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!

"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!

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

"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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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...