are trying to get to a whimpering pup in pain. You eventually pass the drama as the popo scans for perps and slither your way to the Larchmont hood. Two lovely English ladies and their ailing cocker Cammy (not her real name) with back pain. Except the dog is up and running around. The medication that was given for pain and inflammation had kicked in. Low and behold. It works! It is here where you picture a lovely Sunday evening tea with these fine ladies. Instead the emergency aspect turns into an allergy consult and blood screening and connecting with a nice pet owner seeing the value in the service. You feel good about that. You try to remember all the pets you’ve seen and you realize you can form a finite amount of close bonds with people and see the brilliant and the amazing stories of survival through love and care. These people out shine the horrors you have found along the way, ignorant neglect, or the holding on too long.

You come upon the strange case of Leo (not his real name) the cat at the home of a race car driver. Leo is a miracle of science. He is living with a Creatinine of 18 and that is unheard of. This cat should be a case study for the ages. You come to realize the race car driver, a man’s man, is really a pussy cat love magician. His undying faith and removal of doubt keeps the cat on an even keel with him. The unbelievable bond has defying all laws of medicine. OK, so the man is force feeding the cat and giving him a laundry list of medications designed to strengthen kidney function. There are jars of things you never have heard of that he is religiously giving to his precious Leo. It is then you realize that the owner’s unfailing drive to save his beloved cat is so powerful that it defies all reason and logic. You have never seen a cat continue to live with those numbers. But the number is not a life. It is a magical thing of beauty and mystery.

You maneuver through traffic jamming heading east at the wrong time 545PM. No westbound street is spared and you catch up on email, Facebook and your calendar. You make a game of shortcutting your way across town from Brentwood a measly 4 miles back to the clinic, but other shrewd drivers are on to your game. They swerve and accelerate up the side streets right along with you. They follow your interference boldly crossing 6 lanes of Olympic Blvd to get to the other side. Your deftly avoid collisions snake-laning inept drivers to bypass them on your quest to shave 10 minutes from the 4 mile commute. Side street, alleys and corner-cutting gas stations fill the repertoire until you finally slither only slightly against traffic when needed, pull though the private alley to the garage you call Central Service.

That’s the day before ATTACK WEEK...

Armadoggon

You enter a yard a barking leaping Boxer named after a famous one greets you behind a sideways removed room door leaned to block him and his housemates. The Boxer just returned from neutering at the shelter and still had his testosterone enough to rip a hole in the shepherd mix now nipping at your pants, ripping the invoice from your hand. The caretaker apologizes while attempting to herd the 4 dogs on the deck into the house. You avoid loss of appendage and anesthetize the victim of the Boxer's Tyson-like bite enough to repair said injury.

You are presented another dog as the caretaker tells the sad story of her family's wrongdoings and the lawyers and police and animal control's wrongdoings. The neighbors are certainly doing her wrong with complaints of barking and public nuisance of whom she claims called the POLICE from their vacation home in another State. You examine the subordinate Pitbull that did receive a superficial gash. You treat this as well while enduring additional fantastical stories of lost chances, wealth and real estate.

On your way out the Boxer leaps up to you paws on your shoulders and you take his arms and dance with him clownishly to snap the woman from her funk knowing full well this dog is exhibiting pure dominant behavior. You advise the caretaker of your concerns that the injuries will continue and yet she assures you the dogs are undergoing training and she simply loves them while attempting to corral them barking command after command. You had put a rebel dog T-shirt on the victim and she looks very cute while now awake from the anesthesia enough to nip at your pants and herd you out past the heavy door and broken gate. Give the antibiotics and pain meds you say with a smile.

You head up the 405 through that lovely Sepulveda pass becoming ever wider accelerating erosion on a grand scale simply to allow many more lanes of cars crammed along side you after this coming CARMAGEDDON... Lord save the poor animals in need of emergency attention in their homes. Except that 911 VETS will have PROVIDERS on both sides of the BLOCKADE TO the two civilizations: Valley Tribes and Westside Tribes. Fear not you think. You hope. As you reach your destination your thoughts turn to a helicopter service that airlifts pets from the home to the ASEC or AEEC or AEC ASG or many other 24-hour emergency clinics. Not yet, you think.

There's a feral cat on the driveway with impossible dreadlocks.

You rush around with the kids on Sunday and mix in a few housecalls until late afternoon when the family is begging you to hang out and start the barbeque when a call from the Service transfers you to the same caretaker with four dogs… who suddenly has none. You discover the Boxer attacked the others again and turned on the woman trying to pry them apart ripping gashes in her arm sending her to the ER for repairs. The Boxer now awaits trial in the County Shelter from whence he came. A nice dog who simply needs to live as the only dog but now has a scarlet letter of red tainting him for future adoptability due to liability. The rebel dog and the cohorts now reside in doggy sleepover camp for a piece. Hopefully together away from the others.

You recommend the woman receive adequate care except that her Insurance company is guilty of wrongdoing as is the Emergency Room. You hold fast to your non-culpability in the incident as a wrongdoer and remain the champion of animals you think you are. You envision a bark-free night on her block as the poor woman heals from a tough lesson in dog pack management.

The Service wakes you again at 3:45AM. Monday starts early this week.

The Goddess and the Puppet

May 25, 2011

The world did not end. You continue to try and save lives…

You hold Boots the Puppet Cat and pet him as never felt before. He doesn’t care; he can’t react. You determine Boots to be suffering from a neurological disorder where he cannot recognize where his feet can go. He feels his feet and withdraws, but can’t get up and move. Puppet Cat purrs and likes to lie in the sun. He eats heartily as long as the food is in his face. You give him a whole can of A/D and his medications. You determine he has heart disease the ultrasound your performed out of curiosity.

You found Boots lying in the dirt. He is the stray cat that the neighbors are feeding. The primary feeder, the woman who summoned you is willing to help Boots with a limited budget. Now he is your project. His charm is unbelievable. His will to survive astounding. He stays in the clinic for weeks. Because he is improving…

The Goddess and the Seizing Shih Tzu

The Service connects you to a very distraught woman on the line describing her dog has been foaming at the mouth and is concerned about Rabies and how she’s taking care of her husband thirty years her senior who’s sick and her life is caving in right now and you hear a humble kindness in her voice feeling her pain and assure her the dog has not Rabies but a possible seizure-like episode and you will be right over.

You arrive at the abode and answereth the door a terrycloth-robed goddess ten years past her prime yet quite lovely with long Godiva-like hair and a sad, exhausted look on her face. She has this glow about her you can’t figure out as her Chihuahua mix squeak-barks incessantly while you perch on your toolbox trying to get a history. The TV is blaring organ soundtrack to some old, bizarre Swedish black and white film. The husband, 85, is propped in a wheelchair spouting non-sequiturs about the dog and some random facts that the goddess whispers corrections to you as her he speaks like a UN interpreter. Bonnie the portly Shih Tzu in question wobbles toward you and is described as the love of her life what could be wrong with her doctor is she going to die am I going to lose her should we put her down.

You attempt to give some hope that the condition may be treatable and not to jump to conclusions when suddenly starts another foaming episode where the dog spins pivoting on her back legs round and around and around foaming drool with a tic and still you calmly reassure the woman that this is a seizure and you are going to stop it with some Valium you quickly whip out of the box and give to the dog. The spinning subsides and the exhausted terrier wanders under the table to lie down.

The goddess pours out her heart to you confiding or confessing trusting you to her past and how she was once a singing star on foreign television and how rabid fans begged her to sign their bodies and about her abusive former husband(s) and your eye catches a painting of the goddess on the wall in a shrine flanked by gold statuettes on pedestals, the youthful goddess scantily depicted in a eerie loveliness makes you a tad uncomfortable never mind the cranky man in the wheelchair with a urine catheter draining flanked by two paintings of Marilyn Monroe on the wall beside a painting of the goddess and this current husband in better days. You take blood and urine samples from the sedated pup and recommend a 24-hour hospital to watch her which she declines and will call you if it gets worse and make note of any more episodes.

You return the next day the goddess has a son living in the garage converted he looks 25 is 33 and he feigns concern for the seizing dog smiling at you. The goddess had told you about the son living at the house using her credit card(s) and how he got in her face and threatened her and you want to deck the guy but remain as professional as you should. This time Bonnie is spinning and foaming the wanders the room twitching with a 104.5 fever and you explain she must be taken to the emergency 24-hour hospital all the while the husband is yelling out for his goddess to bring him something and you just feel so bad she must play nursemaid to the demented guy as well as dealing with a seizing best friend who might have meningitis or poisoning or just epilepsy is possible. The Chihuahua mix barks shushed by the poor woman who finally agrees. Fending off your own headache you sedate to transport the plump little girl. The son follows you in his step-dad’s Sedan to the ER … where they find she has very high blood pressure! Is that all?? No.

The Puppet Cat lounges in the sun on the clinic patio with Alex. He purrs up a storm and stretches his legs pretending to be normal as a defense mechanism. He still can’t get up. Where you put him, there he’ll be. You test his proprioception and his feeling is slightly better. It’s been a week and you feel he may recover so you continue your project cat and treat his heart disease and feed, water and clean him and hug him and feel him getting thinner…

You wonder why cases with the same problem come in threes. It has always been that way as far as you recall for over 25 years of practice. Also why do people seem to have the same disease as the animal on a regular basis? What is that about? Do we pick an animal the not only fits our personality and looks, but our medical predispositions? In the same night you get a call that one cat is in heat (but is spayed (?)) and attracted to the man of the house and a call where an intact Rottweiler is incessantly trying to hump the female owner who upon careful history admits she’s in season.

You visit Bonnie in the critical care unit since you have a continuing education session there that evening and she looks disoriented and probably blind and how the criticalist found a mass in the chest as well. You speak on the phone with the goddess about the poor outcome and she is so distraught and you want to help and refer a grief counselor for everything and she gets strong over the phone like the tough Chicagoan she is and realizes she can get through and it will be tough be she knew this was coming and is prepared and then you realize the lucky man’s Marilyn Monroe will help soothe him on to the next phase of his journey.

So are the Lakers out. Life goes on…somehow.

Dropped calls and Droppings

You maneuver up the Sepulveda pass returning from the Valley for the second time today all the while wishing there were a way to connect your iTunes from the iPhone into the trusty 2004 Highlander as well as connecting to the vibrating seatcover with speakers near the headrest. You try to field a call from the Service. You fear the reception will fail as usual since ATT&SUCK lives up to their name. Dispatch tells you the caller has some questions about a home euthanasia. You gladly accept and connect to a caller who seems to have bypassed the operator with trickery and deception. She probes your attitude about THIS reason to put her dog down. The beagle mix they rescued is biting her family. You give the speech about how the dog needs to be quarantined for two weeks BUT you hear the beeping in your headset. Call Fail. THANK YOU AT&SUCK but then you call back the service to connect to the operator and have them reconnect and you are on hold reaching the top of the Pass when the operator comes on and states the woman just had questions and as you explain to the operator about the quarantine and other measures the DAMN BEEP ending the call once again-Thank you for using AT&SUCK, how may I DROP your call? And you revel over how primitive communications have become. Did you get the point across, you wonder?

Earlier in the day in surgery you remove a lead shot bullet from a cat’s skull. The cat is missing an eye from an “accident” years ago. In your mind you try to assemble the trajectory through the eye socket to where the shot now rests lodged in the tympanic bulla. No one ever bothered to Xray the cat when the good Samaritan first brought her in after being left for dead. At the other hospital they removed the damaged eye and assumed the cat a hit by car victim. Now in your care you have battled the chronic ear infection for over a year until finally after numerous suggestions you convince the owner to xray. Unbelievable, there the shot lay on the digital rad. White metal foreign body stuck in the bulla. You realize you can reach it fairly easily and surgically remove the problem. Which you do. The cat's ear is clearing so far.

If only all cases were this cut and dried…

[DO NOT READ FURTHER IF YOU SICKEN EASILY]

You head back through the Pass toward Sunset sitting still the late evening logjam. Your mind wanders. You study the 405 widening project the civil engineers have going with enormous reinforced cement walls holding the mountain open for the new stream of car lanes soon to come. You are still wiped from the early morning call. Monday morning, 3AM. The witching hour…

Bleary-eyed, you drive the 10 east toward Downtown LA straight shot smooth sail not that gridlock 12 hours ago no you are cruising in on the Downtown loft community: people with lots of pets without a vet. No one seems to want to set up shop. Not yet. But you have been Downtown many times and it’s always the same scenario. Downtown parking during the day is a HUMONGOUS hassle for the housecall vet. No garage is nearby best find a meter. You discover parking garages take no credit cards. And you never carry enough cash. However, the meter DOES take credit cards. The meter is always a long trek with a cart two plus blocks around the corner. But at night, Downtown is awesome for parking and live entertainment on the stage of life. You never know what human drama is about to unfold. You are never concerned for your safety. You count on the “911” part of your brand to command some respect which it does in other hoods. And this time a loading zone is ready and waiting for you, doctor. You buzz the intercom. The owner has to come down. She’s disabled film student and her A.D.D. service dog Sporty (not his real name) You recall opening up squirrelly Sporty’s stomach a two short months ago to remove a bunch of bones and plastic. Doggy-rooter being successful kept Sporty alive just so he could get in trouble repeat offender. The lovely young woman in a wheelchair greets you with that happy-as-hell-to-see-you-again-doc look. She is cough-retching, she explains, from the awful stench going on up in her loft. Great, you think.

You enter the Downtown Deco building that reminds of Gotham City. Retro elevator doors slide open and summon you in. On the way up the owner states that Sporty had diarrhea everywhere and there is blood. You enter the loft with its spacious floorplan and picture windows with their big-ass view of the city. You gaze across the room and notice the large plastic airline kennel. From what you can tell, looks like the kennel got caught in a shitstorm. It’s completely smeared inside with feces. She directs you to the bathroom where Sporty is. You anticipate the worst. A morose creature laying in his own waste. You open the bathroom door and are perplexed by a Sporty who greets you by leaping to get out. The bathroom is a horrific bloody shit swamp. You tie the dog and find him… dehydrated. You wonder what foreign objects he dined upon this time. Last time bones and the plastic from the crate are what you removed. You search the room checking for clues not breathing through your nose: a technique perfected over the years. You explain to the woman Sporty has to go back to the hospital for X-rays. But first you must tackle the lovely task of cleaning the airline kennel. You glove up. Scoop after scoop of poop. Spraying. Wiping. Gagging. Flushing. Sopping. Wiping. Washing. Etc. You fathom bathroom cleanup after a Dodger game is easier… Finally, Sporty rides in the kennel upon your rolling cart back to the loading zone. The woman waves good bye…

But you never find any foreign material, never find the cause. Probably was somebody’s sandwich. A piece of garbage resembling food that the Sporty dog loves to get. He is lucky this time. No surgery. You tell the film director to keep an eye on him. Keep him on the halter. We must control what goes into that mouth. Don’t we all?

And now you have the Puppet cat to deal with…

There's No Place Like a Home

You enter the backyard of two dogs that have been fighting. It's just their house now. Then you hear about the manchild who lived there in Florence on his mother's good graces and has left his dogs at the boarded up house. But he did leave a dog house for the dogs. And a garage. The mother comes to feed the dogs every day for the son. The son bought another house in another neighborhood but he didn't want those dogs. They have been fighting and he doesn't wanna DEAL with it. The dogs fought over chicken his mom brought them. You and Tech creep further into the backyard to find one of the dogs cowering inside his house. You catch the characteristic whiff of infected bite wounds. Kona the Akita (not her real name) is real bitten up. Terrible thing. You and Tech have to rope and pry her from her wood house in order to help her. Tech finds the other dog, a Mastiff, wagging her tail inside the garage. She's got cuts on her head, but she's gotten the least of it. The mother tells you how the son is not very responsible. He told her that it was her fault that they fought. Now you have to take the dog to hospital and Kona's not feeling so hot but will after the pain shot you gave kicks in.

On the drive back to the Westside and a stop at Critical Care to hospitalize Kona you reminisce about all the homes you have been to and all the diverse living situations for pets in their owner's environment. From the girl who lived in a closet with her cat, to the toy dog running down the long corridor that is the bathroom/dressing room - powder room in some Starlet's mansion. Pets seem to adapt and adopt to their owner's and their surroundings. They make do with the space that they have. They don't pine for more space and find their place in a huge space. Pet's don't seem to mind the clutter you often discover upon entering their domain. They simply make their home in the junk around the junk through the junk. You tell Tech the story about the guy with two Great Danes (since passed away) and about his business, sport or pastime rescuing cats and their offspring. They live and breed within the junk pile. The wall of stuff dividing the room: chairs entwined with boxes and a BIKE and garden tools and a kitten comes out of there running through your legs out the door.

You sleep very little that night and the kids act up and the dogs bark at the squirrels and the mowers and blowers go off you go back at it and in no time you are back déjà vu at ANOTHER DOGFIGHT where the poor victim lives 40 crooked concrete steps above the street and you know how this is going to end with a large body coming down and your tech is out of cell range and dispatch did not acquire this information and now you need to make a new Rule. After passing two cabled bark-lunging pit mixes outside the rescue woman leads you into her abode where you enter the cozy cluttered room and the strong odor of kennel bum rushes into your lungs but somehow you instantly adapt. The poor, hairy Wookie on the floor is a mess of pink water and wounds. You labor dripping sweat shaving the anesthetized beast and finding extensive bruising with internal issues as well as a lot of swiss cheese skin who’s holes you debride and reduce with proper drainage but no matter what you do this puppy’s going to heaven. The new rescue bumped off the old Chow King and took his place. You console the owner as she curses the new dog.

Before you know it is night again and this night’s dog horror show is going to be the topper. Cause it’s Saturday Night! Time to party down dogs. Who’s it going to be? Nevermind you just finished up your “last call” at 9PM in time for dinner under the tin foil to be heated in the micro. It’s time for the Main Event. You are waiting and drifting and leaning elbow on the laptop making ghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh till you jolt awake to the buzzing of the iPhone it’s the Service and there’s a dog fight. Unfarkingbelievable. How did you know? Everything comes in threes you know. Groggily you attempt to determine the situation. There are two labs. The original dog and the new dog. New D has been quite a sore thumb lately. He’s aggressive. Finally tonight, Original D took offense to New D fronting like that and gave him a beat down. You hear more of the story and you gather additional pertinent facts that New D has been aggressive towards the family and they are quite afraid of him. They are trying to find him a home good luck without extensive behavioral evaluation medication and the risk of bodily harm where’s Cesar Milan when you think you need him? You ponder the possibilities: a usually very loyal loving breed like the Labrador turns on owners and the odds of a sociopathic brain disorder become exceedingly good in this case. And as dispatch is unable to approve the owner’s payment the owner tells you that she’s calling you from OUTSIDE THE HOUSE. She can’t go back in. The New D is in such severe pain he won’t let her back in the house. She wants YOU to go in there the late Steve Irwin style and sedate New D and get him out of there but it dawns on you that Animal Control would be perfect in this instance and she takes your advice. Can’t we all just get along?