And to top it all off, we discovered this when we got back from a weekend away:
I guess geckos are not as quick as they think...
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Doctor Death
The other morning I had to rush out to pick up a dog that had collapsed and whose owners were unable to bring it to the clinic as they didn't own a car. When I arrived, expecting to see a dog flat on the floor, I was greeted by the most overweight 2 year old Staffie-cross that I had ever seen. It waddled up to me, tail wagging and gasping for breath (not unusual for obese dogs). The owners were now rethinking their decision to have him taken to the clinic.
"Oh, he seems fine now!"
I had a quick look at the dog's gums, which were WHITE.
"Um, no, I think I'd better get him to the clinic. There is something wrong here."
That was when they mentioned that he had been off his food for the past THREE WEEKS - and for this dog to be off his food there must have been something SERIOUSLY wrong. The owner had been forcing food down his throat for the past three days as he had gone completely anorexic - never a good sign. They then also mentioned that "oh, and he's been having intermittent seizures since he's been a pup" but they'd never had it looked into. Great.
So I hefted (and I mean HEFTED) the dog into the boot of my car and drive the five minute trip back to the clinic. I ran into the clinic to get a nurse to give me a hand bringing the dog in as there was no way I would be able to lift it out of my car again, but it was already too late. The poor bugger had died on the way to the clinic and it was too late to try CPR or adrenalin or any of those last ditch attempts at clawing an animal back from the edge of life. It was only then that I realised that these were the clients whose bird had died during a nail clip (Oct 2009 - Ornithophobia).
And to them I will now forever be known as "Doctor Death."
"Oh, he seems fine now!"
I had a quick look at the dog's gums, which were WHITE.
"Um, no, I think I'd better get him to the clinic. There is something wrong here."
That was when they mentioned that he had been off his food for the past THREE WEEKS - and for this dog to be off his food there must have been something SERIOUSLY wrong. The owner had been forcing food down his throat for the past three days as he had gone completely anorexic - never a good sign. They then also mentioned that "oh, and he's been having intermittent seizures since he's been a pup" but they'd never had it looked into. Great.
So I hefted (and I mean HEFTED) the dog into the boot of my car and drive the five minute trip back to the clinic. I ran into the clinic to get a nurse to give me a hand bringing the dog in as there was no way I would be able to lift it out of my car again, but it was already too late. The poor bugger had died on the way to the clinic and it was too late to try CPR or adrenalin or any of those last ditch attempts at clawing an animal back from the edge of life. It was only then that I realised that these were the clients whose bird had died during a nail clip (Oct 2009 - Ornithophobia).
And to them I will now forever be known as "Doctor Death."
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Not such a sweetie
We had a cute little baby possum brought in today. Well, it was cute, until you tried to touch it, when it hissed like a rattlesnake and attempted to savage anything that came near it. I quickly pronounced it "fine" and the wildlife carers were called. I asked the woman who brought it in where she'd found it.
"Attached to the cat's neck," she replied, "by it's teeth!"
That poor cat must have go the fright of its nine lives when this seemingly innocuous "mouse" turned into a tiny toothed terror! I had to laugh.
"Attached to the cat's neck," she replied, "by it's teeth!"
That poor cat must have go the fright of its nine lives when this seemingly innocuous "mouse" turned into a tiny toothed terror! I had to laugh.
Friday, February 12, 2010
For the birds
You may have noticed in past posts a reference to my slight aversion to birds and may be wondering where it all started. Or not, but I am going to tell you anyway.
It all began at the tender age of six, when I was in some sort of zoo or park (the mind dims with old age) and was mugged by a goose which bit my finger and stole my toy block (ah the days before gameboy or PSP or whatever they are now).
I tried to get over it by owning a budgie, but in hindsight probably should have splurged the $10 at the pet store buying a tame one instead of catching one from the roof of the neighbour's house. She turned out to be the most vicious, psychotic bird I've met and would hang upside down from her perch screeching like a banshee. That and the fact that she regularly drew blood from any unwary fingers coming too close to her cage as well as living for what felt like forever (6 years is a long time to have a devil-bird in your room watching you sleep through the cracks in the sheet over the cage and making ominous low chirping noises) convinced me that she was half budgie-half vampire.
Then I arrived at University to discover that there were swans living around the pond outside the vet block and, at certain times of the year when the males were, lets call it "frisky", we would have have to run the gauntlet to get to and from class. This consisted of waiting until a small group of people had arrived at one end of the bridge and then making a dash for the other side with a hissing, flapping black male swan flying out from nowhere to challenge the unwanted intruders. It was not long until he was "relocated". I never did check if the on-campus students were served "chicken" for dinner that week.
But my tale cannot end without mentioning why I am especially nervous around chickens, apart from their beady little eyes and ominous "quaaarrrrkkk..." emerging from the bushes as you walk obliviously past their jealously guarded nests, before your ankles are attacked by a furiously windmilling ball of feathers, beak and clawed feet. No, this tale begins at an ex-boyfriend's place where his parents owned bantam chickens. One of the chickens had a habit of jumping on the windowsill and tapping on the window demanding to be fed. Now, I've never been a fan of being at the beck and call of any animal, let alone an animal that might well be my dinner one day, and it was even worse when she trained her little male chicken to do exactly the same thing. He was even tamer than his mother, to the point where he would to sit on my boyfriend's mother's shoulder. She would then bring the bird into the house and plop him on my shoulder like a parrot, where he would sit staring at me with his sharp little beak inches away from my unprotected eyeball.
"Haha, very cute," I would say, whilst shooting meaningful glances in the direction of my boyfriend that said, "Get this bloody bird off my shoulder before I lose an eye!"
One day I was sitting on the deck and our fluffy half-grown little friend jumped onto a small table next to me. I looked at it warily as it eyed my shoulder.
"Careful!" smiled my boyfriend from the steps, "He'll try to jump on your shoulder!"
"What?" I said, taking my eyes of the bantam chick for ONE SECOND. With a feral squawk that shot terror into my heart it FLEW at my head and landed with one foot in my hair and one clawed foot firmly embedded in my shoulder.
"Get it off, get it OFF!" I screeched, grabbing the madly flapping bird and throwing it to the ground, where it shook the dust out of its feathers and glowered at me with its beady little eyes while my loving partner rolled around on the ground laughing his arse off.
"Oh shut up and chase him away before he tries it again," I said grumpily as the cheeky beggar started hopping up the stairs towards me (they must be like cats, the less you want them around the more attention they seek).
He grabbed a coal scuttle and tried to shoo it away but, instead of running off like a NORMAL chicken, it ATTACKED THE COAL SCUTTLE. My brave boyfriend actually backed away from it for a few steps until he heard me laughing at him running away from a chicken (what does that make him then?) and gave it a small whack with the scuttle, whereby it finally realised that he was actually bigger and stronger than it and took off with a angry squawk.
So, it seems that while many birds seem to have a tendency to freak out and die when I handle them; the remainder seem to have one purpose in life, and that is to freak ME out. I rest my case.
It all began at the tender age of six, when I was in some sort of zoo or park (the mind dims with old age) and was mugged by a goose which bit my finger and stole my toy block (ah the days before gameboy or PSP or whatever they are now).
I tried to get over it by owning a budgie, but in hindsight probably should have splurged the $10 at the pet store buying a tame one instead of catching one from the roof of the neighbour's house. She turned out to be the most vicious, psychotic bird I've met and would hang upside down from her perch screeching like a banshee. That and the fact that she regularly drew blood from any unwary fingers coming too close to her cage as well as living for what felt like forever (6 years is a long time to have a devil-bird in your room watching you sleep through the cracks in the sheet over the cage and making ominous low chirping noises) convinced me that she was half budgie-half vampire.
Then I arrived at University to discover that there were swans living around the pond outside the vet block and, at certain times of the year when the males were, lets call it "frisky", we would have have to run the gauntlet to get to and from class. This consisted of waiting until a small group of people had arrived at one end of the bridge and then making a dash for the other side with a hissing, flapping black male swan flying out from nowhere to challenge the unwanted intruders. It was not long until he was "relocated". I never did check if the on-campus students were served "chicken" for dinner that week.
But my tale cannot end without mentioning why I am especially nervous around chickens, apart from their beady little eyes and ominous "quaaarrrrkkk..." emerging from the bushes as you walk obliviously past their jealously guarded nests, before your ankles are attacked by a furiously windmilling ball of feathers, beak and clawed feet. No, this tale begins at an ex-boyfriend's place where his parents owned bantam chickens. One of the chickens had a habit of jumping on the windowsill and tapping on the window demanding to be fed. Now, I've never been a fan of being at the beck and call of any animal, let alone an animal that might well be my dinner one day, and it was even worse when she trained her little male chicken to do exactly the same thing. He was even tamer than his mother, to the point where he would to sit on my boyfriend's mother's shoulder. She would then bring the bird into the house and plop him on my shoulder like a parrot, where he would sit staring at me with his sharp little beak inches away from my unprotected eyeball.
"Haha, very cute," I would say, whilst shooting meaningful glances in the direction of my boyfriend that said, "Get this bloody bird off my shoulder before I lose an eye!"
One day I was sitting on the deck and our fluffy half-grown little friend jumped onto a small table next to me. I looked at it warily as it eyed my shoulder.
"Careful!" smiled my boyfriend from the steps, "He'll try to jump on your shoulder!"
"What?" I said, taking my eyes of the bantam chick for ONE SECOND. With a feral squawk that shot terror into my heart it FLEW at my head and landed with one foot in my hair and one clawed foot firmly embedded in my shoulder.
"Get it off, get it OFF!" I screeched, grabbing the madly flapping bird and throwing it to the ground, where it shook the dust out of its feathers and glowered at me with its beady little eyes while my loving partner rolled around on the ground laughing his arse off.
"Oh shut up and chase him away before he tries it again," I said grumpily as the cheeky beggar started hopping up the stairs towards me (they must be like cats, the less you want them around the more attention they seek).
He grabbed a coal scuttle and tried to shoo it away but, instead of running off like a NORMAL chicken, it ATTACKED THE COAL SCUTTLE. My brave boyfriend actually backed away from it for a few steps until he heard me laughing at him running away from a chicken (what does that make him then?) and gave it a small whack with the scuttle, whereby it finally realised that he was actually bigger and stronger than it and took off with a angry squawk.
So, it seems that while many birds seem to have a tendency to freak out and die when I handle them; the remainder seem to have one purpose in life, and that is to freak ME out. I rest my case.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Paranoid rantings
Last weekend I went for a walk along the "Tanglewood Track" in Noosa National Park. My parents were worried about me wandering around the park on my own as a woman had been raped in the past in a remote area of the park. Now this didn't deter me since if I didn't go to places just because they "might" have rapists lurking around every corner, I would be stuck in my room watching reruns of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and drinking rum and coke.
So I went for the walk during a busy time of day on a popular track, constantly aware of the ever-present danger of potential rapists hiding behind every rock and tree. I scoped out escape routes and made sure I had enough energy in reserve to knee someone in the groin and run away (which is about the extent of my self-defense knowledge). All completely unnecessary as the only guy I saw that looked like a potential rapist turned out to have a baby strapped to his back and his partner lagging behind. That's the last time I listen to my mum's paranoid rantings.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Who needs a degree?
Now I've heard it all.
A woman rang up today to ask for some advice. She had "diagnosed" a heart "arrhythmia" in her dog (the nurse forgot to ask if she had a stethoscope or had just pressed her ear against the poor animals chest) and had been treating it with her father's medication (goodness knows what he now had to use). But wait, there's more. Now the dog was bleeding from its nose and she wanted to know if it was related to the medication!
As you have probably figured out by the fact that she had self-diagnosed and self-treated the dog, she was NOT a client of ours and was probably a few sandwiches short of a picnic. As she was using a human drug that we had never heard of before, we told her that she would need to ring the pharmacist who had prescribed the medication and ask them. The receptionist also suggested she try Googling the drug (which is what I do all the time). "Oh no!" she replied, "the Internet is full of rubbish!" She then proceeded to lecture the poor receptionist on a book called "MIMS" which is a drug book used by medical personnel and which I have sitting on my bookshelf. The receptionist refrained from asking her where she had got her medical degree (this is why I don't deal with the "difficult" clients) and said, "That's nice, we suggest you call the pharmacist or bring the dog in for us to check out." Now I could do a bit of research and find out but to be honest I had a busy morning clinic full of people who had bothered to take the time to bring their animals to the vet and I really did not have time to waste on someone who thought they knew best.
The receptionist later came in to tell me that the woman was on the phone again, having ascertained from the pharmacist that the drug in question would indeed have an anti-coagulant effect (i.e. it can cause BLEEDING!!) BUT, and here's the kicker, she thought that the dog may also have an "aneurysm" in its nose. By now I realised that we were dealing with a level 5 crazy person and told the nurse that unless we EXAMINED the dog, there was nothing we could do and I was not prepared to give advice over the phone because if anything else went wrong it would be my arse on the line. She came back to tell me that the woman did not want to bring the dog in, she just wanted to know what she could do at home. Surprise, surprise.
Apparently the chemist had told her to "hold the dog's nose shut."
Oh for the love of all that is small and furry! How long are you planning on sitting around blocking the poor animals nose shut? Not to mention the fact that the blood can just go down the OTHER WAY into the throat and you're not actually dealing with the fact that there is something potentially serious going on to cause the bleeding!
The nurse had already advised the woman that this was not going to deal with the underling problem (which was HER, I commented), but she still refused to bring the dog in to see us. I thought that was the end of it when the nurse said that before she could hang up the woman just had one more question and I was going to love it.
"Sooo, should I skip her dose tonight then?"
I....GIVE...UP!!!
A woman rang up today to ask for some advice. She had "diagnosed" a heart "arrhythmia" in her dog (the nurse forgot to ask if she had a stethoscope or had just pressed her ear against the poor animals chest) and had been treating it with her father's medication (goodness knows what he now had to use). But wait, there's more. Now the dog was bleeding from its nose and she wanted to know if it was related to the medication!
As you have probably figured out by the fact that she had self-diagnosed and self-treated the dog, she was NOT a client of ours and was probably a few sandwiches short of a picnic. As she was using a human drug that we had never heard of before, we told her that she would need to ring the pharmacist who had prescribed the medication and ask them. The receptionist also suggested she try Googling the drug (which is what I do all the time). "Oh no!" she replied, "the Internet is full of rubbish!" She then proceeded to lecture the poor receptionist on a book called "MIMS" which is a drug book used by medical personnel and which I have sitting on my bookshelf. The receptionist refrained from asking her where she had got her medical degree (this is why I don't deal with the "difficult" clients) and said, "That's nice, we suggest you call the pharmacist or bring the dog in for us to check out." Now I could do a bit of research and find out but to be honest I had a busy morning clinic full of people who had bothered to take the time to bring their animals to the vet and I really did not have time to waste on someone who thought they knew best.
The receptionist later came in to tell me that the woman was on the phone again, having ascertained from the pharmacist that the drug in question would indeed have an anti-coagulant effect (i.e. it can cause BLEEDING!!) BUT, and here's the kicker, she thought that the dog may also have an "aneurysm" in its nose. By now I realised that we were dealing with a level 5 crazy person and told the nurse that unless we EXAMINED the dog, there was nothing we could do and I was not prepared to give advice over the phone because if anything else went wrong it would be my arse on the line. She came back to tell me that the woman did not want to bring the dog in, she just wanted to know what she could do at home. Surprise, surprise.
Apparently the chemist had told her to "hold the dog's nose shut."
Oh for the love of all that is small and furry! How long are you planning on sitting around blocking the poor animals nose shut? Not to mention the fact that the blood can just go down the OTHER WAY into the throat and you're not actually dealing with the fact that there is something potentially serious going on to cause the bleeding!
The nurse had already advised the woman that this was not going to deal with the underling problem (which was HER, I commented), but she still refused to bring the dog in to see us. I thought that was the end of it when the nurse said that before she could hang up the woman just had one more question and I was going to love it.
"Sooo, should I skip her dose tonight then?"
I....GIVE...UP!!!
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