After a couple weeks of pain, which moved around the entirety of my mouth and varied in intensity from slighly annoying to crying at 3 a.m., I finally made it into a dentist and then an endodontist. No longer am I a root canal virgin. This week, I endured the first of two...out-of-pocket. No one becomes a vet tech for the insurance benefits, believe me. Or for the paycheck.
Having asked everyone in my acquaintence whether they'd had one, and how bad it was, I entered the endodontist's office only somewhat anxious. It was fast. Exactly one hour after the start, I found myself back in the car, pulling out of the parking lot with a numb mouth and a heavy sigh. It really wasn't bad, except for a couple seconds...and having to write so many digits on a check. Apparently, some people, once in a while, sport a "hot tooth." That's one that doesn't get blocked completely by the novocaine as it should. Happens once a month or so, they said. Lucky me...Miss July. There was a second when I felt the drill inside my tooth. It was as though someone dropped an atomic bomb in my jaw. Fat Man and Little Boy both. At once. I held still, but the physical response was intense...heart racing, muscles quaking, throat whimpering and eyes flooding. All at once I was 4 years old and I needed my mommy. Thankfully after a couple minutes and a couple more blocks, I felt nothing. And it was shortly done, after a whole lot of unsettling shoving of implements up my face.
It was not pleasant.
But you know what was more torturous than the root canal itself?
There I was, mouth open, laying back, rubber dam clamped in place over the victim tooth and covering my gaping maw....unable to speak. Gagged, essentially.
And there sat my friendly, nice endodontist and her nurse, one on each side...handing things and poking things and handing things back. And they were chatting up a storm, right over my head about how much "fun" my job must be. They'd asked me where I worked in that getting-to-know-you, pre-shoving-things-in-your-mouth phase of the appointment. I told them. Then, after the panic of that pain moment, the needles and the drilling....just wanting it to be over...they then started talking about how great it must be, how much fun, how much the nurse would probably love to have my job. What torture to be unable to clarify. To be unable to garble..."Euthanasia! Neglect! Cruelty! Cat Hoardings! Boomerang Adoptions! URI! Short-staffing! Stupidity! Abandonment!"
Lord. Isn't that terrible, to be at that point (which I have been for quite a while now), to be SO hot to rain on people's parade when they surmise that sheltering... that horribly underpaid and emotionally traumatic animal welfare work, is all about playing with puppies and kittens all day? Selfish, perhaps....to resent the "animal loving" public for not having to see what is in my face Monday through Friday and even in my dreams Saturday and Sunday. I can't tolerate people having the wrong idea either way...and I am not quite sure which is worse, over a tray of cheese and crackers at a party..."What do you do?"..."I work at the SPCA."
a.) "Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!! (pitch always rising at end, images of frolicking kittens in person's head) That must be SOOOO much fun!!!"
b.) "Ohhhhh. That sucks. Do you have to....you know...put them to...sleep?"(person edging away as if I am wearing a tattered executioner's hood right then)
I just can't let people keep either view, and I get pretty defensive either way.*
Neither is right. Except...also, both are right.
One is demeaning and one is insulting.
It's an important conversation.
Which can't be had in the middle of a root canal.
Mind you...generally, I don't bring it up. If it comes up, and I can't skirt around it, then I might get into it. My preference, out of context, is to avoid the topic of what I do alltogether. I'm no soapboxer...do not think so for a minute. Had I not gone to the root canal after work, wearing my logoed scrubs and badge, perhaps it all could've been avoided.
It's just been a long, hard week, I suppose.
*PSA: please, whatever you do, when you are out some sunny Saturday running errands and decide to swing by your local shelter or pound to engage in indiscriminate, dirty fingerpokery into each and every kitten cage, do NOT go up to any staff members and say the following:
"I could never do what you do! I love animals too much!!"
You are trying to sound friendly and whatever, and we can totally dig that...thanks. really. But that statement is the biggest, steel-toed kick in the nuts to all of us who show up day after day like the gluttons for punishment we are. No offense, but you with your pampered pets and Animal Planet habit (god bless you, seriously...there should be more people like you, and then maybe there would be less need for people like us) don't have the same concept of "love." To "do what we do" is for the sort of love that chews you up and spits you out...that takes you higher than you will ever be in your life...and that takes you to rock bottom more often than most people have to endure. Thanks for the sentiment....but if you get a shelter staffer or ACO on the wrong day with that statement, you may be sorry. Instead, a sincere "I appreciate what you are doing for the community...it must be so hard sometimes. Hey...who's your favorite dog/cat here right now?" will make someone's day.
Also, try to refrain from the other standby insensitive but well-meaning remark: "I couldn't work here. I'd take everything home."
a.) Does that mean that I'm an asshole for "only" having one dog and three cats?
b.) Come tag along on a hoarding bust... Vick's Vaporub stinging the skin under your nose within your mask, shit-skating through a puke-inducingly filthy house full of dozens of decrepit, dying and/or dead cats. Then remind me what you said about "taking them all home."
Thank you, good night. It's just Friday. It's nothing personal. We can talk about cutewittle baby kittens some other time, 'k?
And I really am not this much of a sourpuss. Honest.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Positions to Be Put In
Just last month, there was an article in Veterinary Practice News about "convenience euthanasia". It actually mentioned that as a private practice vet, if you are uncomfortable with the reasons for a euthanasia given by a client, you should refer them to a local SPCA or humane organization. Hi. That's me.
Thankfully, even we have standards and will not put animals down just for shits 'n' giggles or out and out "convenience." I have to sleep at night. It's nothing taken lightly. But I suppose I have done, or participated in doing, plenty of them that a private vet may not have done. For example, our "clientele" tends to be that of the lowest income bracket. People who cannot afford extensive supportive care for a degenerative disease. People who are not capable of proper treatment for something as manageable as, say, diabetes. People who cannot afford possibly pointless chemotherapy for cancer...or even expensive NSAIDs for advanced ortho problems. In the scheme of things, having come from private practice, it does bother me. But, this is their pet...their family member. Suffering is directly around the bend. I feel okay with having a hand in preventing that suffering by euthanasia.
Same with aggression. I respect the courage it takes to undertake the responsibility of deciding such a thing when human safety is at risk. Lesser people dump it on a shelter and let us be the "bad guys." These cases are hard and sad. But in the scheme of things, it, too is preventing suffering.
Then there are the nebulous ones. Case in point: a couple owns two teenaged cats. Neither is in ill health, particularly. Foreclosure, going into assisted living, whatever...but cannot keep the cats. What are the possibilities? Put them in the shelter where they will be overlooked and miserable, ripped from their known lives of over a decade to be put into a cage to compete with kittens? To be put in the path of the upper respiratory infection that we are never free of, the catching of which is directly related to stress? Will some miracle person fall out of heaven and come into our shelter wanting not a kitten, not a young cat, not a pretty cat, but coincidentally two nondescript, teenaged cats possibly on the brink of costly degenerative health issues? Is it fair, for them, to force them to endure a hellish existence on the off chance that monkeys might fly out of my butt? Add onto that the fact that we are full, and in order to undertake this doubleforcing of hell onto two older cats, some others will have to go? These are the sticky, judgement call situations that happen in every shelter. It sucks. And I am the one who has to carry it out and go home at night. I know, I feel, I did the right thing. It was gentle and peaceful and dignified and number one, it was the choice, the responsible choice, in the given circumstances, of the legal owner of the cats. It was the best that could be done for them. Until you are willing to go to your local shelter and adopt two teenaged, un-special, nondecsript cats yourself, then you shouldn't say a thing. It was the best thing for them in the circumstances. They would've been stressed and confused and frightened and lonely otherwise. Death cannot be worse than that. Yet, it tore me up. Know that should it come to this in your life and with your animals...that there will be someone aching at the task they must perform for your convenience. I do it because someone must...someone who cares. Someone must be gentle and apologize to them for you...must tell them they are beautiful and special and that things will be better for them on the other side. But it sucks. And it eats my soul. I can only hope that upon my own death, I am not met with a mob of angry animals.
There I am, right in the dead eye. She was a pretty cat, to me.
Thankfully, even we have standards and will not put animals down just for shits 'n' giggles or out and out "convenience." I have to sleep at night. It's nothing taken lightly. But I suppose I have done, or participated in doing, plenty of them that a private vet may not have done. For example, our "clientele" tends to be that of the lowest income bracket. People who cannot afford extensive supportive care for a degenerative disease. People who are not capable of proper treatment for something as manageable as, say, diabetes. People who cannot afford possibly pointless chemotherapy for cancer...or even expensive NSAIDs for advanced ortho problems. In the scheme of things, having come from private practice, it does bother me. But, this is their pet...their family member. Suffering is directly around the bend. I feel okay with having a hand in preventing that suffering by euthanasia.
Same with aggression. I respect the courage it takes to undertake the responsibility of deciding such a thing when human safety is at risk. Lesser people dump it on a shelter and let us be the "bad guys." These cases are hard and sad. But in the scheme of things, it, too is preventing suffering.
Then there are the nebulous ones. Case in point: a couple owns two teenaged cats. Neither is in ill health, particularly. Foreclosure, going into assisted living, whatever...but cannot keep the cats. What are the possibilities? Put them in the shelter where they will be overlooked and miserable, ripped from their known lives of over a decade to be put into a cage to compete with kittens? To be put in the path of the upper respiratory infection that we are never free of, the catching of which is directly related to stress? Will some miracle person fall out of heaven and come into our shelter wanting not a kitten, not a young cat, not a pretty cat, but coincidentally two nondescript, teenaged cats possibly on the brink of costly degenerative health issues? Is it fair, for them, to force them to endure a hellish existence on the off chance that monkeys might fly out of my butt? Add onto that the fact that we are full, and in order to undertake this doubleforcing of hell onto two older cats, some others will have to go? These are the sticky, judgement call situations that happen in every shelter. It sucks. And I am the one who has to carry it out and go home at night. I know, I feel, I did the right thing. It was gentle and peaceful and dignified and number one, it was the choice, the responsible choice, in the given circumstances, of the legal owner of the cats. It was the best that could be done for them. Until you are willing to go to your local shelter and adopt two teenaged, un-special, nondecsript cats yourself, then you shouldn't say a thing. It was the best thing for them in the circumstances. They would've been stressed and confused and frightened and lonely otherwise. Death cannot be worse than that. Yet, it tore me up. Know that should it come to this in your life and with your animals...that there will be someone aching at the task they must perform for your convenience. I do it because someone must...someone who cares. Someone must be gentle and apologize to them for you...must tell them they are beautiful and special and that things will be better for them on the other side. But it sucks. And it eats my soul. I can only hope that upon my own death, I am not met with a mob of angry animals.
There I am, right in the dead eye. She was a pretty cat, to me.
Strange Fetish
All the area municipal pounds have their own arrangements where euthanasia is concerned- generally private vets, who I image charge the pound (and thus taxpayers) for the service. On occasion, in a bind, we will help one of our local pounds out by doing a few here or there, or in dire circumstances, such as an ugly hoarding raid or somesuch.
I never mind helping the pound of the town in which our shelter sits. The ACOs are both wonderful, cool guys. Definitely not the brainless, brawny, union-babied sort that fit the stereotype.
Today they needed our help with one of their own complicated situations involving a huge brute of an American Bulldog with a sexual fetish for large plastic items such as carriers, trash cans and buckets. Often, the dogs they need our help with are pick-ups from the community...generally pits who want to eat the face of any human being who looks directly at them. Often, they are the sorts who can't be safely handled, even on a steel snare pole. Ones who require the dart gun. But this one was different. A huge block of muscle and testosterone, this dog had been rescued by the ACOs from a life of being tied to a dumpster. He had remained at the pound, up for adoption, for a couple months. He was way too much dog for most people, and a certain danger to public safety, in the wrong hands. A giant jack O' lantern head mounted on a Sherman tank body. From the start, he was trouble. In the AC van, on the way from his dumpster to the pound, he managed to get some nookie with a hapless plastic crate which was also in the back of the van. It broke apart, leaving him with the metal grate door firmly stuck on his...er....
The ACO rushed him to a veterinarian for help, being that there was blood, and a metal cage door dangling, stuck to the dog's belly. By the time they made it in to the exam room, the excitement had subsided, the bulb of the penis went back to normal, and the door fell off. I suspect the veterinary staff is still talking about that one.
He sat at the pound for months, occasionally finding a way to have his way with a bucket or trash can, and the staff got to like him. Finally, "the right home" for so much dog seemed to come along. It lasted a couple days. He became aggressive, frightening the new adopters. He came at one of them pretty seriously when they tried to stop him from humping a trash can. There would be absolutely no stopping a dog of his strength, should he choose to back up his charge. "High Value Aggression," anyone? It was clear that a big, strong, hypermasculine dog who was used to a junkyard life would not be a suitable housepet. Neutering was on the docket and just hadn't taken place just yet. But at middle age, tendencies, I believe, are formed. This was obviously a lifelong habit. These sorts of decisions are never made lightly. We are all here to save and do the best we can for the most we can. But this big lug was a severe liability. Not to mention, from his point of view, his chances for a safe, comfortable, proper, secure, temptation-free life ahead were slim. A life in a chain link run is no life at all. Not to mention, at a municipal pound, the influx never stops...cannot hbe halted by the words, "Sorry, we're full." Most other random or breed rescues won't take on a bite risk like that....and they're usually all full, too. So the staff decided to let him go. You know...let him "go."
When the ACO arrived, I came out to the back of the van to hear a huge ruckus within. I thought it was some freaked-out, aggressive display....I wondered if I should go set up the tranq gun. But no. It was the big blockhead going to town on another plastic dog crate, like there was no tomorrow. He had busted his tether in the van to get to it. And he wasn't going to leave it without a fight. Finally, he was wrangled away and guided into the back room, all worked up...red-faced and intense. Finally calming a bit as no plastic objects were in sight.
Things went easily, he became sedate and then he went to the big Rubbermaid factory in the sky. I made a pawstamp on a card for the ACO to take back for everyone, and he showed me some goofy, jack o'lantern grinning, upside down headshots of the dog on his cellphone camera, playing earlier in the day. This was a hard one for the pound staff. They loved him as much as they could. They won't forget him. And he is safe now, in a much better place than this complicated, generally apathetic world.
I never mind helping the pound of the town in which our shelter sits. The ACOs are both wonderful, cool guys. Definitely not the brainless, brawny, union-babied sort that fit the stereotype.
Today they needed our help with one of their own complicated situations involving a huge brute of an American Bulldog with a sexual fetish for large plastic items such as carriers, trash cans and buckets. Often, the dogs they need our help with are pick-ups from the community...generally pits who want to eat the face of any human being who looks directly at them. Often, they are the sorts who can't be safely handled, even on a steel snare pole. Ones who require the dart gun. But this one was different. A huge block of muscle and testosterone, this dog had been rescued by the ACOs from a life of being tied to a dumpster. He had remained at the pound, up for adoption, for a couple months. He was way too much dog for most people, and a certain danger to public safety, in the wrong hands. A giant jack O' lantern head mounted on a Sherman tank body. From the start, he was trouble. In the AC van, on the way from his dumpster to the pound, he managed to get some nookie with a hapless plastic crate which was also in the back of the van. It broke apart, leaving him with the metal grate door firmly stuck on his...er....
The ACO rushed him to a veterinarian for help, being that there was blood, and a metal cage door dangling, stuck to the dog's belly. By the time they made it in to the exam room, the excitement had subsided, the bulb of the penis went back to normal, and the door fell off. I suspect the veterinary staff is still talking about that one.
He sat at the pound for months, occasionally finding a way to have his way with a bucket or trash can, and the staff got to like him. Finally, "the right home" for so much dog seemed to come along. It lasted a couple days. He became aggressive, frightening the new adopters. He came at one of them pretty seriously when they tried to stop him from humping a trash can. There would be absolutely no stopping a dog of his strength, should he choose to back up his charge. "High Value Aggression," anyone? It was clear that a big, strong, hypermasculine dog who was used to a junkyard life would not be a suitable housepet. Neutering was on the docket and just hadn't taken place just yet. But at middle age, tendencies, I believe, are formed. This was obviously a lifelong habit. These sorts of decisions are never made lightly. We are all here to save and do the best we can for the most we can. But this big lug was a severe liability. Not to mention, from his point of view, his chances for a safe, comfortable, proper, secure, temptation-free life ahead were slim. A life in a chain link run is no life at all. Not to mention, at a municipal pound, the influx never stops...cannot hbe halted by the words, "Sorry, we're full." Most other random or breed rescues won't take on a bite risk like that....and they're usually all full, too. So the staff decided to let him go. You know...let him "go."
When the ACO arrived, I came out to the back of the van to hear a huge ruckus within. I thought it was some freaked-out, aggressive display....I wondered if I should go set up the tranq gun. But no. It was the big blockhead going to town on another plastic dog crate, like there was no tomorrow. He had busted his tether in the van to get to it. And he wasn't going to leave it without a fight. Finally, he was wrangled away and guided into the back room, all worked up...red-faced and intense. Finally calming a bit as no plastic objects were in sight.
Things went easily, he became sedate and then he went to the big Rubbermaid factory in the sky. I made a pawstamp on a card for the ACO to take back for everyone, and he showed me some goofy, jack o'lantern grinning, upside down headshots of the dog on his cellphone camera, playing earlier in the day. This was a hard one for the pound staff. They loved him as much as they could. They won't forget him. And he is safe now, in a much better place than this complicated, generally apathetic world.
The Why and How
This work is certainly a nebulous, everchanging thing... in the way of how one deals with it.
The esteemed Doug Fakkema sums it all up.
Any thinking person, when faced with the same issues every day, is always trying to come to terms with the big Why. In our case, Why must we contend with the same problems day in and day out?
My idea of Why changes from time to time.
My current Why, the reason why animal sheltering is necessary, is simple:
Puppy and Kitten Addiction.
It's more complex than that, but that's it in a nutshell. That mentality is reflected in lots of areas in society, really. New is better. Pretty is better. Exciting is better. NOW is better. Fewer people are of the mindset of investing time and work into anything, whether it be relationships, cars, homes, work situations, education. Pets are no exception. And something about the face of a baby anything makes many people stupid and shortsighted. When I am in a room with a needle and syringe in my hand, putting to sleep a stereotypical big, strong, undisciplined, dominant 2-4 year old unneutered male dog who has indicated a distinct tendency to maul the hand that feeds, this is what I think about and feel anger about. I know that there was a point when that dog was a cute little puppy, and someone was impulsive in their sea of "AWWWWW!!"s, in their puppy lust. I know they goo gooed and bought large amounts of toys and treats for the first several months. I know also that they never took the time for good socialization and training, nor made the effort to discipline. I know it came time to neuter and they chose not to spend the money, just as they chose to remain passive in discipline. Fast forward a couple years, Baby Huey has become a monster and gee, the owner is "moving." Here I am cleaning up the "mess." We can't risk our 130-something years' existence, our function of helping thousands, just for this one individual...this giant, walking bite risk. One skilled lawsuit would eradicate us. So here I am, needle in hand. It eats at me. And what I also know is that the person who turned the dog in is sleeping soundly at night, ignorantly believing that there are people out there who are not consumed by reckless puppy lust, who would be willing to put their family and neighbors at risk by adopting a big, macho, grown up time bomb, people game to put in the exhaustive work to rehabilitate it....and that these mythological, benevolent and capable people will happen to walk into our shelter some sunny Saturday and "fall in love" with the drooling snarl of the beast in Run #11. This belief is stored in the brain next to the one that so many have...that there is some magical "Farm" where all animals go and live and romp forever in harmony. And no doubt the turner-inner is already dreaming of their next cute wittle puppy. And several Saturdays have come and gone, with 60%, easy, of visitors leaving after a cursory stroll to see if we have any small-breed puppies kicking around somewhere. We don't. The dog in #14 was a small-breed puppy, fresh from Hunte Corp. three years ago....too bad now he's a dominant little shit with balls like walnuts, ready to take your toddler's face off over a dropped Cheerio. Er, uh...or should I say, his owners were "moving." So many people start edging out when they hear there are no puppies here. A friendly mention of some nice young adults we have brings a glaze to their eyes.
I see the same when I stand in the cat room. Each face...each 5 year old given up for "moving", and who will sit here for months, meowing for their food in the morning, while kitten after kitten gets adopted.....they were once a kitten, too. I imagine them, adult face morphed into baby face, rewind 5 years....tiny face peeking out of a box at a flea market, or even from the cage bars of our own shelter...the soundtrack is always the same: "AWWWWWW!" (the sound of Hell itself). And now, the face not even worth a glance to most people. How short the distance between the cuteness of kittenhood...the fun of making your own lolcat .gifs, the glee of buying toys...to adult cathood. I prefer the latter, and thankfully some others do, or else we'd never get our adults out. But still...each time I look at a shelter cat's face here, now, waiting, given up...I only see a kitten, once worshipped. Now fallen.
Thankfully, we rarely must resort to euthanasia of our own animals. Thankfully, once in a while and sometimes in wondrous spurts, folks do come along and see something special in an adult animal. Thankfully, too, conscientious people come in to adopt a puppy or kitten with the well-thought-out intention of committing for life. That is as good as anything...each kitten in a lifetime home is one less adult cat ending up in the shelter system in the future.
What is the Answer? Spay/neuter seems to be. Obviously. But, I ask: if society is leaning more and more towards a sense of individual entitlement and instant self-gratification (can anyone deny this?), won't there continue to be a demand for cutewittle puppies and kittens? A reduction in population but an increase in demand....how will that work? Hopefully I am wrong.
The esteemed Doug Fakkema sums it all up.
Any thinking person, when faced with the same issues every day, is always trying to come to terms with the big Why. In our case, Why must we contend with the same problems day in and day out?
My idea of Why changes from time to time.
My current Why, the reason why animal sheltering is necessary, is simple:
Puppy and Kitten Addiction.
It's more complex than that, but that's it in a nutshell. That mentality is reflected in lots of areas in society, really. New is better. Pretty is better. Exciting is better. NOW is better. Fewer people are of the mindset of investing time and work into anything, whether it be relationships, cars, homes, work situations, education. Pets are no exception. And something about the face of a baby anything makes many people stupid and shortsighted. When I am in a room with a needle and syringe in my hand, putting to sleep a stereotypical big, strong, undisciplined, dominant 2-4 year old unneutered male dog who has indicated a distinct tendency to maul the hand that feeds, this is what I think about and feel anger about. I know that there was a point when that dog was a cute little puppy, and someone was impulsive in their sea of "AWWWWW!!"s, in their puppy lust. I know they goo gooed and bought large amounts of toys and treats for the first several months. I know also that they never took the time for good socialization and training, nor made the effort to discipline. I know it came time to neuter and they chose not to spend the money, just as they chose to remain passive in discipline. Fast forward a couple years, Baby Huey has become a monster and gee, the owner is "moving." Here I am cleaning up the "mess." We can't risk our 130-something years' existence, our function of helping thousands, just for this one individual...this giant, walking bite risk. One skilled lawsuit would eradicate us. So here I am, needle in hand. It eats at me. And what I also know is that the person who turned the dog in is sleeping soundly at night, ignorantly believing that there are people out there who are not consumed by reckless puppy lust, who would be willing to put their family and neighbors at risk by adopting a big, macho, grown up time bomb, people game to put in the exhaustive work to rehabilitate it....and that these mythological, benevolent and capable people will happen to walk into our shelter some sunny Saturday and "fall in love" with the drooling snarl of the beast in Run #11. This belief is stored in the brain next to the one that so many have...that there is some magical "Farm" where all animals go and live and romp forever in harmony. And no doubt the turner-inner is already dreaming of their next cute wittle puppy. And several Saturdays have come and gone, with 60%, easy, of visitors leaving after a cursory stroll to see if we have any small-breed puppies kicking around somewhere. We don't. The dog in #14 was a small-breed puppy, fresh from Hunte Corp. three years ago....too bad now he's a dominant little shit with balls like walnuts, ready to take your toddler's face off over a dropped Cheerio. Er, uh...or should I say, his owners were "moving." So many people start edging out when they hear there are no puppies here. A friendly mention of some nice young adults we have brings a glaze to their eyes.
I see the same when I stand in the cat room. Each face...each 5 year old given up for "moving", and who will sit here for months, meowing for their food in the morning, while kitten after kitten gets adopted.....they were once a kitten, too. I imagine them, adult face morphed into baby face, rewind 5 years....tiny face peeking out of a box at a flea market, or even from the cage bars of our own shelter...the soundtrack is always the same: "AWWWWWW!" (the sound of Hell itself). And now, the face not even worth a glance to most people. How short the distance between the cuteness of kittenhood...the fun of making your own lolcat .gifs, the glee of buying toys...to adult cathood. I prefer the latter, and thankfully some others do, or else we'd never get our adults out. But still...each time I look at a shelter cat's face here, now, waiting, given up...I only see a kitten, once worshipped. Now fallen.
Thankfully, we rarely must resort to euthanasia of our own animals. Thankfully, once in a while and sometimes in wondrous spurts, folks do come along and see something special in an adult animal. Thankfully, too, conscientious people come in to adopt a puppy or kitten with the well-thought-out intention of committing for life. That is as good as anything...each kitten in a lifetime home is one less adult cat ending up in the shelter system in the future.
What is the Answer? Spay/neuter seems to be. Obviously. But, I ask: if society is leaning more and more towards a sense of individual entitlement and instant self-gratification (can anyone deny this?), won't there continue to be a demand for cutewittle puppies and kittens? A reduction in population but an increase in demand....how will that work? Hopefully I am wrong.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Skeletal Pathos
This has happened twice in the past few weeks. Both times were pit bulls, coincidentally. Euthanasia, I feel, is the most important part of my job, hands down. Fortunately, we are a private shelter and not a pound, which means that when we are full, we have the luxury of saying so. The euthanasia of our own animals is not frequent and is soley based on physical or mental suffering or bite risk/liability. That explanation is for another day.
On any given afternoon, euthanasias generally are what we call DPOs, or "Down Per Owner", as opposed to DPS, "Down Per Shelter." I am it for euthanasia- the only one there now who can do it or prepare for it. I am the one who talks to the owner, if they want to be present. It varies, just like people's emotional displays vary. It can be draining, the counseling part. I explain, give the sedative, prepare them and their pet...and then our director, a former equine vet, comes in for the injection. That's just a formality. He'd be the first to tell you that I am the better shot. But it looks better to have the whole nurse/doctor thing going. If they drop-off (which I never understand), then it's all me. And in a way, it's better like that. It's a private thing, and other than the owner, I'd rather it just be me and the animal.
The reasons are generally warranted. Almost always illness and old age. End stage cancer. Sometimes aggression. Those are hard. That is a hard decision to come to. It is very courageous and responsible to step up and make this decision rather than dump a dog at a shelter without full disclosure and put not only other people and other animals at risk...but an entire shelter at risk for future liability...and the dog in question at risk for a life of misery. Sometimes we are wrangled into euthanasias that are seemingly more for convenience. The lines are blurry. Nothing is black and white. But, that is for another time.
Recently, though, have come two very upsetting situations involving pit bulls, spaced by a couple weeks. Both were very well-loved. Too loved, in fact. Both made it to a ridiculous age...16 and 17. Both would easily have been prosecutable cruelty cases had we come upon them in other circumstances...like if a concerned neighbor had called us. Both arrived comatose and absolutely, horrifically emaciated and dehydrated, attended by owners who were in such a state of hysteria that everyone was uncomfortable. Both were scheduled as "routine" DPOs....old dogs whose time had come. In each case, when the paperwork had been done, and the dog was brought into the exam room, jaws dropped. I have never seen anything so skeletal, alive. How to speak to the owners? You are, on one hand, so cognizant of the human-animal bond...I mean, it is our life's work. You can understand how people can love their pets and have difficulty letting them go. But on the other hand, here in front of you is blatant neglect in the fullest definition. "How long has he been like this?" "Did you take him to a vet?" Both situations yielded disturbing answers. If you love something so much that you are in hysterics...and mind you, this is not a traumatic, acute situation but a progressive one....how can you let things go so far?? A.) You've had several more years with this animal that most people get with theirs, since most dogs make it to 13 or 14, max. B.) You have to have seen the dog melting away like an ice cube for the past few weeks. It should not come as some insurmountable shock that death was near.
Perhaps I speak from a more pragmatic point of view, since this process of letting go is so familiar to me.
But I cannot fathom letting my animals or my loved ones get to the point of looking like Auchwitz victims in a coma and not doing something.
It's an odd point of balance in the moment, to gently make a point to the person about being more proactive in the future, yet still remain compassionate. They should know that this is not acceptable, yet they still deserve our kindness at this dark moment in their life.
These are hard. We have prosecuted people for allowing a dog to get even remotely to that state without intervention. The only difference is that the owners of these two pit bulls came to us, and we were not called out to them.
I can still feel the washboard of ribs under her dry coat, the hip bones like carved cups. Thick, yellow mucus filled her eye sockets under sunken, glazed eyes. She must've once weighed 50-something pounds but was now 20, according to the husband. Occasional breaths were the only clue that "life" was still within. It was horrible. For all they give us, we owe them a dignified end. To keep them medically comfortable when illness and age set in, and to let them go when suffering begins. This was not dignity. It was pathetic. The wife was outside having a breakdown. The husband left the room. My boss, one of the kennel girls, and I looked at each other, still incredulous and sickened. Then I set this poor dog free. I kissed her cheek as I injected. It was like kissing a bare skull.
I hope I never see a dog so thin ever again. Or if I do, it will be in "Evidence" photos.
On any given afternoon, euthanasias generally are what we call DPOs, or "Down Per Owner", as opposed to DPS, "Down Per Shelter." I am it for euthanasia- the only one there now who can do it or prepare for it. I am the one who talks to the owner, if they want to be present. It varies, just like people's emotional displays vary. It can be draining, the counseling part. I explain, give the sedative, prepare them and their pet...and then our director, a former equine vet, comes in for the injection. That's just a formality. He'd be the first to tell you that I am the better shot. But it looks better to have the whole nurse/doctor thing going. If they drop-off (which I never understand), then it's all me. And in a way, it's better like that. It's a private thing, and other than the owner, I'd rather it just be me and the animal.
The reasons are generally warranted. Almost always illness and old age. End stage cancer. Sometimes aggression. Those are hard. That is a hard decision to come to. It is very courageous and responsible to step up and make this decision rather than dump a dog at a shelter without full disclosure and put not only other people and other animals at risk...but an entire shelter at risk for future liability...and the dog in question at risk for a life of misery. Sometimes we are wrangled into euthanasias that are seemingly more for convenience. The lines are blurry. Nothing is black and white. But, that is for another time.
Recently, though, have come two very upsetting situations involving pit bulls, spaced by a couple weeks. Both were very well-loved. Too loved, in fact. Both made it to a ridiculous age...16 and 17. Both would easily have been prosecutable cruelty cases had we come upon them in other circumstances...like if a concerned neighbor had called us. Both arrived comatose and absolutely, horrifically emaciated and dehydrated, attended by owners who were in such a state of hysteria that everyone was uncomfortable. Both were scheduled as "routine" DPOs....old dogs whose time had come. In each case, when the paperwork had been done, and the dog was brought into the exam room, jaws dropped. I have never seen anything so skeletal, alive. How to speak to the owners? You are, on one hand, so cognizant of the human-animal bond...I mean, it is our life's work. You can understand how people can love their pets and have difficulty letting them go. But on the other hand, here in front of you is blatant neglect in the fullest definition. "How long has he been like this?" "Did you take him to a vet?" Both situations yielded disturbing answers. If you love something so much that you are in hysterics...and mind you, this is not a traumatic, acute situation but a progressive one....how can you let things go so far?? A.) You've had several more years with this animal that most people get with theirs, since most dogs make it to 13 or 14, max. B.) You have to have seen the dog melting away like an ice cube for the past few weeks. It should not come as some insurmountable shock that death was near.
Perhaps I speak from a more pragmatic point of view, since this process of letting go is so familiar to me.
But I cannot fathom letting my animals or my loved ones get to the point of looking like Auchwitz victims in a coma and not doing something.
It's an odd point of balance in the moment, to gently make a point to the person about being more proactive in the future, yet still remain compassionate. They should know that this is not acceptable, yet they still deserve our kindness at this dark moment in their life.
These are hard. We have prosecuted people for allowing a dog to get even remotely to that state without intervention. The only difference is that the owners of these two pit bulls came to us, and we were not called out to them.
I can still feel the washboard of ribs under her dry coat, the hip bones like carved cups. Thick, yellow mucus filled her eye sockets under sunken, glazed eyes. She must've once weighed 50-something pounds but was now 20, according to the husband. Occasional breaths were the only clue that "life" was still within. It was horrible. For all they give us, we owe them a dignified end. To keep them medically comfortable when illness and age set in, and to let them go when suffering begins. This was not dignity. It was pathetic. The wife was outside having a breakdown. The husband left the room. My boss, one of the kennel girls, and I looked at each other, still incredulous and sickened. Then I set this poor dog free. I kissed her cheek as I injected. It was like kissing a bare skull.
I hope I never see a dog so thin ever again. Or if I do, it will be in "Evidence" photos.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Where to start...?
I am a Certified Veterinary Technician.
It's not a career I exactly chose, per se. Basically, at 17, it was time to get a job. I'd always been an animal person. An anti-social, overly sensitive and ponderous kid who felt more comfortable in the presence of those with fur, feathers, fins....those without expectation and rules and judgements. Those who did not speak nor require me to speak. Trite, perhaps. But it was (and is) so. So at 17, merely for need of a job, I headed for a local veterinary hospital. It blew my mind to be given money, regularly, for bathing dogs and cleaning cat cages! Ah, the ignorance of youth.
Blah blah blah, FF through meeting a boy, moving clear across the country, marrying boy, being betrayed by boy, finally leaving boy for another boy, and settling into current situation....and here I am nearly 17 years later, still a veterinary technician. I love it. I hate it. I am embarrassed for not being something more highly valued and highly paid. It blows my mind now, not that I am getting paid for this, as before...but that I am getting paid so little for doing so much, while my peers get paid so much for doing so little quite often. Despite or because of my passive "career choice", not sure which, I am not a money person, really. I can spend frivolously with the best of 'em, yes...but I have no taste for fine things in the mainstream sense. I suppose working in scrubs and not having to buy a stylish office wardrobe does offset my salary a bit. And I firmly believe that one of the great Truths of Life is that however much money you make, you will inadvertently spend that much more. So nobody's really any better off than anyone else. Having zero credit card debt and naught but an under $1000 a month mortgage and a Honda payment as debts puts me and R. in a much better place than 90% of the population. So, the fact that I still haven't broken $30K a year in my life is irrelevant. It should be, at least. It does gall me if I stop and think about it.
Especially with what I endure in my current job. The emotional trauma, the spiritual exhaustion, the social responsibility, the shoveling of shit into the tide because some people must undertake the duty. This was a stumbling-into as well.
See, I am an animal shelter vet tech.
The things I see, you couldn't make up. It's not as tidy and black and white as a commercial with Sarah McLaughlin.
It's been exactly three years since I started here. By now, it's not the things I remember that haunt me...not the names and vague faces that I manage to recall. No. It's the ones I have forgotten. The human brain can only hold so much. It's the situations and individuals that have slipped into oblivion that bother me most.
That is what this blog is for...to capture them before they fade away.
It's not a career I exactly chose, per se. Basically, at 17, it was time to get a job. I'd always been an animal person. An anti-social, overly sensitive and ponderous kid who felt more comfortable in the presence of those with fur, feathers, fins....those without expectation and rules and judgements. Those who did not speak nor require me to speak. Trite, perhaps. But it was (and is) so. So at 17, merely for need of a job, I headed for a local veterinary hospital. It blew my mind to be given money, regularly, for bathing dogs and cleaning cat cages! Ah, the ignorance of youth.
Blah blah blah, FF through meeting a boy, moving clear across the country, marrying boy, being betrayed by boy, finally leaving boy for another boy, and settling into current situation....and here I am nearly 17 years later, still a veterinary technician. I love it. I hate it. I am embarrassed for not being something more highly valued and highly paid. It blows my mind now, not that I am getting paid for this, as before...but that I am getting paid so little for doing so much, while my peers get paid so much for doing so little quite often. Despite or because of my passive "career choice", not sure which, I am not a money person, really. I can spend frivolously with the best of 'em, yes...but I have no taste for fine things in the mainstream sense. I suppose working in scrubs and not having to buy a stylish office wardrobe does offset my salary a bit. And I firmly believe that one of the great Truths of Life is that however much money you make, you will inadvertently spend that much more. So nobody's really any better off than anyone else. Having zero credit card debt and naught but an under $1000 a month mortgage and a Honda payment as debts puts me and R. in a much better place than 90% of the population. So, the fact that I still haven't broken $30K a year in my life is irrelevant. It should be, at least. It does gall me if I stop and think about it.
Especially with what I endure in my current job. The emotional trauma, the spiritual exhaustion, the social responsibility, the shoveling of shit into the tide because some people must undertake the duty. This was a stumbling-into as well.
See, I am an animal shelter vet tech.
The things I see, you couldn't make up. It's not as tidy and black and white as a commercial with Sarah McLaughlin.
It's been exactly three years since I started here. By now, it's not the things I remember that haunt me...not the names and vague faces that I manage to recall. No. It's the ones I have forgotten. The human brain can only hold so much. It's the situations and individuals that have slipped into oblivion that bother me most.
That is what this blog is for...to capture them before they fade away.
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