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.

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.

Fleas Finally Gone Packing

After weeks of misery, the fleas has finally left the building. Itchy bleeding scabs on the body of me and my children have finally healed leaving barely a scar. The dogs are now only scratching at their Standard Poodle ears: a constant source of yeasty aggravation requiring weekly flushing, plucking and medicating. Our Hero? An oral medication called Comfortis. Every few years a new killer anti-flea product comes on the scene and becomes the latest annihilator of the dreaded insect. It all is extremely effective until the medication seems to "lose power". This is followed by the discovery of live, biting fleas roaming the poor pet. Classic re-infestation. The new med is not working anymore. I have seen resistance to Frontline, Advantage and Program. This new oral med has promise and has worked so far with Garbo and Rupie (pictured).

The place was sprayed madly with the only product I found to work: Vet-Kem Siphotrol plus Premise spray (we can get you a good deal). I had to spray my vehicle since my ankles were attacked while I WAS DRIVING?! It makes for a difficult drive when you are constantly picking at small brown objects on your legs. The Vet-Kem did the trick after several applications. I used 4 cans between the home and the cars. You have to spray the carpets, the corners of the room, the couches including under the cushions. Move the bed and spray beneath. Strip the mattress and stand it on end. Spray both sides of the mattress. Spray and wash all pet beds. Spray the dog house (with dog removed). Consider using Vet-Kem yard spray. I found if you skrimp on the spraying, the fleas that have not been eradicated will return with a vengeance. Hateful little creatures.

Well anyway, they seem to be gone for the time being. That is, until the Comfortis is no longer effective and we have to use the next generation of cold-hearted flea killaz!