Buddah on my exam table

Buddah is the newest feline resident at the zoo-like museum that features numerous indigenous creatures that prowl and fly the woods and skies of Florida, the state I now call home.  Because I have a deep personal interest in the welfare of all creatures, I have happily extended a warm offer of assistance to all animals in the museum’s collection.  Mike Jones, the curator, is a great friend and has asked for our help numerous times since I opened my practice.  We have shared some great adventures, some of which I have written about,  in our efforts to better the quality of the lives of his “kids” at the museum.

Mike first told me about his expected new kitty when I was at the museum to see an otter, a skunk, or maybe it was the red wolf, I cannot remember but I was really happy to hear about a new panther to provide company for the one that was there.  I asked him to let me know when the new kitty arrived and I would plan to come up and do a wellness exam and baseline labs and such.

It wasn’t Mike but Suzie, the keeper for the cats, who told Maria, my tech, that Buddah had just arrived in his new home.  We were all excited about the news and looked forward to introducing ourselves the lucky new cat.  Mike called a day or two later and before I could share my excitement about his new cat, I realized the tone in his voice was not one of joy.  I shut up and began listen.

Apparently the 18 month old panther had suffered a previous injury to his elbow or shoulder months before, but seemed to have recovered when he was transferred to his new home at the museum.  But now, once in his wonderful new enclosure, he had begun to limp on his right front leg.  Details were very sketchy about his previous life so we were unable to get answers to our questions about his previous injury and the treatment he received.  Mike and I made plans to move forward with the evaluation of Buddah and to include radiographs in an effort to gather as much information as possible about his lameness.

As you could guess, “hands on” time with a panther involves a mediator called “Mr. Anesthetic”.  I have often said that a determined house cat would whip a room full of people and not even get winded.  Buddah weights 88 pounds.  He is solid muscle and I don’t even want to think about meeting him on his terms.  Mike is really skilled with his blow-gun (except for the times I have seen him shoot the fence) and has safely delivered every animal to my care in a tranquil state of mind and body.

My first meeting with Buddah was under such terms.  Mike and his prize keepers, Suzie and Shelby, captured Buddah and had him comfortably resting in the museum’s surgery when Maria, Melody and I arrived.  It was my first time to run my hands down his course coat from head to the tip of that very long tail.  For one time, I was really short of words.  This beautifully exquisite example of North America’s largest cat was beyond any words that I could place on a page.  My wish is that each of you who love creatures like I do could have been there to share that moment.

Firm, well-developed muscle ripped his body, scant amounts of body fat and enormous bones to enable those powerful muscles to transfer their power to pure acceleration and speed.  This young male cat was a consumant athlete in every respect.  Were he in his world he would survive on his primary prey species – the White Tailed Deer.  He has to have all of his physical attributes as well as the hard-wired ability of all cats – the stalk.  More on that later, I have an exam to finish, he cannot sleep much longer.

Mike had some concerns about a limp in Buddah’s right front leg.  We only had sketchy details about his previous life that included some sort of injury to that leg, possibly a “green stick fracture”.  Those are usually fractures of the bones of young animals that often bend and break but the ends stay reasonably opposed, like a green tree limb bent over your knee. When I examined his elbow I was immediately concerned over the lack of a normal range of motion in the joint.  His elbow could extend about 90% of the normal distance but when I flexed it or bent it toward his body, he was only able to move it a little over half the distance it was supposed to move.  We had taken the portable X-Ray equipment from the clinic and immediately began a series of investigative images of the elbow.

Mike appeared very anxious as I returned from the computer that displayed the images of the elbow.  I regretted to tell him of the extent of damage to the elbow, but he had to know.  Apparently, at some point in his adolescent ramblings, Buddah had sustained an injury to the joint surface of the radius, the main bone in the foreleg.  Of all the joints in the body, the elbow has the tightest tolerances and is the least able to function without a perfectly congruent joint surface.  Small injuries to elbows have devastating consequences in any species, it is as simple as that.  My heart went to a bad place contemplating how this inspiring creature could ever have a normal life.  I was a little short on ideas, I wanted an answer, a fix, and there was none.  I tried to hide as much of my anxiety as possible as we recovered Buddah and returned him to his enclosure.

My conversations with Mike and Suzie over the next few days centered around pain management and medications to slow the progress of the devastating arthritis that was consuming his elbow.  To help this cat, I knew we would need to climb out of the proverbial “box”.

Buddah's posture with his elbow pain

Buddah helped us all by putting his best foot forward over the next few weeks.  He seemed to be doing OK on his meds and enjoyed his play time as well as expected.  I knew in my heart it could not last for long.  Then it happened. Mike called me on a Saturday night.  He doesn’t do that without serious need.  I hoped it was not about Buddah, but it was.  It seems that Buddah was having a “good”  day and ran to the fence in a mock attack, as he loves to do, and when he bounced off the fence he became severely lame in that same leg.  He refused to put any weight on it and they feared that the leg was fractured.

Mike had him put on lock down in his small pen and had given him some medication to ease his pain. It seemed apparent that if the leg was indeed fractured, it would be a surgical case.  Casts, splints and other such devices simply don’t work under these circumstances.  Buddah would shred the device in 2 minutes and may further injure himself in so doing. We would first need to do a thorough orthopedic exam then some radiographs to define the cause of the new lameness and develop a plan of action. If surgery was needed we would go straight to the O.R. and get it done.  For these reasons, Buddah would have to leave the Museum sedated and make the half hour trip to our hospital.

That plan sounds simple but things can get tricky in a hurry.  A 90 pound panther in a drug induced stupor bouncing down the highway in the back of Mike’s little station wagon has about a half a dozen ways to go bad in a hurry.  Mike and Suzie keep excellent records of all anesthetic and tranquilizer procedures they use on animals in their care.  They are really good at it and knowing they already had a proven anesthetic protocol for Buddah gave me great comfort.  The darting, the loading and the trip to Shepherd Spring Animal Hospital went off without a hitch.  It was quite a site to see big Mike carrying that panther through our front door. I wish I had that picture.

In an orthopedic evaluation, I use patient feedback to glean the information I need to define a lameness.  Most animals will wince or whine when I find the source of pain.  For that reason, we want them to be awake.  But…. well I don’t need to finish that thought.  Buddah arrived sound asleep.  We did our evaluation and X-Rays with him out, and we had both Maria and Suzie dedicated to the task of keeping him that way.  Mike and I talked and evaluated changes in his X-Rays and talked some more.  It was determined that Buddah did not have a new fracture, that was the good news.

Buddah, while having one of his good days, had further damaged the already marginally functional elbow.  I changed his medication orders, and requested he stay strictly confined while we monitored his progress over the next couple of weeks.  Inside, my guts were in a knot over the prospects for Buddah ever having a life without pain.

Back in the Spring, for reasons I cannot remember, I became interested in the topic of regenerative medicine.  Regenerative medicine basically involves using the body’s own healing potential and cellular growth mechanisms to focus their full potential on a particular tissue or injury.  In so doing, it brings special cells, called stem cells, to deliver a level of healing that has never been known.  The mechanisms of this process is still under intense international study.  It is a fascinating science and one that many feel will be the future of medicine in many innovative ways.

My interest in regenerative medicine led me to a company called Vet-Stem.  They are the world leader in research in the veterinary applications of regenerative medicine.  Vet-Stem requires a veterinarian to understand and  become certified in the field to use their services.  I completed the credentialing course, got my certification and remained intrigued at the prospect of some day using this technology in one of my patients.

Buddah showed some improvement  over the next two weeks but I could tell that Suzie, Buddah’s mother hen,  was not very happy when we had our briefs. It was after one our conversations that I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair to, once again, come up with some idea that held some promise for this wonderful cat.  The way I saw it, Buddah would progressively become more lame over the next year or so and his profound lameness would not reflect well on the museum or it’s mission.  I could only see more dark clouds on the horizon for him and his leg.  I needed something good and I needed it now.  I looked across my desk and saw my certificate from Vet-Stem.  A panther sized epiphany scrambled through my tired old brain.  What if… My God, what if!? I began to smile,  and think, and smile some more. This is the answer!

I knew I had a some talking to do.  First, not many people have heard of stem cell transplant technology and the benefits it can provide.  The first thing I had to do was start selling the idea of a stem cell transplant in a panther, a place no other had tread.  I called Mike.  After a significant amount of babble mixed with a lot of enthusiasm he blessed the idea and said I should continue to work on some of the other obstacles – namely the one that the procedure had never been done in a panther.

Next, I phoned Dr. Corry Orava who is the veterinarian at Vet-Stem who discusses treatment options and provides insight and direction to veterinarians, like me, to guide our patients down the road to recovery from chronic pain and lameness.  I had some selling to do because Vet-Stem had only approved the procedure for use in dogs and horses. They had previously told me that they would consider “compassionate use” of their technology in other species if it met their parameters.

Dr. Orava was interested from the get-go.  It must have been obvious that I had great passion for this big kitty and I believe Dr. Orava agreed, after my clinical brief of the case, that Buddah was a great candidate for regenerative medicine.  He told me to keep my shirt on for a day or so while he discussed the matter with those up the chain of command.  He sounded promising.

Next I had an electronic conversation with Dr. David Hale, another veterinarian that donates his time and services to the museum.  Dr. Hale, a man whose opinion I greatly respect, needed to not only be in the loop, but I wanted him to hear all my reasons for pursuing the stem cell transplant.  After reviewing my opinions he blessed the idea and advised me to charge ahead.  I called Mike Jones back and told him and Suzie to start getting excited.  Then I had to sit on my hands and wait on the approval from Vet-Stem.  I was nervous but hopeful.

Two days later my receptionist interrupted me to advise me that Dr. Orava was on the phone.  I took a deep breath and answered with my most hopeful voice. He immediately told me that he had good news and that Vet-Stem had blessed my use of stem cell therapy in the Florida Panther.  I was thrilled and then he iced my happy cake with the news that Vet-Stem was going to donate a significant part of the cost of the processing fee! What a great gesture on the part of this organization.  They, like all businesses, are struggling in this economy but they care enough about this lame young panther to subsidize his treatment.  A stand-up bunch of folks, I must say.

How does all this stem cell stuff work?  The best part, in my opinion, is that we don’t entirely understand the entire process. Briefly, stem cells are the precursor cells of all cell types in an animal or person. All tissue types (skin, muscle, tendon, cartilage, blood) come from the same type of cell, a stem cell.  In a process that in not completely understood, a stem cell can recognize damaged tissue that it comes into contact with, adhere to that tissue, and transform into the particular cell type of the damaged tissue and multiply.  Those tissues include muscle, cartilage, bone, skin, blood vessels and a number of others.  It is absolutely fascinating science.  Regenerative medicine holds an unbelievable potential for healing in animals and people.  I believe that the animals who benefit today will serve as convincing models to study the potential use of stem cell technology in the human race.

We know that fat tissue is a rich source of stem cells.  My job is to harvest a couple of ounces of fat from my patient using sterile surgical protocols and FEDEX the sample to Vet-Stem in San Diego.  They immediately process the tissue and extract, count and ready the purified stem cells for injection, and FEDEX them to me.  In this case they would be injected into the joint space in the crippled right elbow. Buddah had to be sedated and brought to the clinic on Tuesday for the collection surgery and on Thursday I would need him sedated at the museum for the injection.  There were concerns that something would go wrong but we tried to anticipate them all, be prepared, and hope for the best.

Buddah’s capture went without difficulty and his 45 minute journey to our hospital was smooth and uneventful.  After we got a catheter into his vein, established baseline numbers on his vitals, we began to prepare him for surgery.

Maria, me and Mike (facing us)

Maria was pretty tense about the number of people in and out of our surgery.  Mike was on hand, Suzie was monitoring anesthesia, there was a photographer and an intern.   It would be a minor surgery so I was not overly concerned about the traffic.  I needed to make the incision under sterile conditions, collect the fat for transport to Vet-Stem,  close him up and get him back to his habitat as soon and safely as possible.

The Collection Surgery (Suzie foreground)

A small amount of harvested fat into the vial

We elected to harvest the fat from the inguinal fat pad.  The inguinal area is basically on the belly all the way back between the rear legs.  We elected this site because of the low incidence of problems from seromas (fluid accumulation in the area where the fat was removed) and there would be no scar to blemish this gorgeous animal. It went as smooth as clockwork. Anesthesia, surgery, recovery, a hug goodbye and a long sleepy ride home with Mike and Suzie. His recovery in his enclosure was uneventful.

Forty eight hours later, processed stem cells in hand, we arrived at the museum to find Mike and Suzie monitoring a very sleepy Buddah.  Maria prepped the injection site on the elbow, and next I injected the purified stem cell transplant directly into the joint space in his elbow.  After flexing and extending the elbow to distribute the cells, all that was left was to antagonize his anesthetic and wake him up.  We cleared the enclosure except for me and I administered an IV dose of the drug to reverse the anesthetic so Buddah would wake up.  He was already beginning to awaken as I searched for the vein in his rear leg. As I slid the needle into the vein he swished his long tail across my hands covering  the needle in his vein. That was a very sobering moment.  Suzie said you better get out of there Dr. Griggs.  I gave the injection and headed for the door which she opened and closed behind me.  Buddah was up and looking around quickly, appearing no worse for the wear.

Now began the waiting game.  Everyone was excited about the prospects for this beautiful animal.  The technology is so new and promising, but everyone could only wait and observe Buddah each day and see if his limp would improve.  I cautioned everyone that we would not expect to see much progress for at least 3 weeks.

As requested, Suzie called me at the one week mark and happily reported that she definitely saw improvement.  She repeated that same report for the next three weeks. At the “one month” mark I visited Buddah for an evaluation. It was the first time I’d seen him since his injection.  He was up and around and really full of himself in the lovely Fall weather.  I visited with him and the staff for about 30 minutes.  As he played with his ball I never saw a limp. Buddah acted exactly like a two-year old Panther should act.  He played, romped around his enclosure and stalked me about 3 times, followed by a 75 foot mock charge at me ending with a friendly rub against the fence back and forth. So cat-like.

I was overjoyed.  I still am!  What a great time to be alive!  Today, over 7 weeks out, Buddah has complete use of his elbow and has his life back, without pain.  He is happy, healthy, sound and taking no medications.  We continue to monitor him closely and gradually increase his exercise time.  I optimistically see nothing but blue skies in his future.

I consider it to be a great honor and privilege to have been a part of this project.  I continue to practice veterinary medicine because of the immense personal satisfaction that I get from feeling that I have “made a difference” in the lives of my patients.  Caring for Buddah has been the pinnacle of my career.  Technology that did not even exist when I became a veterinarian saved Buddah from a life of pain. This crusty old veterinarian now has a new tool in his tool box and a new friend in his heart.  May Buddah live long, pain free, and continue to make us smile.

My former staff members at Hillcrest Animal Hospital remain dear to me to this day.  They often read my accounting of my new life and adventures here in Florida and they all know and understand my sincere, heartfelt love for little Chihuahua dogs.

With my admission of the fact that I love Chihuahuas, by offering that confession, I now feel my emotional underbelly is exposed.  I feel like I am at a support group meeting droning something like, “My name is Norm and I have a Chalupa problem.  I just love a stinkin’ Chalupa.”

Well, it is true.  I call them Chalupa’s because of the old Taco Bell commercials that said, “Drop the Chalupa!” featuring the little Taco Bell dog. I just like that name better than the original.  That’s just me, but more importantly, I must tell you how the little stinkers stole my heart.

Years ago, a frantic client at Hillcrest bolted through the door carrying a lifeless little dog in a bloody sheet. It was a terrible moment and, an honest to god, emergency.  Everyone went to battle-stations because this event had disaster written all over it.

This sweet little Chalupa, that weighed a scant 4 pounds, had been viciously attacked in her own back yard, by a large Chow belonging to a neighbor.  Her wounds, at first glance, appeared to be terminal.  She was barely conscious due to shock and blood loss.  She had deep, open wounds to her neck, back, thorax and her intestines, covered with grass and dirt, protruded through large lacerations in her abdominal wall.

Sadly, another of their dogs, a little Yorkie, arrived dead from the same attack.  I remember well that I later learned that their third little dog, another tiny male Chalupa had escaped, only by squeezing through a tiny hole in their deck into the safe space underneath. The owners later had to remove boards from the deck to rescue the frightened little dog. There are no words for how they must have felt. I cannot imagine…

Those who have worked a trauma case with me would probably tell you that I am no fun. I offer no apologies.  The more hopeless, the more demanding the cause, the more of a laser sharp focus I bring to bear on my patient.  I cannot explain it, but my brain goes to a place where courtesy cannot play.  I ask 200% from myself and at least 110% from everyone on my team.  Life, once lost, will never come back.  The finality of that statement is all the motivation I need.  There is nothing I hate more than losing a patient and talking about what “should have” or “could have” changed the outcome. I insist we simply do everything, we do it in the proper order and we do it “NOW”.

I was surrounded by great, dedicated veterinarians and technicians that day. While the rest did their best to answer my demands for the patient, Donna, God rest her soul, quietly prayed for that little creature. Somehow, we managed to save that little dog.   There is no feeling like that of saving a life.  Every person in the room that day knew that joy.  We won, and we had won big.

When she was, at last, reunited with her grieving family the emotions were suffocating.  What should have been a celebration of a glorious triumph against all odds was juxtaposed with the profound tragedy of the loss of their other dog.  Again, there were just no words.  I told the little dog’s owners that she was the toughest, bravest and sweetest little dog I had ever met.  Most of that was true, some of it just seemed like the right words to ease the tension of the moment.

With sweet and sad tears mixed on everyone’s face, she thanked me by kindly saying that if this little survivor ever had pups, they would be honored if I would take pick of the litter.  I was stuck.  I was destined to learn about life from and with a tiny little fraction of a dog.

I believe it was about 9 months later that the obviously ”over pregnant” little girl showed up at the clinic.  Because of the size of her pups and the scars to her abdominal muscles she could not deliver her litter.  We had to perform a Caesarian section and bring four brand new little stinkers into this world.

As a side note here, there is no telling how many little pups I have welcomed into our world.  I am, and will always remain, awed and enchanted by the miracle of birth.  One moment a complete parasite in a mom’s abdomen and the next a complete new life with its own color, sex and personality. Incredible. Absolutely, incredible.

I had not forgotten my pledge, in that moment of great emotional stress, to accept one of these four pups as the newest member of our family.  Sure enough, when I notified their owner that our new mom and four pups were all fine she immediately asked if I had picked mine out.  I did not need another dog but how in the world was I going to say “no”?  I picked a little silver-grey female and declared that I would be proud to accept her when she was weaned.

The first day I took her home we all became “stupid” over that little dog. We had, as usual, several dogs around the house at that time.  But they were all “real dogs”.  This new addition was somehow very different.  It looked like a dog alright, but it was so cuddly and you felt like you needed to rub it on your cheek and what the heck is that all about?  It’s about puppy love.  Plain old starry-eyed, can’t put it down, always wanting to hold it and baby talk to it, puppy love. And worst of all, it doesn’t matter if you act like a googoo idiot in front of others.  You just expect everyone to “understand” and don’t really care if they do or not.

We named her “Nugget” because she was solid gold to us.  That little dog was so special.  The time I spent with that little dog changed me, my heart and my perspective on dogs.  Through her, I saw things in all dogs differently.  She slept each night in our bed with us.  We would never have even given a thought to such a thing before. I started each new day with a smile when I gently peeled back the covers to find her curled up, warm and content.  It was through that little dog that I was to fully understand the wonderful human-animal bond. Little “Nugget” taught me how to truly love a dog and to understand how so many people sincerely loved their dogs.

At the young age of just  two years, my little dog, the apple of my eye, was killed by a Great Horned Owl in our own yard. With tears creeping down my cheeks, I type these painful words.  I do so as a warning to all who hear – never, never forget the danger to these little dogs. It has been 17 years and the pain is still immeasurable.  Melody and I can hardly mention her name because of the profound sadness that we share over her memory.

Compassion.  I suppose it was always in me somewhere, but before “Nugget”  it was never on the front burner in the day-to-day life of this veterinarian.  In school, we studied hard science.  We learned things that helped us understand disease and life-and-death stuff like that.  Things that we could wrap our hands around and understand, and be tested on.  How can you learn compassion?  I don’t know the answer.  I just know that my gifted teacher was a little dog named “Nugget” and her lessons live firmly in my heart, not in my mind.  The things that she taught me forever changed my perspective on veterinary medicine and surgery.  I learned, and continue to learn, how to see through the eyes and heart of a dog.

I would fall miserably short of the appropriate words if I had to explain what I just wrote. Dogs cannot speak, but they can tell you what is own their minds.  And, just as they can learn, they can teach.  I promise you, my readers, that for everything that you can teach a dog you will learn one or more thing in return. What dogs thrive upon is pure honesty.  They read you like an open book with large print.  If you are to ever be a true, trusted friend to a dog it will be necessary for your heart, or feelings, to be pure.

If I could give a gift to a friend, a true friend, it would be the simple gift that my little dog gave to me.  It was free and it was, at the same time, priceless.  What greater gift can one receive, than to “feel” and “understand” in its most elegantly simple form?

Chapter 2

Little Panda

It was exactly one week ago that a couple, whom I had never met, brought a little 7 month old Chihuahua pup into the clinic because she was very sick. When I first saw the beautiful little tri-color puppy I had to smile.  That smile, however became sincere concern as I looked her over and heard the sad story of her illness.

Her name was Panda and the owner suspected that she had swallowed a bone at least 2 weeks prior to our visit.  Her owners obviously cared a great deal for her but I could tell that they desperately wanted whatever was wrong with Panda to be something simple.  We spoke about the events that had led up to this visit while I examined her.  While they proposed more possible causes of her condition I became more convinced that this dog, indeed, had something lodged in her esophagus.  The look on her face of fear and pain was all it took to convince me that bad things were ahead for this little life.

Times are very hard for many people these days.  Sadly, many decisions for treatment of pets is based primarily on the cost of such.  Although I am very sensitive and concerned about costs, the reality is that it costs a great deal of money for me to open the front door each day.  I don’t like it but I simply cannot provide care at a cost less than we do.  It’s a simple business principle.  My staff expects to be paid, my suppliers, rent, utilities and so on.

When I took an X-ray of Panda’s chest and found a bone lodged in her esophagus my heart sank.  Her owners had a great deal of difficulty saying OK to the cost of the X-ray.  When I told them the serious nature of her situation there were no other viable options for them.  They gave us the dog with the hope we could fix her and she could live.

Remember how I explained that dogs can speak?  I consider myself fluent in dog.  What little Panda was saying, however, did not need a translator.  She had the same look of stark terror on her face that you or I would if we had a bone lodged in our throat for over 2 weeks. She was dying and she had suffered terribly.

My girls at the clinic were instantly in love with her and I don’t think there was a single doubt among them that I would help Panda.  However, there would be great risk if we chose to attempt to help her.  Surgery would require us to go into her chest to access the esophagus where the bone was lodged.  There is no question that this was very high risk surgery in an attempt to save her life.  I went to great lengths to explain to them the gravity of this surgery and everything that could go wrong.  That risk included her death that could occur in our hands as we tried to help her.  That is a bitter taste that never goes away.  Take my word for it.

As the morning passed I was really busy dealing with other patients. But in the back of my mind I was contemplating my next move on Panda.  Because of her very small size and her poor condition I was sweating this surgery.  It is very rare for us to ever open a dog’s chest.  I had so many concerns with Panda and the circumstances of her problem that I phoned a surgeon at my school – The University of Tennessee College of Veterinary Medicine – to discuss the case.  In our conversation I was briefed mainly on what I already knew.  I was also warned there was a good chance that I would find something that could not be fixed.  That notion stuck in my craw.  I felt that I would do anything possible to save Panda, but I was having a real problem accepting the fact that I might lose, indeed the outcome of this case may already be decided.

My surgery schedule is generally booked each day.  Usually the surgeries are routine spays and neuters in dogs and cats along with excision of various skin masses and biopsies.  If we work in an orthopedic case, as we often have to do, time begins to get critical.  I usually have to be finished by 2:30 for afternoon appointments to begin.  It is very rare to leave the clinic any time we are open. This surgery needed to be done ASAP but the schedule was hopelessly full for Monday.  We agreed that if this was going to happen it would have to be after we closed.

Maria was critical to the surgery because of her anesthesia skills.  She would be full-time on the anesthesia during chest surgery because she would have to ventilate every breath for the dog while her chest was open. In addition she was responsible for all the monitors and the IV pump.

Julia, our second year vet student, who is a great Summer hand around the hospital gladly agreed to stay on as my surgical assistant.  Once again I gathered my team and briefed the entire procedure.  I am quite sure that they understood the gravity of our situation as I am also sure it shown on my face and words.  In every sense of the word, this was truly “life or death” for Panda.  As the last appointment left the hospital I began to mentally go into my “zone”.

Maria already had the surgery room set up.  Everything that she anticipated we would need was out and ready for quick access.  We placed an IV catheter into the tiny leg.  Little Panda was so brave and cooperative.  As the fluid pump started its quiet grinding indicating it was pumping lactated ringers solution into the little dog for support during the procedure, we took a deep breath and slowly injected Propofol into the catheter port to induce anesthesia.  Panda immediately yawned and went to sleep.  We rushed to place the tiny 4 mm endo-tracheal tube into place and inflated the cuff to seal her airway.  Next we hooked up all the leads for the monitors. She quickly was covered with wires and tubes.  We were all “wired” as well.

Her respiratory system was now completely connected to the anesthesia machine.  A seal was needed because as soon as I opened her chest the lungs on the side where my incision was located would immediately collapse. The only way for her to get oxygen from that point until I finished the surgery was for Maria to ever so gently squeeze the bag on the anesthesia machine, thereby inflating her lungs and providing her with the oxygen to survive. This is an extremely critical procedure.  It is imperative that the pressure be correct so as not to rupture a lung.  In addition, when we are in the thorax, I give all ventilation control to the anesthetist.  She has to coordinate each breath with where my hands and instruments are at the time.  When the lungs are inflated, my hands and all sharp instruments must be clear or the very fragile lungs may be damaged. We communicate continuously, my needs and her needs.

The tiny little dog was scrubbed and ready. I draped her in and arranged my instruments in the order I expected to use them.  The monitors all said “go” and the three of us in the O.R. exchanged glances.  From this point on everyone had to be on their “A” game.  Without delay I located a mark that I had previously made on her 8th rib and made a 3 inch incision through her skin in a line parallel to the arch of her rib. Next I dissected through the subcutaneous fat and to the intercostal muscles which connect each rib together.  After a quick glance at the monitors and an OK from the anesthetist I incised the muscle, extended the incision with my scissors, pried open her chest cavity and placed a retractor to hold it open.  As expected, her lungs collapsed and I stared at her tiny heart beating at 144 beats per minute.  My focus sharpened.  The hard part was yet to come.

We adjusted lights repeatedly so that I could better visualize the structures in her chest cavity.  I gently searched for the section of her esophagus that extended from her heart to her diaphragm.  What I found first was a large hole in her mediastinum (the tissue thin membrane that divides the chest cavity into two halves).  The hole meant that now all of her lungs were collapsing between the artificial breaths.  That was not good news.  I advised Maria of the complication and continued my work between breaths provided by the anesthesia machine bag. I located her esophagus and began to gently palpate it to locate the bone. I found the sharp bone right at the base of her heart. It bounced along with the beating heart which looked like a speed bag that a boxer practices on.

I just stared and contemplated what the heck I should do next. I would have to make my incision in the esophagus below where the bone was in order to work around the heart.  There was no guarantee that I could get a forcep into the esophagus and get a hold of the bone.  And, if I could grasp it,  I did not know if I could remove it without the jagged ends of the bone tearing a hole in the, already very sick, esophagus. I then spent a long moment contemplating how I would sew up the wound in her esophagus with the constant pounding of her heart.  Somehow this would all work out I convinced myself.

My fingers looked like clubs working 2 inches inside her chest.  I made the incision, inserted the curved forcep into the lumen of her esophagus and immediately grasped the bone.  I gave it a gentle tug and out it came. The girls let out a collective gasp at the site of the jagged bone.  A flood of joy came over me.  Two weeks of sheer hell for this little creature just ended, I knew her terrible prediciment was solved.  My remaining job was to repair the damage that I had caused to her esophagus and chest wall.

The esophagus is a tough little tube.  It requires reconstruction in two layers.  I found it extremely difficult to sew with anything but the smallest needle in the surgery room.  There just was no room for me to gently hold the esophagus with a forcep, place a needle in a precise location and pull the suture through and get out of the way to allow the dog a few breaths.  Then I had to go back and tie the knot and cut off the ends. Again this was with that happy little heart bounding like a Mexican jumping bean. I repeated this 12 times, one for each suture in her esophagus. I was pleased with the way it all looked when I finished.  I exhaled the weight of a sandbag off my back and said the happiest words of the night, “Let’s close”. Elapsed time in her chest - about 45 long minutes.

Prior to sewing her ribs back I inserted a tiny tube into her chest cavity and extended it through the skin. After I finished reconstructing her chest wall we attached a syringe to the tube and removed all the air from her chest cavity and, by so doing, reinflated her lungs. For the first time since the surgery started she could again breathe on her own.  He vitals were all good and Maria had already started waking her up.  Within 10 minutes little Panda opened her eyes and looked around the room at three very tired and happy people.  We were all short of words.  I felt very, very lucky.  I was also very proud of my girls.  Maria wrapped Panda in a warm towel and I cradled her in my arms and walked into my office, sat down and rocked her to comfort her.  I wondered just what in the world she would be thinking as she looked up at me through glassy eyes.

Panda’s recovery has been stellar.  I take her home each day and back to the clinic the next morning. Her resilience has been most impressive for a 3.2 pound canine. Interestingly, the little thing has developed an almost unbelievable bond with me.  She shadows me constantly.  She allows everyone to love on her and pet her but she runs to find me whenever she is released. It will be a couple of weeks before I can relax and feel it is all behind us.

Soon there will be a day when she has to go to a new home.  Sadly, I just cannot keep another dog. She will warm the heart and spirit of another person like she has me. The little stinker will always own a piece of this old vet’s heart.  I am, and will remain, hopeless.  I just love a stinkin’ Chalupa.

Myself and my little girlfriend

However, living through that ordeal made me stronger (even though I am a wus when it comes to pain) and prepared me for my next challenge - kidney stones.  As best I can recall, there have been four such episodes in my life.  The picture gets cloudy, not so much from a decaying mind, but you see, dear reader, there are some things we just try to forget.  And kidney stone experiences are certainly one of them. Again, I guess I’m a sissy, but….

The tiny little tube that carries the pee pee from the kidney to the urinary bladder is called a ureter (your-a-tur).  This tube in innervated by a branch of the pudendal nerve.  With certainty, this nerve has absolutely no sense of humor.  A tiny 2 mm stone trying to pass from the kidney to the bladder could best be likened to a golf ball trying to flow through a garden hose. When the nerve gets excited as the little stone, and the pressure behind it, stretches the ureter, it screams directly to the brain.  What the nerve actually says and how loud it says it depends on how tough you are. Mine screamed like a little girl in a spook house uttering words that would make a hardened Marine blush. I am talking serious, nauseating, rip my guts out and walk on them PAIN.

Yall feel free to chime in with the comments, I know I am not alone.  The great thing here is that we remember the pain but the brain somehow “holds back” on most of the really bad parts.  It is sort of the same with emotional pain.  We remember how we hurt at the loss of a dear person or pet but it usually doesn’t hurt so badly as time goes by.  That’s a good thing.

Dogs and cats get stones too.  One of my wonderful little kitty buddy patients, “Peter”, lost a kidney last winter because a small stone completely obstructed his ureter as it left his kidney.  The kidney destroyed itself with the pressure that could not be relieved.  Peter suffered terribly until I sorted out his very unusual problem.  I saw him only yesterday.  He looks great and feels fine, all 21 pounds of him. He’s “big boned” you understand.

This story is about a dog and her battle with the mother of all stones. ”Blue” is a very kind natured white German Shepherd Dog.  When she was in for her annual exam and vaccines her owner told me that she had been “leaking” urine recently which was most unusual for her.  There are a number of possibly causes that

Sweet Blue

fluttered through my mind as I looked her over.  As I palpated her abdomen I could not help but notice that there was a large firm mass in the rear (caudal) part of her abdomen.  I was quite sure it was her urinary bladder and figured it was possibly a cancerous tumor in her urinary bladder wall or perhaps a stone, albeit a very large one.

I told her mom she needed an abdominal Xray and she agreed.  As the image came across the computer screen we stared in slack-jawed disbelief.  Indeed it was a calculus (stone) in her urinary bladder, but I have never seen anything approaching the size of this rock.  We all agreed that it looked to be as large as a person’s fist.

Bladder stones, called cystic calculi, generally form in the urinary bladder, not the kidneys.  A number of contributing factors often lead to bladder stones, the most common being urinary tract infection, genetics, high mineral diets and various combinations of these and other predisposing factors. In most of the cases I have seen over the years the stones are well tolerated by the dogs until they become large or numerous and irritate the bladder wall.  At that point many dogs display abnormal elimination behaviour such as wetting in the house, blood in the urine, or asking to go out numerous times each day or night.

I showed the amazing radiograph to Toni, Blue’s mom, and explained that the best fix for Blue was to surgically remove the stone.  The procedure is called a cystotomy and is a fairly routine surgical endeavor  around a veterinary hospital.  The special considerations for this cystotomy were necessitated by the large size of the stone and the length of time it must have been present in her urinary bladder. The incision to the abdomen, as well as the incision in the bladder wall, were going to be much larger than usual.  In addition, the bladder wall, which is normally quite thin, would be very vascular and quite thickened in this long-standing problem.

We scheduled Blue for surgery and a few days later she arrived for surgical  removal of the calculus.  Blue is a very large and gentle dog.  Her sweet disposition makes her a great patient and makes everyone want to go “above and beyond” to make her better.  I could sense that feeling in the staff after she was checked in at the hospital.  I went back and spoke to her a moment before we started her pre-surgical evaluation.  Her lab work was all within normal limits and he physical exam indicated was a good candidate for surgery.  At that point we all took a moment to talk over the procedure and all things necessary to make it as routine as possible. Indeed, that is exactly the way it all worked out.

After she was placed under anesthesia, and all the monitors were in place, Blue was scrubbed up for surgery.  When the incision site is all nice and clean and all the surgical supplies are at the ready, I take one more look at the monitors, the anesethesia machine, and finally a get nod from Maria that all is well and we drape her in to begin the procedure.  From that point on we endeavour to complete the surgery correctly, in a timely manner, and get our patient recovered and safely on her feet again.  Other than a few “Oh my God!” remarks from those in the O.R. as I removed the stone from her bladder and we were able to see it for the first time, the entire process went as smooth as kitten bellies.

Her bladder exteriorized from her abdomen

Removing stone from bladder

Stone in My Hand

When Toni came to take Blue home that evening I couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she saw the stone.  She was amazed, just as we all were, and proudly took the stone home to show to her sister.  I have not asked her where the stone is now.  The darn thing weighed just one ounce short of a pound, and as far as I am concerned it should be in a museum.  Interesting story, happy ending, and I hope the photos are not to hard on a sensitive stomach.

Donna was the technician, the receptionist, the kennel person and the best friend of anyone who wandered in.  One day I was assigned to work that clinic so the regular vet could take a vacation.  I parked next to the only vehicle in the lot which was her Chevy Pickup, and walked in the side door.  Donna met me at the door with a warm, enthusiastic smile like she had known me her entire 22 years.  Honestly, I felt like a life long friend of hers, this unpretentious, plump little red-head with the most beautiful ice-blue eyes you ever saw.  Little did I know that she would remain so dear to Melody and I for the next 31 years.

We spent many hours of “company time” talking about life.  Donna had lost her Mom not long before we met, and only a few weeks after our meeting, her Dad, broken-hearted and alone, took his own life.  Many were the times she and I discussed these tragic events and I tried to help her come to grips with it.  I don’t believe she ever did, she just put it on the back shelf somewhere in her heart and mind. 

The one thing that was continuous and unwavering it this little lady’s life was her deep and sincere love for animals, especially cats and horses.  I was a city boy growing up, and was never exposed to horses.  Apparently she was bitten by the horse bug early in life and would patiently listen while I ranted on and on how horse ownership was a black hole for one’s money and time. Horse ownership, I lamented, was labor intensive and offered no reward for the sweat, dust and dung that you got in return.  She would patiently hear me out, always, and with a lovely twinkle in her eye, tell me that if I ever owned a horse I would understand.  She was right but only in the last year since I bought Spirit, my Tennessee Walker, did I come to know a new kind of critter to love.  I never got to tell her that she was so right and I regret that fact deeply.

When Melody and I started Hillcrest Animal Hospital, our first employee was Donna Wilbur.  Just a week or so after she joined our “family” my first son, Travis, was born.  That little boy spent his first 4 years living in the upstairs at the clinic.  Donna was always around, watching him grow. She spent so much time with him, teaching and learning.  She loved him like her own, always so sincere and genuine in her affection for him. 

When Cody came along she got to start all over again.  She attended so many of his baseball games and was such a cheerleader that I know many other parents thought she had a kid in the game.  It was my kid but he, too, always loved his time with Donna.

Over the years many staff members came and went.  I can honestly say none ever disliked her.  It was her sincere love and compassion for animals and people who garnered respect and inspiration from all that came to know her. She would not speak unkindly of another, that was just her way. 

Donna was an outstanding bowler.  For years, she anchored our bowling team.  My brothers and I, with Donna as the anchor, bowled together once a week for years.  She was amazing and I don’t think I ever saw her feel pressure.  One Christmas week, Melody sent some bourbon hotdogs with me to the league’s Christmas bowling night.  Donna had a little extra “Christmas cheer” that night  and became a bit tipsy.  She blamed her condition on the bourbon hotdogs but the entire league gathered around as she finished her last game with a score of 299.  She shrugged off the single pin that remained and said that she would have enjoyed her first perfect game if we had not run out of hotdogs. That was Donna.

It was after we moved to Florida that I learned that she had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer.  Melody and I made it a point to see her when we went back to Memphis that year.  I don’t think she wanted to see us because of the cancer.  We found her at the clinic and spent some time getting caught up.  I don’t think either of us ever mentioned the cancer.  The pain in my heart was palpable as we visited.  I knew her prognosis much better than she.  It would be the last time I could hug her, she was already pale and thin.  My heart was breaking for her but on the outside I tried to act like all was well.   I hope she knew how much she meant to me, what a profound part of my life she had been.

Death took her on Good Friday.  Brave and caring about the welfare of others until the end I am told.  I am not surprised. 

Her smile, her laugh, and most of all, her way of kindly interrupting and saying “Awwwe” with such wonder and sincere compassion whenever I told her a story about life, love or animals.  Hearts of all those who came to know her are broken.  Of that I am sure.  Her life and the message she left behind was elegantly simple. Live, love, and respect all with heartfelt compassion.

I will always love you Donna.   I envy those with you now who feel the warmth of your big heart and happy smile.  Left behind are leagues of us who came to know and love you.  May God hold you close.  I am sure He is proud to have you home.

A fair portion of the joy that my job brings to me is attributable to the variety of patients I see.  Not far behind that is the folks that share their pets with us and trust us in their care.  It is a great privilege and honor to care for these animals that are so meaningful in the lives of their owners.  It is an obligation that my staff and I take very seriously.  There is, however, a great deal of fun to be had around Shepherd Spring Animal Hospital. 

One recent moment of delight recently involved a lovely pet rat.  Meeko was brought to my care by her tearful owner for euthanasia. Maria, my technician, gave me a “heads up” before I entered the somber exam room. 

As I grabbed the chart and walked in I see a lovely young lady with tears welled up in her eyes on the other side of the exam table.  Sitting quietly on her shoulder, cuddled up to her neck, was the sweetest little grey and white rat.  Her little shinny black eyes studied me and I watched her little nose dance around between all those long whiskers as she scented the air of this of  the exam room.  The little rat appeared happy, healthy and precocious on the shoulder of her heartbroken owner.

It was the first time I had seen this particular little critter.  My first impression was that this patient, still perched on her mom’s shoulder, was happy and healthy.  But the feeling in the room was not one of well-being.  I needed to start somewhere so I asked what was wrong with Meeko.

She carefully took the little rodent from her shoulder and cradled her in her hands. She gently extended Meeko’s front leg revealing a large mass in the shoulder area and extending down the foreleg. 

“I don’t want her to suffer any more, the tumor is growing quickly.” she said as I gently took the little creature from her shaking hands.  I carefully palpated the mass, exploring the margins with my fingertips.  All the while I was contemplating a way out of this for Meeko besides a funeral.  The longer I studied the mass on the rat the more I couldn’t help but notice Maria, who was standing silently by my side, beginning to fidget.  She already knew that I was cultivating another idea. 

As I scratched her bald little ears I looked up at the worried young lady across the table and said, “You know, Meeko did not deserve this.  These rats are bred to be lab specimens and are often much more prone to cancerous tumors.” 

I knew that she had made the trip to the clinic to give a peaceful but heartbreaking end to her friend’s life to prevent extended suffering.  I did not want to put her on the spot with other options for Meeko if her mind was made up.  These are very hard times for one’s emotions and I don’t usually have knowlege of all the reasons why a person may have chosen euthanasia as their best option. The look on her face as I carefully handed our patient back was all I needed to proceed.

“Would you be willing to let me try to take that mass off of her leg?  I believe we can do it and perhaps we can give you both some more quality time together.  This doesn’t have to be the end.”, I half begged her to consider.  I threw in a surgery cost offer that she couldn’t refuse.  I wanted this little creature to stay as happy as she was.

“You could do surgery on her and fix her?” she said in disbelief.

“Not only can we do surgery but I believe we have a good chance of giving you two many more good times together”, I offered.

Off to my side I saw Marie smiling and starting to squirm.  That girl is all about some surgery and a happy ending to a sad tale.

“When can you do it?”, she asked.

I replied that all she need to do was get with Alison, our receptionist, and work that part out. I assured her that we would do everything we could to help Meeko get better.

Asleep for Surgery

Meeko went home bright eyed that evening and returned the next week for us to remove the sutures from the healing incision.  She was in such a playful, spunky mood that we had to gas her to sleep in order to get her still so I could remove the tiny sutures.  She woke up and went back to her happy ways within five minutes. 

Meeko is all healed and doing well I am happy to report.  I add this story to my blog because many people don’t consider a rat to be anything but yucky.  All of these little spirits are special to me however.  Perhaps we should all open our eyes to the wonders of the animal kingdom and understand that all creatures are capable, in their own way, of speaking to us. Perhaps then we can all begin to understand that it is even  possible to wuv a wittle wat.

I was 17, just graduated from Kingsbury High School in Memphis, had put in my requisite time on newspaper routes and flippin’ burgers at McDonald’s, so perhaps she was right, it was time to broaden my skill set.

The Viet Nam quagmire was tearing our country apart in 1969. In a moment of semi-lucid, 17-year-old brilliance, I decided I would set my sites high and become a member of The Few, The Proud.  I arrived at that conclusion after I had seen a tragic news story from Viet Nam that showed several German Shepherd sentry dogs that had been killed in combat.  I vividly remember that to this day.

At that time, I had a wonderful German Shepherd Dog, “Chip”. He was a neighborhood legend, 85 pounds of  solid muscle and bone with so much attitude the dog catcher called him “sir”. With ”payback” in  mind and a knapsack of  ignorance on my back, I presented myself to the Marine recruiter and volunteered both myself and my dog to the service of our country.

After quietly and straight-faced listening to my best ”I am here to volunteer” speech, the strapping Marine behind the desk, after a moment of stunned silence, smiled and yelled to the other Marines in the next room and said “Yall ain’t gonna believe this one.”

The Marines, now an entire group of them,  maintained their composure, kept straight faces and politely informed me that because I was only 17 years old, I would need my Mother’s permission to enlist as a Marine dog handler. Once she signed the paper that they slid across the desk to my waiting hand, I could be on my way.

I got back on the bus heartbroken. My plan for the future had crumbled.  I already knew that no matter how bad she wanted to get rid of me, or how ingeniously I spun the story, there was no way Mom was gonna let that dog go to war.

I had no other options, I continued to work  sacking groceries and on my eighteenth birthday went back and enlisted in the Marines, but Chip stayed behind.  My life got better, but not right away.  Looking back, boot camp at Parris Island would not have been such a challenge if Chip were there with me.  He did not approve of any yelling, any time.  He would even growl (under his breath) when Mom would yell at me. Therefore he did a lot of growling.  I missed him for sure but I also missed nearly everything in the life I left behind.  Culture shock takes on a bold new meaning in Marine boot camp.

In the Marines, the rank of E-7 is called a Gunnery Sergeant.  That’s a bunch of syllables for us simple-minded Marines so we just called ‘em “Gunny”.  My senior drill instructor was a Gunny.  That man was, at once, the baddest, filthiest talking, scariest, muscle boundest, squared away human creature I had ever imagined.  I soon came to realize that, had he been there, Chip would have joined forces with the Gunny (out of professional courtesy), in order to help him make something of worth out of us pathetic recruits.

After graduation from Parris Island, instead of making me a dog handler, the Marines, in their infinite wisdom, made me a photographer.  I was a bit offended at first.  My rifle shooting skills had won numerous awards in high school and in  boot camp. But you did what you were told and that was that.  A photo I sent home of myself in uniform, armed with only a camera,  must have been a real hit around the old neighborhood.  Chip looked at the photo and just sighed and walked off.  It was final. I was on my own.  There would be no dogs in my future for a long while.

Chapter 2

I included that biographical snapshot from my past to help my readers understand who I am and how I got to this point in my life.  I feel it necessary, from time to time, to share a sidebar of my life to share with my readers my passion for veterinary medicine, my patients, and those that mean so much to me.

First, it should be evident that my affection for dogs, especially working dogs, is a cornerstone of my personal foundation.  It has been my great pleasure to care for many great working dogs in my professional life.  Hunting dogs such as retrievers and bird dogs, Search and Rescue dogs, Police dogs,  and Guide dogs (Seeing Eye dogs) are all “working dogs” in service of mankind. They are similar and yet very different from our household pets.  All working dogs hold special respect and reverence from Dr. Norm.  My commitment to their welfare in deep and unwavering, including those who have tried to bite me.

The words that I shared about my dog “Chip”; a few of my days as a Marine, and what a “Gunny” is are to set the stage for the following story:

Wakulla County Florida is home to one of the best police dogs I have ever met.  I have been closely acquainted with many police dogs.  I have attended to police dogs shot in the line of duty where the entire hospital is packed with deeply concerned cops demanding minute by minute updates on their wounded comrade.  I have nursed them through illness and injury and stood, unable to speak, with their grief-stricken handlers during their final moments of life.  Some are downright crazy mean and some have great innate understanding that I am there as a friend and not a felon.  All are working dogs, and as such they get the absolute best I can give them any time they ask for help.

It so happens that this fine German Shepherd dog is named “Gunny”.  The name is very fitting. Armed with the background that I have supplied about the name “Gunny” in Chapter 1 of this little saga, just know that the name is a perfect fit.  “Gunny” is a very impressive canine cop. He can do it all.  He is trained to search and find marijuana, cocaine, heroin, amphetamines, crystal meth and he’s very good at it. He has apprehended untold numbers of fleeing felons at all hours of day and night, both armed and unarmed. (It only matters to the dog so they know which arm to bite – the one holding the weapon.)  “Gunny”, with the tenderness of a poodle,  has tracked and located elderly people who wandered from home at night and become lost in the woods. He has done it all – and done it well.

Sgt. Mitchell and Gunny

It is with the greatest admiration that I listen to his handler, Sgt. “Boonie” Mitchell recount the tales of their years together on the beat. The bond that Boonie and Gunny share is impossible to explain and difficult to imagine.  Gunny is a normal household pet all day, but at night he is Sgt. Mitchell’s second set of eyes, ears, and all-star backup for every cop within driving range.  All law enforcement  officers are glad to have a dog that can fearlessly and thoroughly “clear” a building, especially at night.  Gunny performs this task with professional zeal and gusto.  He’s a marvelously conditioned, consummate professional at his job – just like my Gunny Drill Instructor.

Last Sunday night I was enjoying a little “chill” time at home with Melody. My phone rang and on the other end was Boonie.  I could tell by the tone of his voice as he apologized for calling on Sunday that there was serious trouble, most likely, I figured, with Gunny.

When it comes to details with his dog’s day-to-day life Boonie misses absolutely nothing; period.  I listened quietly while he described a slight right rear leg lameness beginning two weeks before.  He was uncertain but thought it possibly related to a near head-on collision with a fleeing felon who switched off his headlights and attempted to collide with the officer and dog’s vehicle.  Gunny was tossed about the vehicle like a rag doll while his handler swerved to avoid a potentially deadly impact. Gunny shook it off at the time and even went through his rigorous annual re-qualification a few days later.     However, he solemnly explained that for the past several days Gunny had progressively lost use of his rear legs.  He told me he knew Gunny’s working days were over but he wanted to save his life.  The profound sadness and concern in his voice was multiplied in my heart because of my personal appreciation for these dogs and the special bond they have with their handlers.

We talked for a long time and agreed to meet first thing Monday morning and try to diagnose and, most importantly, help this dog and his best friend.  After I hung up the phone I knew that great hurdles would lie between this incredible dog, and survival. I went to bed but sound sleep was elusive.  I worried about those two all night.  I needed to bring my “A” game to the clinic on Monday. We also needed luck – better make it a double.

Monday’s tend to get hectic at the clinic these days.  I walked into my office and immediately asked Alison how the morning appointment schedule looked.  At that point she looked at me fully knowing that there was something cooking that she needed to know about.  I told her she needed to make a hole in a packed morning schedule for Gunny.   The tone of my voice was all she needed and she got right to it.   She’s the best.

It was only a half hour later when the girls ushered Boonie into the exam room with a pitifully sad look on his face while carrying his proud partner.  I did my best to maintain a professional, objective approach to this case while I took my first looks as Gunny.  Sometimes the game is over before it begins,  and with neuro cases odds often get stacked against us.

I greeted this fine German Shepherd Dog with genuine respect and joy.  Dogs, especially smart ones like this, can read you like an open book.  If I am fearful or emotionally “off” this dog would instantly know it.  We have to bond quickly and understand one another as things are about to get personal.  Gunny’s eyes and manner immediately welcomed me into his space.  Sgt. Mitchell, a very seasoned dog handler, projected exactly the correct support the dog needed without speaking a word to him.  Dogs just know what the vibe is and respond appropriately, it is usually us that cannot understand what they say.

As I began the exam we continued to talk about details of the changes in Gunny’s performance over the past 2 weeks.  On presentation he was no longer able to consciously use his rear legs.  His right rear leg was much worse than the left and had lost over 90% of its function.  His reflexes were exaggerated in the right much more than the left.  He was still able to move his tail consciously (a great sign) but could no longer control urination.  In addition, his front legs showed no neurological deficits. (Another great sign.)

There are a number of possible causes for his loss of neurological function to his rear legs. Because his nerve problem involved just his rear quarters and exaggerated myotatic (knee jerk) reflexes, there was most likely a spinal cord problem between his upper chest and his pelvis.  Because it was worse on the right side it was most likely a focal lesion which makes a great case for a ruptured inter-vertebral disk.  I told Boonie that if it was,  indeed, a disk rupture, we could find it with a myelogram and hopefully remove the offending disk from the spinal canal.  Successfully doing so would thereby end the pressure on his spinal cord.  Then, the long road back…

Spinal cords are completely surrounded by bone for protection.  There is no such thing as an insult to a spinal cord that has no consequences.  Mother nature wrapped them in solid bone for a reason.  It is essential to protect it at all times, no exceptions.  That includes, of course, insults caused by surgical errors.

We admitted Gunny to the hospital and went to work on ancillary things like tending to his full urinary bladder by catheterizing and draining, placing an IV in his front leg and getting some baseline blood tests prior to anesthesia.  Gunny was a perfect patient.  He doesn’t even blink at the discomfort of these procedures.  He just watches, he always watches; everything.

Myelograms are reserved only for spinal cases which will probably go to surgery. They are simple to perform but there are several ways to mess things up and when we are putting a needle in the spinal canal, messing up can carry consequences.  Basically we carefully place a needle between two vertebra in the back and carefully advance the needle into the spinal canal.  When we get it into position spinal fluid will flow from the needle to indicate we are where we want to be. That is the only feedback you receive.  If you are not in perfect position- well remember what I said about insults and consequences.

Gunny slipped off to comfortable sleep as I injected the anesthetic into his IV. His vital were all good and we decided to go forward with the myelogram.  His back has to be surgically prepped as these are sterile procedures.  Once Maria was finished with the prep she switched places with me and took over the job of monitoring Gunny under anesthesia.  We take that stuff seriously and she is as good as they come.  The needle hit the spinal canal on the first attempt. Clear fluid spilled from the hub of the needle.  I always measure the quantity of the spinal fluid as well as other characteristics such as color and turbidity.  All are important as diagnostic indicators.

Next, I injected the contrast media into the space around his spinal cord. This “dye” would outline his spinal cord on the X-ray and tell me if there were places where the cord was compressed for any reason.

As the image came up on the computer there was no longer any question.  Gunny had indeed ruptured the disk at L3-4 in his lower back.  He was going to need surgical decompression of his spinal cord.  The procedure is called a hemilaminectomy. I called Boonie and advised him that there was hope,but Gunny was facing surgery.  I knew he was nervous about what lay ahead.  Me too.

The surgical procedure, although straightforward, is technically challenging.  Years ago, when I was in veterinary school, my neurology instructor, Dr. Bob Selcer, and I became good friends.  He was a tough guy, many feared him, but he was home to the most gifted pair of hands that I have ever seen.   At the University of Tennessee we saw a number of dachshunds with disk ruptures most of the time after hours as emergencies. In my clinical year I tried to be there as often as I could on those cases.  I assisted Dr. Selcer and watched him perform the hemilaminectomy many times. On those long nights, I watched every move he made and learned.  He was an incredible surgeon, the best I have ever scrubbed with.   He taught me the procedure that few veterinarians will attempt, and he made me both competent and confident when performing it.  I think of him every time I perform a spinal surgery.

Gunny’s surgery lasted about one and a half hours. The approach involves an incision right over the center of the back at the level of the offending disk.  Once the lumbar muscles are separated from the spinal column and the bleeding controlled, an elliptical “window” is created in the side of the spine over the location of the lesion on the spinal cord using a high-speed burr.  It is both difficult and delicate at the same time.  While tunneling through the dense bone of the vertebra, the surgeon must know exactly when to stop. Where bone ends, spinal cord begins. Often there is no space between the vertebral bone and the spinal cord itself.  If the high-speed burr hits the spinal cord – well nothing good happens.

The bone on this dog’s back is about a quarter-inch thick.  The “window” is about 3/4 inch wide and about half that high.  Once all the bone is removed and we have a nice smooth window, we begin to remove all of the disk material that is compressing the spinal cord.  Most often it is white in color and the  consistency of pudding. It is removed with a tiny spoon-like instrument one little scoop at a time with every effort not to disturb the spinal cord.  If I touch the spinal cord too hard the dog’s rear legs will jerk.  Dr. Selcer always said that every time that happens you can add one week of time to the dog’s recovery. In other words, don’t do it!  Hands are often very fatigued after the hard, yet meticulous, work of creating the tunnel but great care is so important at this point.

His surgery went perfectly, his vitals were rock solid all the way through owing, in large part, to his perfect physical condition. We removed a large amount of disk material from Gunny’s spinal canal. By so doing, we know that we were addressing the problem and helping this fine dog.  We also know the prognosis for recovery is getting better with every tiny bit of the disk we remove. His spinal cord showed no sign of bruising and I had a great feeling that this saga was going to have a happy ending. Barring unforeseen complications and a good rehab,  this dog should fully recover.  Norm was a happy camper.

I went straight from surgery to call Gunny’s anxious partner. I was overjoyed to tell him how everything went and that his partner, in my opinion, would not only live but be able to, once again, go back to work.  Cautious optimism; I think that’s the best way to describe how I intended to sound, but I probably sounded like I was dancing on air.

Rehab from spinal injury is not a pretty thing.  Boonie heard it enough times from me and I knew he understood what we are in for.  I taught him how to catheterize his dog and keep his bladder drained.  He already knew that when Gunny had to poop that it had to be immediately cleaned up because Gunny just freaks out in embarrassment and drags himself away from his mess. Perhaps, I explained, his recovery would be short but to plan for months.

Boonie checked in with a progress report a few days after he got home and everything sounded like I expected it would.  He was getting cathed on a regular schedule, appetite and water consumption good, and his sutures all looked good.

Three days later, he called again to tell me that he was watching TV and Gunny,who had yet to try and stand, staggered by and went through the dog door and outside to take a poop.  I laughed with tears in my eyes.  I know Boonie did too.  A few days later he regained control of his bladder and began to get up and go outside to urinate.  Another milestone passed in his recovery.

A couple of days later, now ten days post-op, Boonie and his partner came to the hospital for follow-up.  Although Boonie carried him in because it was raining, I was proud to see them both happy again.  After I removed his sutures, Boonie, Gunny, Maria and I went out back in the rain so I could have the honor of seeing Gunny pee.  I was absolutely delighted to see him hike his left leg and support his entire rear end with the formerly paralyzed right leg and take a good long whiz on the fence.

As they often say, it’s the little things in life.  There we all stood in the rain, like silly school kids, deriving great joy from watching a dog pee. How often is life that simple?

I have taken those of you who have read this story through over three thousand five hundred words to have you join us, standing in the rain, watching a dog pee.  I am sorry it took so long to get you here but I wanted you to know enough to share that joy with us. I love my job, I am so lucky.

Please keep Boonie and his “Tougher than a Nickel Steak” partner in your thoughts and prayers.  He has a long way to go but no shortage of guts to carry him there. Next time you see a cop thank him or her.  If it happens to be a canine cop, just remember Gunny, the best of the best.

I was finishing some paperwork in the treatment room and she strolled up with a diet coke in one hand and a chicken/biscuit in the other and handed them to me accompanied by her big, good morning, wait til you see this one, smile. 

I thanked her for the breakfast, pulled up my roll-around stool and sat down to hear what she had on her mind this time.

We are overwhelmed with Christmas goodwill at the clinic.  We are getting fat as ticks on all the candy apples, fudge, brownies, popcorn, oranges, you name it that our dear clients have delivered these past two weeks.  We have been busy as fleas but the season just makes each day more bright as Christmas approaches.

Bonnie reached into her pocket and pulled out a tightly folded sheet of notebook paper and handed it to me.

“You need to read this”, she said with a big grin.

Curious as a kitten, I laid down my biscuit, wiped my fingers and unfolded the paper.

“Lord have mercy Bonnie! We gotta find that boy’s dog and do something. It’s two days til Christmas”, I said with an oversized lump in my throat that had nothing to do with the chicken/biscuit, which was now getting cold.

“I kinda figured that’s what you would say.  He’s in the truck, I’ll go get him”, Bonnie replied fully knowing what my reaction to the letter would be.

The letter was passed around the staff who stood speechless but smiling.  They all knew that one Christmas wish was about to come true. We always hear stories about the “true” meaning of Christmas, but rarely do we ever get an opportunity to share the experience – especially with a child and a dog.

“Hound Boy” needed to be vetted for adoption.  That’s about as easy as it gets.  The middle-aged hound mix who had about a zero chance of adoption from the shelter in Perry had literally gotten the break of his life.  We gave him his health exam which was good, vaccinated him and checked him for worms and heartworms.  Sadly, he was found to have a heartworm infection.  Bonnie said she was gonna pass the hat to try to raise the money for his heartworm treatment medication.  It’s not cheap, but that’s down the road a few weeks. 

Later, we anesthetized him and neutered him. I snapped a picture of him while he recovered from his surgery. “Hound Boy” was looking more like New Year’s morning hang-over, but better days were coming.

Hound Boy

Bonnie picked the old pup up in the afternoon and was gone before I got an opportunity to hear her plan. That all changed today as she made us all tear up with “The rest of the story”. 

This morning Bonnie made the hour-long drive back down the coast to Perry, FL.  When she returned about lunch time she came straight to the clinic to share the rest of this marvelous Christmas story.  This is how it went, I have every confidence that it is as true as the very spirit Christmas.

As she drove into the parking lot at the shelter, she noticed a small boy sitting on the steps looking away as she walked in.  She went to the shelter manager who was talking with a woman.  As she walked up they stopped talking and looked at her.

Bonnie said that she had brought the hound back after his surgery and vaccinations.  He was fine for adoption and all the costs had been covered. The shelter manager said that was great and that it so happened that this lady was the boy’s mom that she was talking to. They had returned to adopt the dog after raising the money  for the boy’s Christmas present.  Bonnie introduced herself and told her that money was not needed for this dog and asked where Kevin was.  She said he had run outside because he was upset. 

It seems that after they arrived at the shelter, little Kevin ran back to the cage where he last saw his prospective canine partner.  Seeing only an empty cage and the blue half of a 55 gallon drum for shelter that he referred to in his letter he became confused.  Apparently he then remembered the stories his mom had told him about shelter dogs being “put to sleep”. He immediately thought the worst.  He probably figured that he was too late to save his “Hound Boy”.  With tears in his eyes and rage in his little heart Kevin ran outside just before his mom learned the real story.

That story, beginning with the letter that Kevin sent to the shelter and ending with Bonnie driving up just in time to surprise that little boy with his only Christmas wish, is the stuff we all love to hear.  What luck, what profound Merry Christmas luck!

With Kevin’s Mom’s permission, Bonnie walked back outside and asked Kevin, who was still looking away, if he was OK.  He replied “No maam”, still looking away.

“What’s wrong?” Bonnie asked.

Filled with sadness, rage and fear, the little boy replied, “That fat lady put my dog to sleep”.

That was the meanest thing he could think to say that wouldn’t earn him a spanking.

Bonnie knelt beside him, put her hand on his back and said, “Kevin, Hound Boy is OK, he is all fixed up and he is ready to go home with you!  He is right here in my car”.

Of course, my best words become meaningless at this point.  Just let me say what a profound honor and privilege it is for me to have even a small part in this boy’s Christmas dream. And bless you Bonnie, what an honor to know you.

May all of the joys of this wonderful season be yours my friends.  Merry Christmas!!!!

A Cell Phone Picture of Kevin and his Family

Some 4 weeks have passed since I was called by my friend Bonnie about a gut wrenching story of animal abuse.  Before I go farther, I need to purge my soul.  I have about as much use for a human that would abuse an animal as I do for one who would abuse a child.  In my opinion, both types of people should be purged from the gene pool and I really don’t care about the chosen method that the purging takes place.  If you find me offensive and judgmental there is no need to tell me.  I am and will remain that way on these issues until I exhale my last breath in this life.

A witness in a neighboring county  saw an object thrown from a moving truck in front of their vehicle.  At first glance they thought it was just a trash soda bottle.  But as their car passed it beside the road it was recognized as a puppy!  Of course they stopped and picked the little two-pound fuzzball up as would any civilized person  in such a circumstance.

At first glance this puppy was found to be badly injured.  The wounds were both severe and extensive.  After a few calls to locate someone who could possibly provide some care and comfort to this creature, the terribly sick pup fell into my friend Bonnie’s hands.

Soon after that she and I stood together and with great sickness in the  pit of my stomach, I listened to the story.  The pup was missing at least 50% of the skin on the top of his back in a very irregular pattern.  In addition there were two deep wounds on the sides of his body that were crawling with maggots.  He had one eye that was missing, a severe case of malnutrition, parasites, and sarcoptic mange. 

The one thing that was conspicuously missing from this puppy was blame for the subhuman scumbag that did this to him.  Alison, my receptionist named him Jack. The name fit and from that moment forward everything we could do for Jack was done with great enthusiasm. As I reflect, I believe we were all so desparately trying to say “I’m sorry”.

Jack was pitifully ill for several days and then he began to rally.  The local TV news and newspapers  picked up the story and soon we were bombarded by kindness and compassion and offers to help Jack.  After I met Jack that sad day I was sick in my heart in ways I have never felt. At one time or another I personally saw tears on dozens of cheeks as they silently apologized to this brave little puppy.

Such profound sadness and conflicts in my spirit I have never known. For over a month Jack has fought.  A brave and noble fighter, he seldom complained as his terrible wounds were debrided and medicated several times daily. His pain has been our pain, my staff, Bonnie and the countless numbers of well wishers who knew his story. 

Our little fighter crossed the Rainbow Bridge yesterday morning at 7:00 am.  He had spent the previous 2 days in intensive care in my hands.  Jack wanted to give up. Selfishly, I would not let him go.  He and I needed a miracle and I knew it.  It was not to be.  I am sorry Jack.

I knew this little soul like few others.  Let me just say to those who loved him and never met him. He loved you too! And to the person, the pathetic wretch of a human that did this, Jack would have licked your hand too.  Because Jack was better than you.  He was better than me too.

May his spirit find peace, comfort and eternal love.  I will never forget him.

I wrote a story about the cat we called “Arrow”.  The story of the tragedy and, luckily, the happy ending was widely read and many people have commented to me about that case.  When we finally put that case to rest the kitty was residing in his new home in Atlanta.  His picture was to appear in magazines and publications and he was having his portrait painted the list time I heard.  I am quite sure that he will never know intentional pain at the hands of humans again. 

I never would have believed that I would ever see such a sad commentary on human decency again but about 6 weeks ago Bonnie called me one night to tell me that another cat with an arrow piercing it was in her hands and needing care.  The subsequent midnight meeting between Melody, Bonnie and I had the same outcome as before.  We were able to surgically remove the arrow from the kitty’s chest and he recovered uneventfully even though the arrow actually bruised his heart.  He now lives in a safe, happy home.  Another example of good luck/bad luck, but a happy ending was had by all.

A scant 2 weeks later Bonnie slipped in the front door of the clinic with the latest hard luck case.  She had traveled to the animal shelter in a small town called Perry about 50 miles east of  here.  As usual, she was on a patrol to see if there were any dogs on the short list to be euthanized that she might be able to rescue and place.  As it turned out they were about to euthanize a young little Dachshund.

The story was told that someone had seen him struck by a car and called the police.  Before he was located he dragged himself off and hid under a nearby house.  For 3 days he hid, afraid to come out, partly because of his fear and pain, but mostly because his back was broken and his rear legs no longer worked. Scared, hungry, thirsty and lonely for three long days and nights he hid.  And sadder still, no one even looked for him.

On the fourth day, using only his front legs, he dragged himself back to the edge of the road. This time he was spotted and picked up by a passerby and taken to the shelter.  Upon examination at the shelter it was easily determined that his injuries would preclude his chance for adoption and, for the sake of ending his suffering, it was decided to give him one final injection.

It was at that point Bonnie walked in, heard the story and said, according to her, “Stop please, until Dr. Griggs sees this dog.” 

Into my exam room she walked with that “please see if you can help this baby!” look on her face.  As I questioned her about her latest rescue to get some background information, I stroked this little wiener’s head to comfort him.  I started to gently examine him and my heart sank as I noted the  flacid rear legs and the obvious knot in his midback. 

“Bonnie, this is serious, very serious”, I said trying not to make eye contact with her.  She can give me “the look” that gets me doing things that keep me behind for the remainder of the day.  I wanted to help the little guy but, at that point, I felt like he needed divine intervention more than a veterinary surgeon.

Fracture in Perry's back

“Fix him” , she said. “I told them you would.”

I was about to tell her, still avoiding eye contact, that this little pups fate was out of my hands.  With a spinal fracture visible without the benefit of an X-ray, the chance of the spinal cord being intact is practically nil. 

The spinal cord in the largest nerve in the body, be it yours or a dogs. It is completely surrounded and protected by the bone composing the vertebra of the back. Like the brain itself, it is an extremely delicate tissue. Without a spinal cord, life is not possible without the incredible dedication of a committed owner.  As a stray with only 2 good legs, his chance for life was pitifully slim.

As I considered that thought, he looked at me and I noticed an almost imperceptible wiggle of his tail.  It was not possible, I thought. Dogs with severed spinal cords cannot wiggle their tails.  Could it be possible that, by some freaky twist of fate, this dog could survive a spinal fracture?

Encouraged, but still doubtful, I proceeded with a more thorough physical exam and found other promising signs of neurological function. Nothing close to normal but  enough to convince me that we had a chance to get through this alive. I carefully carried him back to X-Ray and was dumbfounded to see the severity of the fracture juxtaposed with the simple fact that his spinal cord was still functional.

I told Bonnie that, unbelievably, we had a chance, a very small chance, to save this dog. 

“See, I told them you would fix him. I know you can”, as she shrugged off my disbelief that this case could ever have a happy ending.

I could not believe it myself. In my professional life of 30 years now, I have never known a dog to have any decent chance of recovery after a spinal fracture of this magnitude.  I pride myself  in my orthopedic surgical skills but this case, in all probability, would be difficult, if not impossible to win.  I knew I would have to try.  Just look at those eyes.

As I said, my day was hopelessly behind schedule at this point so there was no chance to do the surgery. I struggled to catch up and with the help of some understanding clients dragged myself through the front door of our home that night about an hour late for dinner.  I told Melody about the incredible luck of the little Dachshund.  She too was amazed that he could be a surgical candidate.  She lost some of her enthusiasm when I asked her to go down to the clinic for late-night neurosurgery.

My wife is a sucker for a sad story, an excellent surgical technician, and a damn good critical care anesthetist.  This little wiener’s luck continued as I drove Melody down to the clinic, briefing her on my plan to repair his spine.

We handled the little fellow like a crate of cracked eggs as we prepared him for a long surgery.  He was a good little boy and never resisted our careful handling even though he was in obvious pain.  After getting him stabilized under anesthesia Melody began to prep him for surgery as I dragged out all the equipment and instruments that this might require.  Luck was the only thing that was not sterilized and ready.  I hoped it would somehow continue to find and bless this little red wiener dog.

Although I had great radiographs to provide a good picture of the fracture, there was a great deal that I did not know. I still did not understand how the spinal cord was intact in spite of the poor alignment of the spine after the fracture. I was planning to carefully and methodically dissect and explore the fracture and decide how to reduce (return it to a normal alignment) and then apply some sort of permanent fixation to allow it to heal.  I was prepared to do whatever was necessary but first I had to personally inspect the fracture and make a plan.

As the surgery entered its second hour I had discovered the secret of this dog’s fracture that preserved his spinal cord.  It is difficult to explain but basically the roof of the vertebra that moved down or ventral,  fractured  upward or dorsally. This amazing bit of luck in the face of such a catastrophic injury kept the spinal cord almost straight instead of being pinched as the spine separated.

From a surgical standpoint, once I understood the problem, all I had to do was carefully realign his spine without producing any further trauma to his spinal cord.  Once that was accomplished I needed to mechanically stabilize the spine to allow it to heal while in a more normal position. It is vitally important not to allow any additional insult to the spinal cord while manipulating the fracture. To do so could instantly change this patient’s great fortune to misfortune.

I proceeded very slowly to execute my plan without any more risk than necessary.  After I had the spine back in proper alignment I carefully attached a stainless steel plate to the dorsal vertebral processes in order to keep his spine in proper position for healing.  I started to feel a happy ending to this story.  I love that feeling.  I smiled a big toothy grin in my heart for this dog’s prospects for recovery.  After the last suture was tied I looked across the table at my wife and said with great assuredness said, “This dog will walk again.”

She knew that I meant it and smiled that “way to go” smile and we began the clean up and recover of our patient.

That all happened 4 weeks ago tonight.  We named the little dog “Perry” after his former home.  It seems to fit nicely. Since his surgery he has been in the capable hands of his savior Bonnie.  We see each other weekly for progress assessments.

Perry’s progress has been nothing short of astounding. He makes this old surgeon proud every time I see his progress.  All of the staff enjoys watching him run full speed around the clinic now. His neurological deficits are almost imperceptible now.  It looks like a complete recovery is on the way!

 It sounds silly, I know, but I believe that Perry knows that he has found what he lost that terrible day in the street only a month ago. For those three long days of thirst, pain and loneliness he had plenty of time to reconcile his predicament.  Those 3 days are 3 weeks in dog time I remind my readers.  He most certainly remembers the numb legs and fear of the unknown.  What a wonderful twist of fate that it so happened that his guardian angel Bonnie was there when he finally mustered the strength and resolve to seek help.  His profound joy and love of life has been reborn and is infectious to all that know him.

As I recall this story and type these words I realize that it sounds unbelievable. Believe what you like, the story is as true as it is incredible.

Perry will soon be released from my care and Bonnie’s custody.  Perhaps you may, or know someone who wishes to share the life of our sweet little friend, Perry.  He needs a loving home. Perhaps he could enrich your life as he has certainly enriched mine and maybe, just maybe, he saved some of his great good luck to share with you.

“What should we do?” she frantically asked me on the phone.

 The dog would not leave the nest alone because it was in her yard.  Without a better idea I asked if she would bring them down to me and I would see if I could take care of them.  Fifteen minutes later I was gifted 6 little snow-white eggs nestled in a cardboard shoe box.  I asked what kind of turtle it was and she told me she did not know turtles but would send me a photo.

Great idea, I thought.  Last year, my readers may recall, I had a Gopher Tortoise that had been hit by a car and while in the hospital she laid a couple of eggs  and then signed them over to me to care for.  I was excited about it and I nestled them in a sand box and placed them in an incubator.  We even started a “pool’ at the clinic to see who could guess the date of the blessed event.  Well, the incubation time came and went and I finally gave up and excavated the eggs and they were all dried up and not viable.  Sad day. I did not know if it was something I did not do right or perhaps they just were not fertile. 

We were all a bit bummed out about the loss of the eggs but I made a few mental notes to do things differently next time, indeed if I ever had a “next time”.

With the lessons I learned last year I decided that these eggs would sleep in a more natural environment.  I chose not to put them in the yard because I had learned that the hatchling turtles suffer terribly at the jaws of the fire ants.  Apparently, these little demons burrow down to the eggs as they start to hatch and attack the little hatchlings eyes first. Blinded, they cannot survive and are subsequently consumed by the fire ant colony.  It is thought that these non-native fire ants are having a serious impact on our Gopher Tortoise populations. 

I had decided that the best place for my future friends was right on my back porch.  I selected a thick foam cooler that vaccines are shipped to the clinic in and added some yard sand (we don’t have dirt here) and planted my little turtle seeds.  My thought was to keep them shaded and in the foam so the temperature of the sand would not fluctuate with the sunshine but would just be an average of the day/night temperatures during the North Florida Summer. 

I knew it was important to keep the nest moist but figured Mother Nature knew best so every time it rained I would go sprinkle the next box.  Sometimes we got a big rain and sometimes a mist.  No hard science like last year, just a gut feeling when the eggs might be thirsty.

I looked at my little box every time I walked across the porch.  I knew the incubation period would be about 3 months but I also know that if they hatched and I didn’t notice they would perish without food in the incubator.

This afternoon I walked by the cooler and gave it a casual glance as I always do and noticed something was different. I paused and picked it up for a closer examination.  Something was different in my little cooler but I had left my glasses (ain’t advancing age ugly?) beside the sofa where I had been recovering from my farm work on this August afternoon. 

I carried my little cooler with me and located my glasses for a closer exam and was goosed by the site of a tiny turtle nose protruding from the sand.  In addition, on the other side of the cooler I could see some action too. I started to dance like a first time father. 

Melody was down at the barn feeding the horses and I yelled, “Baby, our turtles are hatching!”

She rushed up to the house and joined me peering into the styrofoam box.  I moistened the sand a bit thinking that would not hurt anything.  The little fellers must be thirsty. After a few minutes of no progress I could not help myself.  I reached in and unearthed the little turtle and his egg. 

Melody grabbed my camera and before she could get it on and focused this incredible little life burst forth in the palm of my hand. INCREDIBLE.  That is all there is to say.  The precocious little guy was just scampering all over my hand like he was looking for Easter eggs. 

Melody and I have a dear friend named Judy. She is a turtle nut just like me.  Melody called her to apprise her of the blessed event and gave me the phone.

Judy knew about my little “project” but, like me, had her doubts that it would come to fruition.  I told her that I had one newborn in my hand and the next one to arrive would do so in the palm of hers. 

And off we went to Judy’s house and just as I promised the next one hatched in her hand and then another in Melody’s and then another in Judy’s. 

We had a total of 6 eggs and 5 hatched.  So cool!  Judy will no doubt have video on her blog about the whole experience so I will give you a link.

http://imdella.wordpress.com/

She also has a very sad story about a beautiful Green Sea Turtle that we desperately tried to save two weeks ago.  I was too sad to write the story so I will direct my readers to Judy’s words and great video of the surgical intervention to try to save the lovely Green Turtle.

Melody and I took her body back to the sea she called home. On Wednesday afternoon, I solemnly let her body slip from my hands and return to the deep.  May her spirit live on in this new life.