My patients, My life

     Another one of those days off to a routine sort of start.  Alison, my receptionist advised me as I peered through my microscope that our good friends at the county animal control office were on the way in with a dog injured in a dog fight.  As the reader might imagine,  these are fairly routine reasons for a visit to the clinic.  I acknowledged her with a grunt and thought;  probably a few puncture wounds,  a gash or two, perhaps, as I returned to my stare down the ocular lenses of the microscope toward a sheet of blood cells.

     I had just finished thinking about that sick hawk’s blood counts when I heard the commotion surrounding the scramble of several people rushing into my exam room.  Kathy, my tech, didn’t need to say a word as she rushed into the lab.  The look on her face said The Lords Prayer in one syllable.

     My exam room was about five steps away and I still hurried.  Buddy was lying prostrate on his left side, all four legs in rigid extension.  The little red Dachshund had a look of sheer, unadulterated terror frozen on his face.  I looked at the concerned faces of those crowded around the table for an explanation.  Buddy had been attacked by a much larger dog while walking in his yard.  He had apparently gone to the aid of his sister as she was approached by the big lab.  Some growls and cries were followed by screams and it was over. Buddy laid in the autumn leaves struggling, but unable to stand.

     Buddy was in a condition known in the medical books as spinal shock.  His spinal cord had sustained some serious trauma as was evidenced by the neurological signs that I mentioned.  His eyes spoke the unfathomable pain of red-hot ice picks piercing his neck. Before I continued my assessment I went to the locked box where the narcotics are kept and fetched Buddy the first good thing to happen to him that fateful day.  I drew up about double the dose that I would normally use as I thought Buddy was about to die, either because of the severity of his wounds or because euthanasia was his best option.  If this was his day to die, I was going to make darn sure he didn’t die in pain.

    Those types of drugs hurt when they are injected.  I hoped to get a little whimper as I injected into his rear leg.  My heart began to sink as he made no reaction.  Loss of pain is a bad sign for spinal patients.  The neurons that carry the pain signals to the brain lie deep within the spinal cord.  His lack of a reaction suggested the damage may be as bad as I feared.  I maintained my best poker face and finished my assessment of his wounds. 

     Have you noticed that if you are in severe pain, not toothache pain but broken bone kind of pain, that your brain doesn’t bother to let you know that you that you have a nagging hangnail?  It is all relative, right?  Buddy’s brain said what difference does it make if your butt is on fire from an injection if your spinal cord, the holy grail of all nerves, is burning like a blow torch? He felt the injection alright but it just doesn’t matter sometimes. I hoped that was the explanation for his lack of reaction as I wrestled with my next move.  I really didn’t want to talk to these people now.  I could not hide my concern with any sort of soothing, encouraging words.  I gently scooped Buddy up and we went back for X-Rays while I gathered my thoughts. 

     I have a really cool digital X-Ray machine that I bought to provide quality images of all the little wild critters that I enjoy caring for.  It allows us to manipulate the images to show minute detail through contrast enhancement and magnification.  As Buddy’s image hit the screen,  my eyelids slid shut, I exhaled and dropped my head. Buddy’s first thoracic vertebrae was split right down the middle. No image enhancement needed.  I have a considerable amount of experience with spinal patients and all my instincts and experience said this little dog’s life was over. 

     However……. you kind readers should relax, this is a happy story. Y’all beat me up when I tell too many sad ones.

          As crazy as it sounds, the circumstances surrounding the tragic events that brought Buddy to me that day were about to save his life.  You see, the folks who owned the dog that attacked Buddy that morning were their next door neighbors and friends of Buddy’s owners. In addition, they are about as fine a folk, as we say back in Tennessee, as you would ever want to meet.  That fact, some downright good old fashioned luck, and Buddy’s tenacious desire to live was about to make a bunch of people say, “NO WAY!”

Buddy, our brave little friend.

          As I explained the nature of his injuries and the grim prognosis for his recovery Buddy laid on the table in front of us. He was in the profound “happy place”  where good narcotics can take you to play.  The warm hearted neighbor whose dog had injured Buddy was there and asked me what his chances were.  I tempered my words with caution but left a small chance on the table.  She asked me to please do everything I could do and to keep her updated.  She also said that she intended to pay whatever cost were necessary to save Buddy. 

     I promised her that we would do our best.

     Buddy’s greatest fortune of that day was the paradox of his dilemma.  Most dog owners, even those who really love their dogs would have elected euthanasia.  But because Buddy was in this condition because of such a well meaning neighbor’s dog, and now had pain and terror erased from his face, he was given the opportunity of allowing time to help us make a more informed decision.  They left and we went to work on Buddy.

      Later that morning, The Grim Reaper, slipped out the back door of the clinic and Buddy’s guardian angel locked it behind him.  What I saw over the next week will change my view of spinal patients forever. 

     As his pain meds wore off, Buddy was what we call a land shark.  I believe the Grim Reaper must have told him that his injuries were all my fault.  Buddy wanted to eat my hand off every time I went near him.  I get used to that from some patients and rarely take offense but I was in mortal fear that Buddy would inflict additional damage to his spinal cord by lunging to bite me.  Over the course of the next week, I would have to sneak up on his cage and inject a sedative into his IV line so that we could do the daily treatments and assessments.  He would slip off into his happy place and I could drain his bladder, check his vitals and give him his meds. 

      On the third day, I saw his tail move.  Almost imperceptably I saw it move again.  I asked one of the girls to sweet talk him and, sure enough, he moved his tail again. I called the owners with the news. I think they thought I was nuts. A twitching tail does not a walking dog make.  I asked for their trust and another day or two for Buddy.  We were rewarded for our patience.  In an absolutely beautiful display of desire and shear will to live, that little dog beat all the odds.  Ten days after he lay paralyzed on my X-ray table Buddy went home.

     Buddy’s folks love him a lot.  You see, spinal injuries don’t heal quickly and we never know how much recovery they will ever gain.  We also can never predict the time needed for recovery.  There are always many unanswered questions.  Caring for spinal patients takes great persistance and blind faith, and loads of hard work.  His folks had plenty of all and that was his final big break.  Over the course of the next two months Buddy made a near complete recovery.  He walks unassisted now and is still making progress.  I expect he will be the same as before his injury soon.

Buddy, as I write.

     Buddy left me a gift when he went home.  It was a wonderfully thoughtful gift.  Sometimes, we build little walls around our hearts to protect ourselves from pain. As you might imagine veterinarians are exposed to a lot of grief and emotional pain.  And to survive we build little walls to shield ourselves when we sense it coming.  When I met that little weiner I thought he was going to die. I was almost sure of it and I couldn’t get “close” to him because of the wall that I had built.  That wall crumbled with the tiny twitch of a tail.  His gift to me, that little twitch to remind me that it’s not over until it is over.  Walls are for sissies. Buddy, you are the man!