Wednesday, December 23, 2009

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Well, I'm off for a long-awaited break so all that's left for me to say is I hope everyone has a very merry Christmas and happy new year!

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

"Tis the Season



So I had a little mini foxy come in yesterday. Well, maybe not so little. 8 months old and she had gained ONE kilogram in just over one month. She had skyrocketed from 2.4kg at her last visit in November to 3.4kg. Her ideal weight was 2.4kg. The owner had thought she was underweight and was "building her up". She had done an admirable job. She also thought the fat roll developing over the dog's rump was "muscle". I kid you not.

To put it into perspective, the dog had gained over a third of its body weight in ONE month. That would be the equivalent of this vet putting on 18kg (and yes, I have accidentally given my weight away to anyone who can bother working it out). Being somewhat on the vertically challenged side, the result would probably be this (though hopefully less troll-like):


Though, with Christmas looming around the corner I shouldn't really joke I suppose. Bring on the belly!

Monday, December 21, 2009

Top 5 - scrub tops

Top five reasons to wear a scrub top:

5/ Professional look - unless there are only massive tops for small vets & then you just look like a homeless person or kid playing dress-up
4/ Fur - prevents you taking half the animals home with you
3/ Blood spatter - prevents you entering consult rooms looking like an axe murderer
2/ Claws - prevents getting your nice clothes torn to shreds

And the number one reason to wear a scrub top which I discovered yesterday:

1/ PROJECTILE DIARRHOEA - 'nuf said

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

"Just quickly"

Okay another rant today.
Today I reaffirmed my belief that a vet should never be caught out at the receptionist's desk (unless pretending to be a receptionist). A new client came in to ask a couple of questions about his dog's skin condition. By "new client" I mean we have never seen this guy before he randomly wandered in off the street. I had just finished off a large piece of cake & a coffee so was in a fairly happy place still high on sugar and caffeine and stupidly admitted to being a vet. So we had the usual flea talk (because 99% of the time it's FLEAS) and then he piped up with, "Well, I've got him out in the truck, can I just bring him in for a quick look?"
I replied, "Of course! But we will have to book you in for a consult and there will be a fee."
"But why?" he whined like a kid in a lolly shop who's been told that the treats are not "all you can eat for free". "It's just a quick look!"
Yes, and then a quick diagnosis and then you'll probably want a discount on the treatment, or maybe I should just give you that for free as well!

Why can't these people understand that if I just had a "quick look" at every animal that walked though the door I would very quickly go out of business (or in my case get fired as I don't even own the business - either way I'll be living under a bridge setting traps to catch wandering cats for my dinner). You wouldn't ask an accountant to have a quick look at your books, or a mechanic to have a quick look under the hood for that weird knocking sound...on the other hand maybe these people do. Personally I wouldn't even think of going to my hairdressers without an appointment (in fact, I have to book three weeks in advance), let alone dentist or doctor, and yet every day we have people wandering in off the street towing a dog and three screaming children and then complaining because the vet can't see them IMMEDIATELY.

This is why I very "quickly" run and hide in my room when I see someone struggling to open our new pensioner-resistant sliding door. That way the nurse can tell them the vet is very busy but she can make an appointment for ten minutes' time - this always separates the chaff from the wheat and ensures that I am treated like an actual doctor (where you wait a minimum of twenty minutes on a good day after booking your appointment two weeks in advance) rather than a human version of Google. And if that seems cold-hearted and money-grubbing to you then I challenge you to walk into your nearest doctor/dentist/lawyer's office and demand to be seen immediately for free just to "ask a few questions" and see how far you get.

On the subject of screaming children, yesterday I had a visit that reminded me why I am still single and child-free. Ever try holding a conversation with someone about their aging dog and the looming presence of the angel of death with two screaming (and I mean SCREAMING) children doing high-speed laps through the clinic? Eventually they stopped when one pulled the Christmas tree over onto itself while the other attempted to strangle the wretched dog (which explained why the dog had a "kill me please" look on its face when they arrived). Finally the mother grabbed both her darlings and said, "I'll just put them in the car then," while I prescribed meds for the poor dog. Next time I see them coming I am going to lie in wait in my room with the blow-dart gun (I've been practising) and sedate both the little animals before they set foot through the door. Or maybe I'll just lock them in a cage and they can play "Prison Break" while mummy & I decide what to do with the dog. Either way they better hope I'm not on duty next time they visit!

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Stupid people


Sometimes we take it for granted that most people have at least a modicum of intelligence and forget that there are some truly stupid people out there. Now I'm not saying you have to be educated to be intelligent - there are plenty of self-made millionaires out there who don't even have their high school diplomas, but sometimes I wonder how some people manage to even tie their shoes in the morning.

Like the guy a nurse friend was telling me about. He decided it would be a good idea to stand in the middle of a golf course holding a golf stick in the air in the middle of a thunderstorm "just to see what would happen". Obviously this guy had skipped science class the day they covered Ben Franklin's kite experiment. And did this young Einstein take a friend or two to watch the show (and cart him to hospital when the inevitable happened)? No he did not. So when he got hit by lightning THREE TIMES, he ended up lying unconscious on the course all night before someone found him and took him to the hospital where he was treated for severe burns to both feet & possibly permanent nerve damage to the arm that held the golf stick. The miracle to me was not that he was not killed, but that the lightning managed to hit him TWO more times before he fell over! Honestly, what a bloody muppet. I told my friend that we could only hope that the high dose of electricity rendered him sterile and thus prevent him from passing his stupidity on to another generation. We can only hope.

You only have to go to YouTube to see the extent to which some people will push the bounds of stupidity. Of course, this all makes for great entertainment - after all, where would we be without the likes of "Jackass" or "America's Funniest Home Videos"? And in watching these things we encourage further stupidity from these cretins. It is a vicious never-ending cycle.
Oh well, at least it's funny.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Favorite phrases

Most aggravating phrases to a vet:

"I read on the internet..."

"Are you sure?"

"I'll just take a moment of your time..." (30 minutes later still on the phone)

"My wife would like to know..." (enter a 3-way conversation in which the husband is berated from the background for not relaying the correct information - just give her the phone buddy!)

And my personal favorite: from the lifestyle farmer who has absolutely no intention of ever getting a vet out or buying any products as they get everything at the farm store:

"I'd just like a quick word with the vet..." (enter 30 minute free consult)

This is why I pretend to be a receptionist on the phone and no longer enter the reception area unless I'm carrying a clipboard or an appropriately sick animal and looking VERY busy.

Monday, December 7, 2009

one to the good guys

This is Helmut.


He was brought in once evening because he was "acting funny" and rapidly deteriorated into a seizuring, salivating, hyperthermic mess. We suspected an organophosphate poisoning and he spent the following two days on a drip in an induced coma while his body processed the unidentified toxin. We didn't hold much hope for him on the first night, and only slightly more on the second. On the third morning he was awake though very groggy, and by that afternoon was slowly wandering around wagging his tail. He went home to his very grateful parents the next day.

What I didn't mention was that he was in the clinic two weeks prior to that with tick paralysis. He is now a very valuable little dog.

During tick season we often battle with hopeless cases even though we sometimes know better. It's nice to pull one back from the edge for a change.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Camera-shy?

So on my drive home I just had to stop and take a photo of the beautiful sunset over the hills. Unfortunately I also had a visitor who insisted on getting his big giant head in most of my shots...





But, with some persistence, and distraction with bits of leftover apple, I finally managed to get the shot:


Thought I'd better put in a photo of the camera-hog as well though:


Yes, yes, you're very pretty...now OUTTA MY WAY!

Friday, December 4, 2009

That's DOCTOR girl to you!


Speaking of firsts, it was in this same clinic that I did my first solo equine castration. Now I'd done a few with another vet present, and we'd always seem to have some or other drama - rogue runaway tiny testicles, poor anaesthesia, the horse we had to anaesthetise IN A CATTLE RACE and drag out before he fell over because even with three-times the recommended dose of sedation we still couldn't get near him...

So I was understandably nervous about going out on my own where there wouldn't be someone with me to top up the anaesthesia when things inevitably went wrong.
"Don't worry," said the senior vet as he grappled with an angry cat that was intent on clawing his face off, "it's in town so if you need a hand just give us a call."
Bearing in mind that by the time I would "need a hand" it would probably be too late as the horse would most likely be galloping off with or without his testicles by the time help arrived, I was not particularly comforted by his assurances.

Now the ideal paddock for a field surgery is flat without any trees or bushes or ditches for the horse to stagger into as it recovers from anaesthesia, and is preferably covered in nice, clean, short grass. The patient will be well handled and haltered and able to be approached and injected in the vein in its neck.

I arrived to a scene from "Once Were Warriors" with the addition of a horse. Two heavily tattooed and moko'd (tribal facial tattoos) large Maori guys were hanging off the end of a rope, the other end of which was attached to a prancing, rearing colt in a paddock that would have made a good site for downhill go-cart racing had it not been for the knee-high grass, barbed wire and gorse scrub covering the ground. Funnily enough, I was not surprised.

I greeted them and got the sedative shot ready. Luckily the horse settled down quickly and wasn't too bad to inject. While the colt got sleepy I drew up the anaesthetic. The guys looked on in interest.
"You got a lot of drugs there eh."
"Aw yeah," I replied, trying to hide the label of the ketamine bottle from view, "but it's all pretty heavy stuff - could knock an elephant out if I had to!"
The laughed.
"You done a few of these, girl?" one guy asked as I approached the now very wobbly colt.
"Oh yeah, heaps," I said confidently, though what I thought was, 'That's DOCTOR girl to you!'
I injected the anaesthetic and guided the horse's head as he collapsed on the flattest part of the hill I could find. I then tramped out an area in the grass on which to place my surgery kit and proceeded with the surgery.
As I sliced open the scrotum and pulled the first testicle out I realised that it had become very quiet. All the blokey joking had stopped and both guys were looking decidedly white under their tattoos as they watched the testicle drop from the cutting end of the clamps. I decided to get my own back for the poor conditions (and lack of respect) and, picking up the testicle, tossed it at the nearest guy.
"Fancy a feed of Rocky Mountain Oysters bro?"
It broke the tension and I even got a couple of weak grins out of the boys. Not so tough now eh!

By the time I'd finished the surgery and was packing up the guys had regained their old bravado, and the one in charge approached me.
"So how much is it girl?" he asked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a roll of bills.
I told him and he counted out the fee in $20 notes, before handing it to me with a "Chur bro" (for all non-Kiwi readers that means, "Thank you for your excellent services and have a nice day.")

That's the first time I've ever been paid in cash on a farm...it was very tempting to stop by at the pub on the way back to the clinic too - goodness knows I deserved a drink after that one!

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

First call

It's getting close to the end of another year (where does the time go?) and around this time of year I can't help thinking of when I first started out as a vet.

Having slogged my way through all the exams and practicals, I had a short holiday and then, still wet behind the ears (hell everything else was wet too I was so green!), I was eager to get into it and finally start being a...cue the dan dan daaa music...REAL vet. Back in those days I was actually disappointed to be stuck with vaccination consults as I wanted the challenge of real consults, whereas now I'll happily take a quick routine check of a healthy animal as a much-welcomed time out!

Time has slipped by and I've seen countless cases since that first day, but I will always remember my first solo farm call on my second or third day of work. The senior vet in charge of looking after me was off to a triathlon in another city that afternoon when the call came in about two bloated dairy calves. He was rushing off to his flight and so gabbled a stream of instructions as he raced around the clinic grabbing items at random. I followed in his wake like a lost puppy and finally he handed me his field surgery kit (I hadn't had one made up yet) and said,
"If you have to stab them just aim at the highest point in the flank" (this was to let the gas out of the stomach) "and then stitch it up again."
He must have noticed the stricken look on my face (I was still trying to process his directions to the farm, which consisted of looking out for a lot of hills, trees and funny-shaped rocks) and patted me kindly on the shoulder.
"Don't worry, you'll be fine. Everyone has to learn one way or another and here it's sink or swim. If you have any questions just give me a call on my cell."
It was only after he roared off in a squeal of tyres that I realised he would be on a plane and so be completely out of contact for the next few hours. I was truly on my own, like many a new grad before me.
"Well," I thought. "If my old vet could do it then so can I." (The day he arrived at his first clinic his boss took off on a three-week holiday, leaving him in charge. Luckily he had a very experienced vet nurse who pretty much told him what to do the entire time.)

I decided I would do everything in my power to avoid having to thrust sharp objects into the poor calves' sides (mainly because I didn't want to have to clean up the mess). After driving past the farm drive three times, I finally arrived at the yards to find two very rotund calves wobbling around looking like little black-and-white oompah-loompas. We managed to get one calf into the race without too much trouble, and I examined it, trying my best to exude the confidence of an old hand despite looking like a 12-year-old dressed up as a vet.

Having done a bit of horse work, I decided to treat them like little horses, and started by shoving a stomach tube down their noses and into their guts to relieve the bloat. The first time I passed the tube it somehow reversed direction and emerged from the calf's mouth, but I quickly managed to direct the tube down its throat and into its rumen before the farmer noticed. The gas rushed out straight into my face and, while I was gagging and the farmer laughing, the calf sank to its knees with an audible groan.
"Oh crap!" I thought, "I've killed it!"
But it was a groan of relief, as the free gas in its rumen escaped and its abdomen noticeably deflated. I followed this up with a generous helping of anti-bloat oil, and then repeated the procedure with the second calf. By the time we were done the calves were much brighter and in search of food.

"Done a few of these, have you?" the farmer asked as I packed up my gear.
"Oh yeah, you'd be surprised," I replied, trying to look older than my years.

I'm sure he would have been too...

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Kids vs Animals

What's better than getting called out to a farm to treat something you've never seen before? Getting called out to a farm to treat something you've never seen before and discovering that it's actually a high school running a small herd of cattle for the agricultural course and realising you're going to have an audience of teenagers watching you. All I can say is that I wish I had the opportunity to play with calves for 40 minutes a day when I was at school (though I probably would have been stuck doing Physics or Chemistry in order to get into vet school, go figure).

It was an 8 month old calf with a prolapsed rectum, which I've seen in small animals but not cattle but just decided to treat like a vaginal prolapse (which I have dealt with before). So I got to replace the prolapse, stick my arm up its bum and place a purse-string suture in the poor animal while 15 kids stood around staring and saying things like, "ew gross!" and "is it warm in there?" The funny thing was that their teacher used to be a vet, but is no longer practicing.

"Traded one type of animal for another?" I jokingly asked her.
She laughed and said, "Well, in this job I get thanked for what I do, there's no afterhours and I don't have to worry about the bills not being payed".

This almost sounded good, except that both my parents are teachers so I know about all the other stresses of the job (i.e. dealing with uninterested or worse, abusive, parents; discipline issues; marking homework and EXAMS).

So I think I'll stick with the animals I've got - at least I can sedate or muzzle them and stick them in a cage when they misbehave! Although I know of a few kids who could probably do with this treatment as well...

Friday, November 20, 2009

Big Game Hunting

I think I mentioned in my first blog that I try to avoid using our blow-darts and have decided to tell the story that will illustrate why.

At one of my clinics in NZ we had a pole syringe which consisted of a needle-tipped syringe attached to a pole. When the needle was briskly inserted into an animal's rump the plunger would depress, injecting the drug into the unsuspecting creature. The key word in that sentence was "briskly". The pole was used mainly on deer, but also proved quite useful for the odd aggressive dog.

Unfortunately my new clinic does not possess such a magical instrument. Instead my boss, using good old Aussie ingenuity (almost as good as Kiwi ingenuity), has fashioned his own blow-dart "pole" out of actual blow-darts and, wait for it, a curtain-rail! And it works! Rather well actually. He's even been driven around a paddock chasing a wild cow and managed to bring her down after five or six attempts. Mostly, however, we use it to dart aggressive dogs once they've been thrown into a cage by their owners (often without warning us beforehand that there would be no way for us to get said animal OUT of the cage again in order to sedate it). It's actually very humane as the animal doesn't realise what's happening until it's already done, and a lot less stressful than dragging an animal out of a cage with a pole catcher or wrestling an angry muzzled dog. He gave me a crash course though I never did get around to practicing with it and of course, the day came when I wished I had.

A grumpy dog was brought in on a Saturday morning and put in the cage before a vet (i.e. me) was available to sedate him. He then proceeded to growl and bare his teeth at anyone passing within 5m of the cage. Which didn't bode well for the poor sucker who had to get him out of the cage. The considerate owner had also removed the dog's lead so we had nothing to grab onto but his collar...which was situated a bit too close to his teeth for my liking. So out came the blow darts. I loaded up a syringe, attached the fluffy orange dart end thingy, took careful aim from about a foot away...and fired. A perfect hit right in the bum! I was doing a silent dance of triumph and feeling like a big game hunter after their first successful shot, when my nurse pointed out that the plunger hadn't actually depressed and now all I had was an angry aggressive dog in a cage with a massive needle and syringe full of drugs impaled in his rear. Not good. I didn't want to compound the situation by trying again and thought with longing of my pole syringe. I grabbed the dog catcher and with shaking hands slowly opened the cage door just wide enough to slip the noose into the cage & over the dog's head. Thankfully he was too concerned with the foreign body in his rump to barge out of the cage as I opened it. I then quietly and CALMLY opened the cage door and allowed him out, waiting for the explosion of twists and turns and head-high leaps that usually occur when a dog gets noosed. He came out quiet as a lamb and allowed the nurse to muzzle him, and then let me inject him the usual way without so much as a wriggle! I apologised to the dog for taking such extreme action, but still left a nice long lead attached to his collar as I put him back in the cage. Just in case.

So that was my one and only attempt to dart an animal so far. When I get the chance I will have to draw a target on a box and practice out the back. Then, when I get really good, I will try to convince my nurse to stand with an apple on her head so that I can become the next William Tell.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

So when will he wake up?

Had to euthanise a couple of animals today which is never an easy job and it got me thinking about a few stories I've been told by various anonymous vets.

Always, always, ALWAYS make sure you have clarified the difference between "euthanasia" (will not wake up again) and "anaesthesia" (should wake up again) when a client books an appointment to have their animal "put to sleep". I've lost count of the number of times I've heard of vets on the verge of injecting (or worse, having just injected) an animal with a lethal dose of anaesthetic only to have the client ask, "So when will he be waking up?" Um, never? This is the main reason I like to have clients sign a consent form. Believe it or not, some clinics still have not made this a set protocol and are just asking for a lawsuit - why to people have to wait until after the proverbial excrement hits the circulating air device before they change their practices? This paid off recently when a woman came in wanting to have her dog "put to sleep" and, when handed the form, asked what it was all about. When the nurse explained that it was giving us permission to "put her animal down" and asked what she wanted us to do with the body, the woman looked horrified and exclaimed, "But I only wanted his nails clipped!"

Though apparently, if you accidentally inject 5mL of lethal injection into a cat's abdomen and realise immediately after the plunger is depressed that you have grabbed the wrong, though identical cat, a large dose of fluids into the belly and some judicious use of adrenalin (both to cat and vet)MAY just revive it...after a three day period of surgical anaesthesia and several more days of drunken cat. True story but thankfully not one of my own!

Monday, November 9, 2009

Some people!

Very glad I wasn't on call last night. The boss told me that he was called out at 10:30pm for a dog showing signs of tick paralysis. The clients were 30 minutes away so he arranged to meet them at 11pm at the clinic. He arrived, they didn't. By 11:30pm he called their mobile number which was on his cellphone and after a few missed calls they answered and apologised, saying that they couldn't get hold of a car (and yet hadn't bothered to call him in the intervening HOUR to cancel!). He knew that the clients lived in an area situated between our clinic & a Pet ER clinic, so out of interest he rang the ER centre.

"Oh," said the night nurse, "Do you mean the people who just left 20 minutes ago?"
Apparently their phone had rung several times during the consult and the vet had wondered who on earth was ringing at that time of night!

What type of person calls a vet out, has them go to the clinic in good faith, and then decides to go to another clinic, doesn't bother to ring to let the first vet know what they are doing, and then lies about it?! Remember they had 30 minutes in which to call him when he hadn't even left for the clinic yet. Needless to say he was NOT happy about it and managed to get their details from the phonebook to ensure that they will never be admitted to our clinic and to attempt to bill them for his wasted time. Good on him though I doubt we will ever see a red cent.

At least he thought of ringing the ER. I would never have thought of that. And that's why my alternative career will never be "a detective".

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Sulking

So in keeping with the photo theme I decided to post this:

This is my dog sulking after an attempted home nail clip. My parents always wait for me to come home as the dog has black nails, and I, as the "professional" nail clipper in the family, am supposed to be able to handle this. My formerly friendly lab who would be more likely to lick an intruder to death turned into a growling, teeth-baring monster that required three people to hold down after the first crunch of the nail clippers. She also has a great trick of rolling onto her back and frantically paddling all four feet in the air while snapping her jaws manically at any hand attempting to grab her collar. And, of course, I proved her point that it was a terrible ordeal to be avoided at all costs when I managed to make one of her nails bleed...and bleed...and bleed...

In NZ we had great little silver nitrate sticks that instantly cauterised any bleeding nail, but I have as yet been unable to find these in Aussie and still don't know what vets over here use. When I arrived I got the nurses to order some kind of cautery stick in and I ended up with what looked like a lip-balm stick that had been left in the freezer for three weeks - the label said something about "minor cuts & abrasions & shaving cuts". It was useless. I had to put pressure on the offending nail with a tissue while the dog growled and swore at me from under the strangle-hold my father had her in. After five minutes I thought it had clotted & shoved her outside where she spent the next hour doing her lifeguard duty around the pool while mum swam, leaving little spots of blood all over the white paving stones lining the pool. A little later my sister yelled from in the lounge, "She's still bleeding!" and so she was. Thank goodness we had recently replaced the carpets with tiles.

So I had to resort to bandaging her foot, which resulted in her sulking in one spot for the next few hours and refusing to eat dinner. I took the bandage off but she is still not talking to me.

Next time I'm taking some sedatives home. On second thought, next time they can take her to the local vet clinic and let them deal with her, where she will probably be perfectly behaved and the vet will wonder why on earth I didn't clip her nails in the first place!

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

A picture is worth a thousand words

My sister complained that I don't have enough photos on this blog, which will be soon rectified by my recent purchase of a waterproof, shockproof, animalproof digital camera. The best thing about it, apart from the fact that it was on special, is that I am planning on claiming it back on my taxes as a "work related item" required for taking photos of cases. Of course, it also means that I can take more photos like this:


And this:

Yet another reason I am not a human doctor...I don't think I could get away with taking these sorts of photos of my patients (and would I even want to?!).

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

It's for the birds

Thinking about birds brings back memories of my first pet, a vicious antisocial budgie with the highly imaginative name of Tweety. Our neighbour found her on the roof of her house and, assuming she was lost, gave her to us. In hindsight I think her original owner had enough of her screeching and sulking and "set her free". I spent the next six years trying to tame her. She remained a very talkative but strictly not to be handled bird and seemed not to age, until the day I found her flopped on the floor of her cage, still alive but too weak to attack me as I opened the door of the cage.

I managed to convince my dad to take her to the vet, though he had already realised what I refused to acknowledge, that Tweety was just bloody old and was probably on her way out. The vet, who obviously wasn't quick enough to hide in the toilet before we arrived, did a cursory physical exam and resorted to holding her up to his ear to listen to her heart (at least I use a stethoscope!) before telling us that her chest muscles were probably too weak to hold her on her perch. He advised we should find a forked branch and rest her in the fork, but clearly chickened out of telling the ten year old worried owner that her extremely old bird probably did not have much time left on this earth.

The next morning she was on the ground again, but this time was as stiff as a board. I hadn't seen it coming but apparently wasn't particularly upset (I don't really remember this - not surprising since I sometimes struggle to recall what happened yesterday). Though, to this day, dad maintains that he is still glad we took her to the vet despite knowing it was a waste of time, as I would have no doubt blamed him for her death had we not. And even now, with my veterinary knowledge of bird health and expected life spans, I know he is right.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Ornithophobia

There are not many vets who enjoy treating birds. 9 out of 10 vets will be hiding in the toilet or suddenly have something urgent to do when they see the appointment notes: Bird consult - unwell. Now this is not because we don't like birds (well most of us anyway), or even because we don't know anything about them (okay, my course notes were a bit sketchy but with the miracle of Google Search most times I can come up with a diagnosis). It is because diagnostics & even treatment can be so difficult in smaller birds. Blood sampling (no more then 0.28mL/budgie!), x-rays etc = stress and stress = dead bird. Often I may be able to diagnose the problem but then can't treat it effectively because most clinics just don't stock the drugs needed, or if we do have the drugs then treatment = stress and stress = dead bird. In general, large birds are easier to deal with as they don't suddenly die in your hand. Though big birds = big beaks, and don't even get me started on raptors with big beaks AND claws.

So when a lovely old lady brought her little old budgie with persistent diarrhoea in to see me, I made sure to point out just how VERY old he was based on the faded rings on his head, and to warn her that the stress of examination may very well push him over the edge. She replied that although she was fond of him she was not overly sentimental (music to my ears!), which turned out to be a very lucky thing as I picked him up and he promptly gave three big gasps before flopping limply in my hand. Gravely I handed him back and said in my best death voice, "I'm afraid he's made the decision for us."

Though, in hindsight, at least that bird was sick. Last week I had a cockatiel brought in for a nail and beak trim. Now a wise and experienced vet, I requested that the owners take him out of the cage and hold him. But they declined saying that the BIRD HAD NEVER BEEN HANDLED! They didn't even want to be in the room with him. All this spelled disaster. I carried the cage into the consult room while the nurse donned the leather gloves and the patient glared at me from a corner of the cage. The nurse gingerly removed the bird from the cage with its overgrown beak wedged deeply into her gloved finger. I trimmed its nails while it happily savaged her finger. Then I used a trick shown to me by another bird owner and waved an ear bud near the bird's beak. As it transferred its homicidal attention from the nurse's finger to the taunting object I wedged the stick between its jaws and quickly clipped off the overgrown end of the beak. Mission accomplished. I was doing a mental dance of triumph while we prepared to shove the cockatiel of chaos back in its cage. But before we managed to do so, it gave a couple of jerks and flopped limply in the nurse's hand. I gently poked its hanging head with the ear bud. Nothing. Grabbed my stethoscope and listened to its chest. NOTHING.

Let me tell you, there is nothing worse than taking a previously healthy animal that arrived for an elective procedure back to its owner in a box. From now on I am going to INSIST that owners handle their own birds. On the other hand, maybe I'll just hide in the toilet.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Escape plans

I recently read on another blog (littlevet - highly recommended) that the vet would hide in the toilet when a difficult client entered the clinic. I'm so glad that I'm not the only one to do so! Unfortunately, my new clinic has 2 vets & only 1 toilet, so it can turn into a race to the back of the clinic...and the other vet is bigger than me.

The nurses will soon cotton-on to this trick so I have my trusty standby when a bird consult (one day I will relate why it is better for me to avoid bird consults) or mad client walks in: making that "important" phone-call I've been avoiding all morning. That way I'm busy, but also dealing with another client so I can't put it off. Then the trick is to make the phone-call last long enough for the nurses to drag the other vet out of the toilet! Voila! Problem solved (or in my case, avoided).

Note: do not use this trick too often as nurses can be annoyingly perceptive and can only be fooled so many times...

Friday, October 23, 2009

High Rise Syndrome (HRS)

Waiting for a call to go out & calve a cow...unfortunately at the moment they can't find the cow as she has done a Houdini from the yard, so I thought I'd write about "High Rise Syndrome" in cats.

My boss told me this one.

In the USA many people living in high rise apartments own cats, and these cats occasionally fall off the balcony when sunning themselves or falling asleep or just plain trying to commit suicide. Apparently this is such a common occurrence in the city that there are actually statistics to predict the chances of survival after a fall. According to these stats, cats that fall from the first to third storey have a high chance of survival (though with one less life left over); those that fall from 3-10 storeys have almost no chance of survival; but amazingly enough, those that fall from higher than ten storeys will have some chance of survival! The theory is that up to the tenth storey the cat still attempts to land on its feet, resulting in catastrophic injury as it holds its legs out rigidly pointing to the ground. But any higher than ten storeys and the cat panics and splays all legs out in terror, thus slowing its fall much like a skydiver does, ala "Terminal Velocity".

True story? You'll have to decide for yourself!

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Isn't it ironic?

What is the most ironic situation for a kiwi vet working in Australia? Having to treat a POSSUM, which is a loathed pest in NZ but a protected native in Aussie, for...wait for it...ratbait poisoning. I'm used to treating dogs and cats that have been accidentally poisoned by bait laid out for the possums, so this was a new one. And all my research looking for dose rates of Vitamin K for treatment (whatever did vets do before Google search?) just led me to sites advertising the best products for killing the animal I was supposed to be saving.

Only in Australia.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

A new day another bloody blog

Welcome to my blog. I thought it was high time I added to the ever-mounting drivel on the net, and as I am soon to be travelling the world (all dependent on the soon-to-be applied for visa) it probably won't hurt to get a bit of practice in.

Too thin-skinned to leave NZ for the UK in the middle of their winter, I decided to first spend a few months living in Aussie and scratching together a few more $$ for the trip. I scored a job on the Sunshine Coast & promptly bought another surfboard.

My first day at work began as any other day in a routine mixed-practice vet clinic: itchy dogs, anorexic cats, scouring puppies etc. It was all going as well as can be expected when one is trying to learn the ropes in a new clinic and figure out what the Aussie equivalent of NZ drugs are (unsurprisingly many are the same but pronounced in a funny accent), when a car pulled up outside and a large woman in a mu mu puffed her way into the clinic.
"I have a snake in my car engine bay and I need it removed."
I hid in my room.
"What type of snake?" asked the vet nurse.
"A carpet snake," she replied.
Now a carpet snake is not just a snake, it is a PYTHON, which in the right proportions can eat a large cat, small dog, or little vet.

Having ascertained that the woman had attempted to call one of the many snake catchers in the region but none were available (how convenient since we don't charge $200/call), I was dragged out of my room under great protest, "But I'm from NEW ZEALAND! We don't have snakes!"
Unfortunately for me the boss was away from the clinic at the time and refused to return until the snake was gone or dead - obviously also not a fan). I humoured the lady by going out to have a look at it while the nurse tried again to call a snake catcher.

IT WAS MASSIVE!!! Thicker than my arm and who knew how long as it was wrapped around all the tube thingies and under the panel around the wheel base near the drivers side of the engine bay. It's head was nowhere to be seen. Now even if I had been brave (or stupid) enough to grab the snake (they're not venomous but still very bitey) there was no way I would be able to compete with a python when it comes to sheer muscle power. This job would require some serious muscles, sedation &/ a long hook to find it's head. Preferably all three.

I went inside to check on the progress of the frantic phone calls. Still no snake catcher. So we rang our friends at the Australia Zoo (it's so cool having Steve Irwin's zoo 40min down the road) to ask them what sedatives we could use without killing the snake (which is illegal in Queensland - not that many people are concerned with that particular law). I hadn't yet thought about how I was to administer said drugs, though I was eyeing up our blow darts (yes, we have blow darts but that's another story). They told me not to try anything and that they would send the "Wildlife Rescue Team" up in an hour or so. I had visions of helicopters with khaki-clad animal activists rappelling down to save the poor defenceless reptile and ran in great excitement to get my camera ready. The clients, however, were not as pleased at this news as they did not want to wait 1.5hours in our un-air conditioned waiting room. Instead they had me ascertain that the snake was not on the engine or radiator and then chose to drive down to the zoo (I did clear this with zoo personnel first). All I can say is that I wouldn't be that keen to drive 40minutes knowing a python was only inches away from my feet separated by a thin panel!
I was a bit disappointed but had to laugh as the woman asked me to ring the zoo as she was departing and request that there be "no cameras" when they arrived!

How's that for a kiwi's first working day in Oz? As Hugh Jackman so eloquently put it in the imaginatively named movie "Australia":
"Welcome to Australia"