At 7 am I arrive at the hospital. Usually, the first hour is quiet. Doctors, technicians, and assistants come in at 8 when appointments and surgeries begin. That first hour I listen to voicemails, return phone calls, and prepare for the day. Today is different. At 7:50 a man appears at the door, with a gray cat in his arms. He is clearly in distress. I run to the door to let them in. He yells: ´My cat is dying! My cat is dying!’ I rush the cat to our treatment area and yell for the veterinary assistant. Fortunately, she arrived early today, because I am usually alone until 8 am. We place the cat on the table.
The veterinarian is ten minutes away when I call her. I put her on speaker while the veterinary assistant checked the cat’s vitals and it didn’t look good. It seems like the cat is clinging to life. The doctor tells us that we must send this patient to an emergency hospital right away. She tells us that we are not permitted to perform any medical procedures on this cat without a doctor present. We feel powerless, and send the man off to the nearest emergency hospital with his cat.
No time for crying
Deep in my heart, I know there is nothing that we could have done to save this cat at our veterinary hospital even if our doctor had been on site because he was too far gone. I cry. However, there is little time for tears, because the minute the man leaves, the phones start ringing and another client arrives for her dog’s dental cleaning. She is nervous about her dog having to undergo anesthesia, and I cannot be crying in front of her. I put on a smile and reassure her that we will care for her dog the way we care for every patient: as if they were our own.
Bad news
All the while, I keep thinking about the cat, while I answer phones, monitor our inbox, and keep track of the schedule. A routine email from the emergency hospital with an update about one of our patients pops up. We receive these emails every day, but today is different. I open it and it contains a very short memo ‘patient deceased’ and the name of the gray cat and his owner. I informed the doctor and the assistant who was involved this morning. They say something like ‘Yeah… that was to be expected’. I can tell that it makes them sad, but there is no time to process emotions, because they are in the middle of appointments, and tending to other patients.
Quality of life
While filing the emergency hospital report, I reviewed the deceased cat’s medical record and noticed that this cat had not seen a veterinarian in four years. No wellness appointments, no bloodwork, no vaccines. This upsets me because I know no pet should have to die in distress like that. If the owner had brought his cat in for regular check-ups, our doctors may have been able to catch something early and take care of it. Or at least they could have given this cat a better quality of life during his last few years. It is a common misconception by cat owners that cats do not need regular veterinary care (hats off to those cat parents who do bring their cats in for annual check-ups).
Wagging her tail
After a long day (I was hardly able to get away from the front desk to go to the bathroom), I walked into the recovery area to check on our surgery patients. The dog who had a dental cleaning looks great. She is wagging her tail at me and is clearly ready for her mom to pick her up. When the pet parent arrives, she is relieved to see her dog doing so well after the anesthesia. Tomorrow I will call her to check in on her dog. Tomorrow is another day.
Wendy McLahan