My Beautiful Colors

 About three weeks ago, I climbed out of my lovely home in a natural free flowing spring. The water there is as clear as fine crystal and flows at a near constant 67 degrees year around.  These placid waters, lush with aquatic vegetation have served as my home for over thirty years.  This place is special because no humans live there. And, it is one of the most beautiful places on earth. I know this because I have spent many lovely days there, sunning on a log and listening to visitors at my home utter heartfelt praises to that effect. Wakulla Springs State Park is a beautiful and natural place alright, but it is the only home I have ever known. I am sorry the rest of the world is not equally beautiful and I am certainly blessed to have been able to live there my entire life.

 But this day was to be different from all the other days this past year. You see, each of the past twenty years, in the late spring, I have dutifully answered the urging voices of my ancestors and left the safety of the water to find a warm sunny location to deposit my eggs in some sandy soil.  I must complete this task each year, and I do it at risk of great peril because, as I leave the safety of my watery home, I have no escape from danger because, well after all, I am a turtle for goodness sake.

As I pushed my way through the lush, emerald green vegetation of north Florida springtime, I began to hear the familiar sound of distant thunder. I have no concern about getting wet as I have my house on my back and carry it with me wherever I travel. So I pushed on and after a hard rain began to fall I walked into a large clearing.  I found nothing but grass, very short and even grass.  I was in need of a clearing like this but I needed some sandy soil to dig a hole for my eggs.

 I walked up a short hill and onto a very hard surface. It would be impossible to dig here so on I walked, in the rain.

 I know now that I had walked onto what humans call a “road” because of a conversation I overheard about an hour later. Just then, at a speed that I still cannot comprehend, because things in my life proceed in turtle time, a very large metallic beast suddenly appeared and squashed me like a bug.  I remember very little except the question “What the heck was that?” and the intense pain exploding throughout my body.

 Blood began to flow freely from the many fissures in my shell.  The blood mixed with the rain water and formed a small stream flowing toward the edge of the road.  I figured this was how it was to end for me but was saddened that it could not have occurred after I got these eggs safely deposited.  At least my kids would have had a chance to carry on this ridiculous family name of Cooter. My vision began get foggy and the pain seemed to be fading as well. It had been a good life, after all.

 The next thing I remember was being gently lifted from the pool of my own blood by the first human I ever met, face to face.  I know now that his name was Cal, Cal Jamison, and as he stood in the pouring rain examining my crushed carapace, I wondered what the heck he was thinking.  He looked deeply concerned, and said, “I know just the place for you”.  He had a very kind face, was obviously concerned about me, but I honestly thought he was planning to eat me. I have always heard such things about people.

 Cal placed me in a box on the front seat of his truck and drove for about 10 minutes.  He carried me and the box from the truck and into a building.

 Once inside, I heard him say “Tell Norm that I have a patient for him.”

 A very pleasant lady behind the counter whose name was Alison said “Right away Cal, what have you got there?”

 “I have a turtle that has been hit by a car,” he said while examining my considerably distorted body.

 About that time this Norm character appeared and said hello to Cal and invited him to bring me to the back.  After a quick summary of my predicament he handed me over to this Norm character.  Now I have to tell you folks, I was scared.  I had earlier wondered if Cal was going to eat me, but this dude was feeling all over me and stretching my legs all out and peering into my eyes with a bright light.  There was lots of stainless steel around so I figured I must be in the kitchen now. 

My Initial Exam

 After he poked around on me some more he looked at Cal and with a twinkle in his eye said, “I think we can fix him, his spinal cord appears to be intact despite that awful fracture in the center of his carapace.”

 Cal smiled and said, “Great, let me know when he’s done and I will pick him up.”

 My God, what the heck am I, fast food? I was beginning to weaken more at the thought of being dinner when a lovely lady named Maria appeared and began to clean my wounds. She was very kind and I immediately began to feel better.  She did not appear to me to be someone who would eat turtles.

 It was about that time she said, “Dr. Griggs, do you think we can save her? Can she be free again?”

I Was Really Messed Up

Did I hear her correctly? Did she say doctor? Did she say free again? Could it be that there is such a thing as a turtle doctor and could it be my fortune to meet him just when I needed him most? I began to see a small ray of sunshine on my otherwise miserable day.  Maria gave me a poke with a needle and quietly assured me that my pain would get better, and it did. I dozed comfortably for the remainder of that horrible day.

 Later that day (I believe it was after dark) I was awakened from a slumber by Dr. Griggs and his wife Melody.  As he lifted me from my towel and explained my injuries to Melody, I started to get sick. It sounded really bad. I had so much damage to my shell that Melody did not seem too convinced this was going to work out. After a long conversation and confident persuasion my surgeon and his anesthetist were ready to go to work.

He gave me an injection to make me get sleepy so that they could put a breathing tube down my throat.  But because I was so weak he did not want to give me very much anesthetic by injection.  After about 30 minutes I still was not asleep enough to start the work to reconstruct my home. So Melody put a clear mask over my face and sent me off to the greatest sleep I have ever had.

It only seemed like a moment had gone by and I heard voices but I was still very much asleep.  Dr. Griggs said “That should do it; she will be fine in a few days”.

 I heard Melody comment that the surgery had taken over 2 hours.  Then I heard her say that I would not breathe on my own anymore.  She still had the tube in my airway but I was just too tired to breathe.  She continued to care for me and breathe for me for a very long time and so did Dr. Griggs.  Finally, he told her it was no use breathing for me any more.  It was time to call it quits. He hugged her and told her it was not her fault.  I screamed that I was OK but nothing came out.  The injection he had given me to start the surgery had finally kicked in and I felt like I was far down a long dark hallway.

My Repaired Home

She felt really, really sad.  I was alive though. Turtles live in “turtle time” and we can go for a very long time without a breath and we don’t die. She finally carefully placed me on a towel in the deep tub and with a tear in her eye they turned out the lights and went home. I just drifted off to a nice sleep and took a breath about every 15 minutes for the next several hours.

 Early the next morning I heard the door open and Dr. Griggs came in to see me. He was obviously shocked and very happy to see me walking about the tub like nothing was wrong.  I felt a little beat up but otherwise, I just wanted to go home.

 He got this crazy, giddy smile on his face and ran off to a telephone and called Melody. When she answered he said, “You know there are some things that I would never joke about, right”?

  After a short pause he said “You guessed it, she is alive and well and looking for a way out of here. Crazy isn’t it?”

 My doctor was a very happy person.  I overheard him tell the story over and over all morning long. That guy really loves turtles and I am sure glad.

That very afternoon I was happy to see Cal staring down at me.  He had a big smile on his face and I no longer felt like I was on the dinner menu.  He has such a kind face and I had a feeling that he was here to rescue me once again.

I don’t really mean that in a bad way. You know what they say. You can never get well in a hospital.  Someone always wants to mess with you – poking and prodding at your wounds, all the while discussing your prognosis.  I find it a bit embarrassing to have folks eyeballing me like I was an E.T. just off a space ship.  Heck, I am a turtle, but not just any turtle. I am a Suwannee Cooter mind you.  And I have to admit I am looking pretty good again.

 After a short conversation, Cal put me in a box and off we went.  He told the newspaper folks about me and how Dr. Norm had left me for dead and how I gave him that little surprise.  Now the entire county knows that he doesn’t know a dead turtle from a live one.  Just my little joke on him.  Tee hee.

 Cal took me back to my beloved spring and kept me in a comfortable pen for a week just to make sure I was healing.  Then he called my doctor and him and Melody came over so that I could show them my home. They carried me deep into the cypress marsh, flush with ferns and giant hardwood trees.  At the edge of a small sparkling feeder spring, without fanfare my doctor said goodbye to me and set me free once again.  I went straight to the bottom of the cold water spring and never looked back. It felt so good to be back in the water, so cool and I was totally weightless again. God, I missed this place.

 After a few moments I peeked around the log that I was behind about 6 feet underwater and I saw them all still standing there.  I could sense that they were happy.  I don’t remember what prompted me to do so but I left my hiding place and swam back to the surface. I paused, looked at them as sincerely as a Cooter can look and said thank you and goodbye. With that I returned to my world and them to theirs. 

 You may doubt my story but it is true.  I know I did not dream it because I have half a dozen screws and a bunch of stainless steel wire all covered with acrylic to make me smooth and protect me from infection while I heal here in my world.

 Now that I am home I have become quite the celebrity.  I gather quite a crowd out on the old sunning log as I tell my story to the other turtles and the birds and gators.  The young ones insist on touching my “hardware” as I tell my tale.  It’s crazy, but  I wear the proof.

 So that’s my story folks. I will be signing off now.  Back to turtle time, no hurries, no worries.  If you please, I would like to leave you with the sincere wish that you may experience the peace and joy that is mine each and every day in my world. Try to enjoy each day, each breeze, each bird song, and each friend like you would never encounter them again.

 Then, my friends, you will be living; living in Turtle time.

My Friend Cal

My Doc and I Say Farewell

Because, of my supportive friends at Wakulla County Animal Control and all of the chain of command above them with the wisdom to employ such caring and compassionate people. They perform such a difficult job, often in worst of circumstances, cleaning up the messes that people make of the lives of animals.

Because of the wonderful and deeply dedicated  folks at CHAT, our pet adoption group.  These extremely dedicated people work year-round, asking neither for recognition or thanks, to provide the best possible second chance for multitudes of needy animals.  Not only do they provide their care and comfort while in their custody, but serve as their advocates, ensuring that these animals are properly placed in the best homes possible.

Because of Janie, my friend and the most caring, compassionate and conscientious breeder of beautiful Maine Coon Cats on the planet. It is because of her concern, determination and desire that my wish for Lucky has been fulfilled.  I will always be in her debt.

Because of Susan, a kind-hearted ”cat person” whom I have never met but will always call a friend for opening her heart and home to my little buddy.  Susan, your plan to use the tragic story of his pain and misery at the hands of mean spirited people to heighten awareness of animal cruelty will give me warm closure to this ordeal.  I know that the two of you  will share a beautiful bond of warmth, respect, honor and love. Thank you.

Because, with the help and  concern of such fine friends , in the cause of animal welfare, I was able to keep the promise that I made to this creature.  I humbly thank you all, and I also know that, in doing so, each of you will feel that you deserve no special thanks.  I know that you do what you do because you care.  So please, just let me offer a thank you from Lucky, the one who says it best with his purrs.

Trust me, she knows that look, but seemed reluctant to offer more as I continued on my way to my microscope with a slide to study. I sat on my stool, inserted the slide onto the stage of the microscope, turned on the light and peered in, focusing the lens on the blood cells.

 Alison, still standing in the same spot behind me, started to speak but then paused.

“They said that it has an arrow sticking all the way through it,” not quite sure that she believed what she was saying.

“An arrow?”, I half asked, as that thought stumbled through my mind which was currently considering the contents of the slide. I immediately surmised that the cat was dead and that this was some sort of criminal investigation needing an opinion and not an actual medical crisis for the cat. Back to the slide went my focus.

She answered, “Yes, and the cat appears to be in a great deal of pain.”

Great composure for the situation he's in

Now, it doesn’t take a medical professional to understand that pain is one of those special senses reserved for the living.  I removed my slide and placed it in my “to be continued” pile. I turned off the microscope and turned about on my stool to make eye contact with my receptionist. She plainly had the “I’m not kidding” look on her face.

Without a word, Kathy, my faithful technician, made a ninety degree turn from her current undertaking and began to prepare for what was about to come through the door. She had just laid a towel on the treatment table when a commotion in the lobby was followed by a small contingent of animal control staff headed for the treatment room where we stood.

I stood in shocked disbelief at what I saw.  There, hunkered down on the towel, was a fully grown,  black and white kitty with the fletched end of an arrow shaft protruding from one side of his body and the other end of the arrow sticking about two inches outside the other side.

The room was stone silent. I searched for words. All of my questions were left without answers.  They basically knew nothing about how, why or who. In retrospect, it is better that way.  There are times when I am ashamed to be a member of the same species as the instigator of such a deed and this was shaping up to be one of those times. I sent them all on their way so Kathy and I could form a plan of action. I sat back down on my stool and stared in disbelief.

About six weeks have passed since the events that I am sharing transpired. Even the passage of so many days has not diminished my memory of the pain in my heart as I imagined what this young cat must be going through. That image and feeling persists with crystal clarity in my mind as I struggle to share this story.

Perhaps an accident I considered, but highly doubtful. Some kids being mean and malicious perhaps?  Maybe someone with an ax to grind with the neighbors cat I thought. Who knows? But the end result was sitting peacefully in front of me waiting patiently for the next card that fate was going to deal him.

 We began to offer some assistance to this pitiful creature.  We started an IV, gave him antibiotics and medication for pain, all the while working around this arrow protruding from both sides of his body.I must admit that I was a bit overwhelmed by it all. My voice was breaking and a tear was on my face as I apologized to this innocent creature. I cradled his head in my hands and finished my thoughts in silence as I swore to him that I would make him well again.  My anger and frustration began to focus with razor edge precision on my determination to fix this cat.  It did not matter to me if this was just another stray cat or the beloved pet of some sweet granny. I planned to do whatever I possibly could to get him out of this predicament. I made up my mind that when this ordeal was over, he was walking out and he was going without the god awful pain that he was currently enduring. To that end he owned every resource that I could muster. I left the treatment area and sat at my desk to work out an anesthetic and surgical scenario that would take me and this little no-name kitty to the place where I had just promised he would awaken.

His IV fluid pump purred with a quiet hum as I carefully escorted him into surgery. As I slowly injected the anesthetic into the IV line he nodded off to sleep. I placed the endotracheal tube down his windpipe and hooked him to the circuit of the anesthetic machine to maintain his anesthesia throughout the long surgery. Without delay we placed him on his back on the padded surgery table and tied him gently in that position. Kathy prepped him for the surgery which would start with a midline abdominal incision to assess the track of the arrow. Where we went from there depended on the damage that the arrow had caused. Based on the position of the arrow, I was extremely concerned for his kidney and liver.

 I scrubbed up with a bit of dread.  I still wore my game face however. This had somehow become very personal.

I incised a generous sized hole in his midline abdominal wall.  I anticipated the need for plenty of visualization of the damaged organs. With great care and apprehension I next retracted the wall of his abdomen and stared in.  Beginning at the point where the arrow had entered his abdomen I encountered his first giant portion of good luck. The arrow had passed between the back muscles and his left kidney.  Understand that, in a cat’s abdomen, no space exists where I just described.  The arrow had wedged its way between that kidney and the muscle above it by pushing the kidney down.  The kidney is attached by a large artery, vein, nerve and the ureter which drains urine to the bladder. All of these are arranged in a single bundle which was resting against the shaft of the arrow with no apparent damage!  The kidney was a little bruised where it rested on the arrow but I was amazed the he could have been so lucky. Score one for the kitty.

As it traversed his abdomen the arrow next struck the large fundic portion of the stomach and luckily pushed it aside rather than penetrating the stomach and contaminating his abdomen with bacteria and ingesta.  Score one more for the kitty.

Next, the arrow missed by a scant 5 mm, the huge vein that drains the entire abdomen and rear end of the animal. Instant death by bleeding was dodged by the width of a pencil. It then narrowly missed the pyloric portion of the stomach and the main bile duct from the liver.  That makes three.

It was about at this point that I began to relax. This cat was obviously bulletproof, or at least arrowproof. After rearranging his abdominal contents to allow a continued inspection of the arrow, matters began to get complicated.  After having made it three fourths of the way through his belly without significant damage the arrow tore into the left lobe of his liver before disappearing into his diaphragm and into his chest cavity. Things were beginning to get a bit dicey.

I made a decision to cut the arrow where I could see it best. I planned to extract both ends outward so I could minimize contamination of his abdomen. After I cut it, Kathy gently pulled the rear end of the arrow out the way it entered while I held his kidney to prevent trauma.  That went well and the kidney looked happy. I couldn’t relax until we got the other end of the arrow out.

I asked Kathy to pull the head end of the arrow out as I watched the liver for hemorrhage. I discovered that the liver had actually torn when the arrow first penetrated it, creating a hole larger than it appeared on initial inspection. As the arrow slid out I saw very little bleeding as the liver had already sealed the vessels torn by the arrow’s entry. I placed a suture in the hole in his diaphragm and with as much haste as I could muster began to close his abdomen.

In the back of my mind, I knew that the surgery had gone too well. I knew from his radiographs that the arrow had not caused his lung to collapse after entering his chest. But, with the arrow now gone, the hole it left in his chest wall could be a big problem.

As I closed his abdomen, the monitor indicated that his oxygen sats (the percentage of oxygen saturation in his blood – the closer to 100% the better) had started to fall. His breathing went from relaxed to forced. His right lungs had begun to collapse. Air was sucking into the hole left by the arrow.  Kathy pinched the hole closed and I rushed my closure so I could address our new problem. 

The kittys oxygen saturation was in the critical 70% range when I was finally able to place a chest drain and attempt to re-inflate the collapsed lung. We augmented his breathing with the anesthetic bag while I sucked air from his chest cavity.  After removing over 120 ml of air, the lung was completely inflated and holding. His sats were 88% and climbing; heart rate 144 bpm.

 It was over. I named him “Lucky” and he most certainly was.

“Game, set and match – we win! Let’s get him recovered”, I winked to Kathy.

A short time later I looked him over as he recovered on a heating pad. He was awake but groggy.  In private, I told him one more time that I was sorry for what had happened to him and I meant it as much as any words that I have ever spoken.

Lucky’s recovery was nothing short of amazing. I advised our friends at Animal Control that he would be easy to

Breakfast, the day after surgery

place in a foster or permanent home if we moved quickly. He was just another cat in most ways but he now had a very special story. He had that special story to make him stand apart as not just another stray cat. He had survived the unthinkable, the unbelievable and he did it all with the quiet dignity of a monk. Not one utter of complaint did he ever make. 

I have not seen him since the day he left. I hope that he is happy, healthy, well fed and most especially…safe. But my biggest wish for Lucky is that he never again suffers at the hands of a human.

Please give him a deserving home.

I just learned that Lucky is still in the custody of our local adoption agency, C.H.A.T. It grieves me that this cat, like so many others, is not worthy of a permanent home.  Hopefully, some kind soul who reads my words will be moved to lend a helping hand to this very deserving little feller.

This young kitty, Dusty, resides down the coast, in a quaint seaside town called Carabelle.  He is more than familiar with life on the streets and throughout his relatively short life of 3 years he has had to fend for himself, undoubtedly, on many occasions. 

In one of his more recent brushes with the law of natural selection, Dusty found it necessary to mix it up with an equally savvy creature of the street that, unfortunately, bested his own weight by about forty pounds.  Indeed, Dusty made a miscalculation in allowing his mouth to write a check that his scrawny little butt could never cover. He called out a street wise dog over some silly territorial issue that both should have left alone.

A couple of hisses and some initial spitting at this dog signaled that any hope for diplomacy had been flushed down the storm drain that Dusty called home. In an effort to make his first blow his best, Dusty buried ten well sharpened claws into the face of the dog that would not back down. 

The big problem for Dusty was that the dog had procured a vice like grip on this little kitty’s throat at the same time all this facial stabbing was taking place.

It was precisely at this point that both parties rethought the benefits that peaceful negotiation might offer this stalemate. The street dog released his grip on Dusty’s throat in order to make the verbal point that those were, indeed, the longest and sharpest claws in recent memory.

In a reciprocal move toward reconciliation, Dusty kindly resheathed his ten sabers. No doubt this act was encouraged by the fact that breathing was becoming increasingly difficult with his windpipe firmly ensconced in the jaws of an angry dog.

That was all there was to it. Both sides claimed victory (don’t they always?) and retired to lick their wounds.  The dog undoubtedly developed multiple facial abscesses and Dusty’s fate was to meet a veterinarian down the coast named Norm about 2 weeks later.

Several days later Dusty made an appearance at one of his food stops along his route and a kind soul named Mary noticed that he wasn’t himself.  After a couple of days of well intended medical attention to an upper respiratory infection, Mary loaded Dusty in a kitty carrier to transport him to our clinic. 

An hour later, as we sized one another up I pretty much pegged Dusty as a good kitty with a respiratory infection.  He had a nasal discharge and a fever but was still eating as reported by his caregiver Mary. The wounds on his neck from the bite were not evident and I really didn’t have cause to believe that this was not just another street cat with a URI (upper respiratory infection).  There was, however, a strange “rattle” to his respirations.

I explained to Mary my plan to start him on a round of antibiotics and see if that didn’t help before we spent any more money than necessary. She quickly agreed with the plan but said that no human could give Dusty oral medication.  She had claw marks on her hands to make her point.  I fixed her up with at handful of syringes of injectable antibiotics that she was sure she could administer to this needy cat.

We spoke a few days later and she was happy to share that Dusty was better and all things pointed toward a complete recovery.  As the reader could guess, I wouldn’t be telling this story if that was how it ended.

About a week later Mary called and said that Dusty had taken a sudden turn for the worst and that I needed to see him as soon as I could.  We set up an afternoon appointment that same day and soon I was again visiting with this battle torn kitty.  Dusty sat hunkered down on the exam table, mouth open, gasping for every fraction of a breath. His gums had a distinct blue tint to them indicating that his tissues were starved for oxygen. Dusty wasn’t just critical, he had three of his fuzzy paws in the grave and the other paw on a banana peel.  We carefully and quietly carried him back for x-rays. 

It was obvious to me that Dusty had obstructive airway problems.  It is very strange for this to occur in a cat.  Dogs get toys and balls stuck in their larynx or damage their tracheas with collars or choke chains but cats just don’t participate in that sort of nonsense. I was scratching my head to make sense of what I was seeing and hearing.

As soon as the radiograph popped up on the computer screen my jaw dropped.  There was an obvious obstruction in his trachea near the base of his neck.  Without more of an idea what the heck could be the cause of the problem I considered a tumor, some freaky congenital problem and even an aspiration of some foreign body.  The bottom line, however, was that Dusty was barely clinging to life.

As I briefed his caregivers on just how critical this situation was, I wondered how in the world I could ever hope to anesthetize Dusty in order to surgically explore his tracheal obstruction.  If I gave him an anesthetic injection to induce anesthesia he would no longer have the strength to breathe around the problem.  If I placed an endotracheal tube (a plastic tube through which to breath, which is inserted down the trachea during surgical procedures) upon anesthetic induction, there appeared to be a great chance the tube would not be able to pass the obstruction to get air into his lungs. If it were a foreign body in his trachea I would possibly push it into his chest and lose any chance of reaching it surgically in time to save his life.

Mary and her husband blessed my next move whatever it was and said that, no matter what happened, they knew I would do my best.  At that point I had appointments scheduled for the next hour and a half.  I hoped Dusty would settle into his quiet, dark cage and buy some time for me while I attended my appointments.

 Some things just don’t work out.

While examining my next patient, my tech and I made eye contact across the exam table as we both heard a loud thump coming from the cages where Dusty had been placed. I excused myself and we quickly darted to the back to see what we had heard. 

Dusty lay prostrate in the bottom of his cage.  There was not so much as a twitch anywhere on his body as I snatched open his cage door.  He had valiantly hung on as long as he could and with one final muscle spasm Dusty leaped into the “light”.  I stroked his motionless body and silently thought that his suffering was finally over.

As I cradled his lifeless body in my arms, I felt his chest and found a slight fluttering heartbeat.  His heart muscle was still trying to function with the last remnants of oxygen in his bloodstream. It had not yet given up.

I looked at Kathy and stated in a matter of fact tone that we had exactly 2 minutes to get oxygen to this heart and we had already wasted 30 seconds. 

An emergency tracheotomy is the stuff of E.R. shows on television.  In the real world of veterinary medicine, extremely rare is the occasion where such a procedure would be indicated. Today was apparently my day to get to run where few are ever afforded the chance to step.

In a truly, time critical event such as this, the rules for surgery change rather drastically.

First, we don’t need to worry about anesthesia in a patient that, for all intents, is dead. The dead really don’t care what you do, one way or another. Second, no time or need to concern oneself with sterile surgical technique as, again, dead patients don’t get infections that require treatment. Seconds wasted doing a surgical prep would make it all a moot point.

In about 15 seconds, performing like a well rehearsed dance team, we had Dusty tied upside down and stretched out on the surgery table. I wet his neck down with alcohol, grabbed a scalpel blade and a pair of operating scissors. I still had at least 45 seconds I figured. 

I made a one and a half-inch incision down the midline of his neck over where I remembered the obstruction to be on the previous x-ray.  I split the muscles overlying the trachea and with a precious few seconds remaining I was elated to see the problem square in the middle of my surgery site.  The cartilage rings of his trachea had been crushed in an area about ¼ inch long. As healing had occurred, the wounded tissue contracted and slowly collapsed that area of his airway.  I placed my scissors without fanfare just behind the obstruction and with one big snip severed his trachea about ¾ of the way around its circumference.

What happened next makes me smile, even now, weeks later as I write these words. With my fingers, I elevated the

Dusty, the day his sutures were removed.

partially severed windpipe thereby spreading the opening that I had just created.  As the incision widened, I heard the life-giving rush of air being sucked into Dusty’s lungs.  He immediately exhaled, then inhaled again and I knew we had just  saved his bacon. I got downright giddy.

My moment of surgical triumph was interrupted by the realization that the “dead” cat of 2 minutes before was stretched out on my surgery table about to rejoin the conscious world of the living.  The problem with that, of course, was the small fact that he was still in the middle of, what had just become,  a very involved surgical procedure and was decidedly lacking in the anesthesia needed to, at least, keep him in the same room with the surgical team.

I opened the drawer, grabbed a cat sized endotracheal tube and inserted it into the severed end of his trachea and inflated the cuff to form an airtight seal to his lungs.  I then hooked him up to a flow of pure oxygen and turned on the anesthetic machine.  I managed to get him anesthetized before he fully regained consciousness and we started to prepare him for the reconstruction of his damaged airway. 

I left the surgery, washed my hands and walked back into the exam room with my previous patient.  My client, after a careful assessment of my frazzled expression,  asked if I found what made the thump that I had rushed out of the room to investigate.  I told him the story of where I had been for the previous 5 or so minutes and I really think he thought I was kidding.

After I finished with that client, Alison stalled the next one while I went back into surgery, with an attempt at sterile technique this time, and removed the damaged part of Dusty’s trachea and carefully reconstructed the ends back together.

I sent Dusty home the very next day.  I can’t imagine how good he must have felt to be able to breathe again after all that he had endured. He was a totally happy kitty.  Several days later he was back to have an infection at the surgery site treated.  No surprise there owing to our lack of sterile surgical technique on our initial cut down. But, as I pointed out earlier, one has to be alive to be infected. 

His local infection resolved quickly after starting a different antibiotic. Interestingly, he no longer minded having pills poked down his throat. In retrospect, it now seems obvious why he did not want anyone messing around with his throat trying to pill him when he was already having such a tough time getting air.

We removed his sutures a few days later and Dusty has since returned to normal.  As I reflect, it seems plausible that there just might be something to that whole “nine lives” thing.  No doubt Dusty is tough, tough as a nickel steak. His resilience made us look good, and made a bad day into a great day. Thanks Dusty, I am glad we met. May your life be long and your friends be many.  Come see us some time!

This particular day was was going well but about to get turned upside down.  An appointment made the previous day by a new client for me to see a terrier who seemed “weak” to her owner was about to change my day and for that matter, my week.

Gia, a sweet eleven year old Jack Russell Terrier stood on my exam table and listlessly hung her head as her mom, Rita explained her situation. 

It was immediately obvious to me that Rita knew a good bit about dogs and was a down right expert on this one.  As the story unfolded, it was obvious that this little dog was seriously ill before I started my exam. 

Gia was not just another high energy Jack Russell Terrier. She was an accomplished competitor that had raced in the championship races at the National Jack Russell Terrier races in Baltimore. Although Gia had never won the big one, she was the first female to run in the championship heat. It seems that the “boys” dominate in terrier races just like the colts do at the Kentucky Derby. But this thirteen pound little bitch apparently had the body build, the heart and above all, the will, to run with the boys. 

She was one of several terriers that Rita and her friend Travis planned to enter in the nationals in Baltimore in just 2 weeks. Rita told me that Gia had fallen out of a training run a few days before.  To Gia and her kennelmates, the 10 mile run down sand roads behind an ATV was just a walk in the park. But this day, half way through she tired and then fell out of the run.  Even at 11 years of age, Gia could run with the best, but, no matter how much desire, her body could not make it that day. Travis picked her up and gave her a ride for the remainder of the workout thinking she was just having a bad day. 

The next day Rita found no smile on little Gia’s face.  Her bright eyes and happy demeanor were missing and Rita knew she needed help.  She called the office and we scheduled a visit which brought us to this meeting. 

Rita and I quickly exchanged pleasantries and she gave me a briefing about Gia’s history as a great performance dog and, how suddenly she had begun to fade.  She was concerned about Gia’s gums and ears appearing pale.  

I carefully listened and because of Rita’s intimate knowledge and closeness to this dog I gave great credence to her evaluation.  Indeed the little dog’s gums were a ghostly white. In most, but not all cases, this lack of perfusion means anemia or lack of adequate red blood cells. Her heart sounded great although beating more quickly than I would have expected for a dog in such excellent physical condition. 

We drew a blood sample from Gia and did a chemistry panel and a complete blood count.  As I read the report confirming her anemia I gave some thought as to why she could so suddenly be so anemic.  Rita would certainly notice a bleeding event to this extent as over 50% of Gia’s blood was unaccounted for. There was no history of trauma and she had seemed to feel OK up to the point of her training fatigue. We took her back and took a series of radiographs of her chest and abdomen looking specifically for an internal hemorrhage. 

While evaluating the abdominal radiographs I got a sick feeling that we had found the problem and the news was not good.  To confirm my diagnosis we prepped a small area on her belly and performed an abdominocentesis.  I carefully inserted a small needle into her abdomen and used a syringe to withdraw abdominal fluid to check for the presence of blood.  Frank blood rushed into the syringe on two separate areas of her abdominal wall.  Gia was bleeding into her abdomen, that much was certain, but why and from where? 

Rita wrung her hands in fear as I explained my findings.  She asked a plain and simple question.  Is my dog going to be alright?

I had to hedge my answer because the final diagnostic step would also be the single greatest chance to help her.  She needed an exploratory laparotomy to find the source of the bleeding and hopefully correct it at the same time.  Her life literally hung on the outcome of that surgery.

I always struggle with the goodbyes as a client hugs and kisses their pet before sending them into such a pivotal surgery.  I usually share the moment silently.  When I speak, after they release their loved one to my care, I almost always promise to treat their pet just as I would treat mine.  I mean that, of course, because I can’t make promises beyond doing the best I possibly can.  The unbelievable pressure that my heart feels during those next few moments strengthens my resolve to use every ounce of my skill and knowledge to earn the trust that person has so solemnly placed in me.  My focus is razor sharp and I am quite certain my techs feel it too. 

Our best hope was that Gia had a tumor on her spleen that had ruptured and begun to bleed. That is easy to fix.  If not the speen, I had told them that her liver was the next best possibility and rarely did we get a liver cancer that could be managed by surgery.  Most liver cancers involve multiple areas, if not all of the organ.  The prognosis is often grim when the liver is involved in any cancer. 

Gia struggles after surgery

Her surgery started as the bloodbath that we knew it would. Her abdomen was distended with the pressure of the hemorrhage and when I made my initial incision everything was immediately obscured by blood.  After a brief moment of sponging up some of the blood, I located the spleen and immediately externalized it for a thorough examination. Time elapsed was about 90 seconds.  Time was critical. I moaned to myself out loud as I examined a healthy spleen.  My midline incision was extended to the front of her abdomen and all of the blood from her abdominal cavity had to be removed in order for me to visualize the liver. 

It took only about 2 more minutes to find a golf ball size tumor on the right lobe of her liver.  This is bad, really bad I silently thought.  The tumor was covered by a large blood clot – her body’s futile effort to stop the blood loss.  The bleeding was continuing though, one drop after another.  With fear of what I would find, I began to carefully inspect the remainder of her liver, one lobe at a time.  I was almost sure, based on past experience that there would be other tumors. Perhaps they would not be bleeding yet but their presence would kill any chance for a complete recovery for this little champion. 

I found nothing but healthy liver. Beautifully healthy liver!  With newfound joy and optimism I began to assess the grim prospect of removing a sizable chunk of the sick part of her liver.  I was sweating bullets as I tightened to ligature which cut off the tumor and sealed the remaining lobe of her liver.  After gently teasing the, now free, tumor out of her abdomen I beamed a triumphant grin as I saw no sign of blood leaking from the liver stump. I began to close her abdomen as quickly as I could to get her to recovery. 

This anemic little dog recovered quickly but within an hour her incision began to leak blood; blood that she could not afford to lose.  I felt very strongly that the liver was not bleeding. The source of the bleeding was the skin and other tissue that we had to cut to get to her liver.  Gia’s body had desperately used all of her blood clotting factors and platelets over the past few days in a futile effort to try and stop the loss of blood from her liver.  She did not have enough left to keep from bleeding to death from the surgical wound itself.  I wrapped her belly in a large pressure bandage, told to girls to get ready for a blood transfusion and headed out the door in a sprint. 

If you are a long time reader of my blog you will probably remember the story of my dog Jack.  As I sped down our driveway he loped out to my truck to see what the hurry was all about.  He was wagging his tail as I snatched poor Jack up and tossed him into the passenger seat.  Jack really hates any kind of travel beyond walking or running. Nevertheless, he sensed something was up and decided to go along without complaint. 

Sleepy Jack the blood doner

I ran through the front door of the clinic carrying him like he was the one dying.  Jack’s not exactly brave when it comes to medical procedures.  I really don’t think that he believes that I am a veterinarian.  Therefore, we skipped all the coaxing and pleading and I just sedated him for the bloodletting that was about to take place. 

As Jack’s freshly collected blood dripped into Gia’s vein giving her life saving clotting factors, he lay watching in a head bobbing stupor. Gia indeed began to “pink up”. She began to return from her journey to the “light”.  For the first time I felt like I could breath again. I began to feel like we were in for a happy ending. 

Gia 1 week after surgery

Today, that “hard as rocks” little terrier (with a little splash of Jack) is back on the trail.  I am so proud of her and her grit.  Gia missed her trip to the nationals. However, I am very proud to report that her kennelmate “Heartbreaker”, another fine little female terrier did get to make the trip to Baltimore.  After their return from the races, Rita called to give me a great progress report on Gia and to share with me the old “by the way Heartbreaker won the national championship”.  Chalk up another one for the girls!

Although Gia, the little old lady with all the right stuff, had to stay home while Heartbreaker won the race, I know the real winner that day was little Gia. With guts, terrier attitude, and shear will to win, Gia had indeed finally won the big one. May she get many more chances.

The Greatest Win of All

      You may recall that at the end of my previous entry I made mention of something new in the works that I was really excited about.  It is precisely this “something” that I wish to share with my readers today.

Cecil following me 4th of July Sopchoppy, FL

      I have the privilege of driving one of my great friend Cecil’s beautifully restored antique tractors in the parades that we have around here several times a year.  As I drive and toss candy to the kids I enjoy the excitement of the children so much.  Of course they enjoy the candy but I also love the way they look at that old tractor. It is that wonder and excitement that we lose as we grow old and jaded to things around us. As I slept the night after the parade, I couldn’t help but remember how touching it was to see those children enjoying, not a video game, but a parade.

       About that same time we were struggling mightily with an outbreak of canine distemper virus at our local animal shelter.  The more I became involved in the tragedy of all those hopelessly sick dogs the more frustrated I became.

      I donated vaccine to the shelter as we tried to vaccinate any dog prior to admission to offer some protection. We cleaned, isolated and cleaned some more.  The University of Florida College of Veterinary Medicine provided, free of charge, sophisticated PCR studies on samples that I submitted to definitively identify the virus.  Sadly, many dogs lost their lives before we finally brought the problem under control. There were many wonderful and kind people who suffered through this seemingly hopeless ordeal. We finally won the battle but at a terrible cost.

      Like so many, I suffered with this tragedy.  I honestly believe that, as I slept after the parade that my subconscious mind tried to comfort me with thoughts of the joy on the faces of those children at the parade.  It was then that I woke up with the crazy idea of a parade of dogs.  Not just any dogs but the multitudes of formerly homeless dogs that survived the horror of homelessness and now have happy, loving homes.

      If we could somehow organize a parade of dogs with their families and kids to celebrate this wonderful human-animal bond we could have a win-win scenario on two counts. One, we would bring kids and dogs together into one parade. Two, and even more importantly, we would raise awareness and possibly money to better the lives of the many, many homeless dogs still in shelters and rehab throughout our area.

      I was successful at infecting some great folks with my notion and we all sat down one evening and started to flesh this idea out.  Over the course of about 2 months of hard work, I am proud to announce the birth of The Big Bend Barkfest.

     The nocturnal notion of a parade of kids and dogs has evolved into regional extravaganza.  In a rural area such as this, there is some kind of “festival” most every weekend in the spring and again in the fall.  Most have similar themes; food, crafts and music.  We believe that Barkfest will be the grand daddy of all of them. 

         On the first Saturday in March, the event will be hosted in our high school football stadium.  Our opening ceremony we will feature the parade that I dreamed of.  Dogs, all formerly homeless, accompanied by smiling, big eyed kids will proudly walk around the field wearing the special Barkfest bandana.  Then, throughout the day, we will showcase police dogs, herding dogs, racing terriers, retrievers, wiener dog races, Frisbee contests, and dog costume contests.  We keep coming up with new dog ideas to show off. 

      And secondly, every nickel that we are fortunate enough to raise will be spent to better the lives of homeless dogs throughout the area.  We hope to provide vaccines, antibiotics, pain medications, heartworm medications, mange treatments any other critical needs of these “throw away” dogs.  It is my sincere hope that we can make a significant difference in the lives of many of these homeless dogs and thereby make them more adoptable.

      With the help of my great friends and committed volunteers we are determined to make this happen.  I would appreciate your help.  If local, you might volunteer for a committee to participate in raising our Barkfest baby.  Of course, we need financial support as well.  The costs are staggering.  I try to be stingy but we need to advertise this event to make it a success.  Printing costs are a big part of advertising and they are substantial.  I humbly thank you for any dollar you could spare to this cause. 

     I have started a Website to keep everyone updated and informed about the Barkfest. I will give you the link at the end of this post.  I also encourage your comments.  I am hard to discourage as my Board of Directors will tell you. In my heart this may be the greatest idea I have ever had.  Smiling kids and barking dogs. Perhaps that is the common denominator that can bring us all together for one great spring day.

Big Bend Barkfest Logo

                                       BigBendBarkfest.com 

   I suppose that is a legitimate question that deserves some sort of a quasi-reasonable response.  If I were to offer excuses for my lack of posting these past few weeks I would blame the long days of summer as reason number one for my literary silence.  As you may know, Melody and I bought a 36 acre farm upon which we now reside and are building a new home.   We both spend a lot of hours on maintenance and care of our property in an effort to eventually live in the middle of the vision that we both share for our new found paradise.  With daylight until about 9:00 p.m. each evening we are making a good deal of progress toward that end.  After dinner there has been little time left for sharing my days with my readers but I’m going to make an effort to get everyone caught up.  I keep a camera on my desk at the clinic in order to photograph some of my patients and those photos will serve nicely for a quick view at my world these past few weeks.

Not a "bad hair day" that's the way they look!

     These first two photos are of an Osprey that  was hit by a car not 3 miles from our clinic.  He flew too low across the highway and was struck by a car which created a series of really nasty open fractures in that wing.  The Osprey is a particularly “high strung” bird and unlike many other large raptors, opreys don’t make good patients.  Although this bird’s fractures were quite manageable surgically, his behavior (rather misbehavior) in rehab after surgery has caused irreparable damage to the carpal or “wrist”  joint in his wing which will preclude his ability to ever fly again.  That notion brings me great consternation but this bird taught me a great deal that I can, hopefully, use to return another injured Osprey to the wild some day.

Kathy, my tech, and the Osprey

     One morning one of the biologists from the Refuge happened upon a Gopher Tortoise that had been HBC on the highway. Starting to sound a bit familiar, right? As it turned out, this female tortoise had left her burrow to make an annual deposit into the gopher tortoise egg bank.  I guess to her the grass looked greener on the other side of US 98.  I swear, if someone can’t see and avoid an object the size of a Gopher Tortoise on the road…. well, you know.

     This girl got roughed up a bit but after we stabilized her condition and while waiting for surgery she laid 3 eggs in her cage.  Unfortunately she scrambled 2 of them but the third is now in an incubater and we are all on obstetrical stand-by for the blessed upcoming event.  I will sure let you know about that one if it happens. Anyway, we went to surgery later that day and I replaced her missing scute with a shiny new acrylic one.  She did great, started eating and indicated she wanted to say goodbye. 

Female Gopher Tortoise with missing scute.

A new acrylic scute

     Because there are all kinds of regs governing the movement and release of these animals, I can only say that while I was showing her a prospective new burrow on our farm, she escaped from my grasp and down the burrow she went.  No matter how much I pleaded, she refused to come back and get back into her cage.  It has been several weeks since I have seen her and then I saw her the other day eating wild blackberries.  She acted like she did not recognize me but that acrylic scute gave her away.  She looked good and I had  to smile a big “Turtle-time” smile.       

Subcutaneous fluids for dehydration

Post Op with her egg

      It has been a great privilege in my new practice to care for a number of goats.  Goats are very popular around this area, possibly because so many people have a few acres of property that lends itself well to the services of these perpetual week wackers.  These clever little creatures get themselves into all sorts of mischief.  But the story on this family of goats was much more tragic. They were attacked and some killed in their own yard by a couple of dogs that went berserk. Goats are essentially defenseless against a dog and these guys just got shredded. Their owners are wonderful people and have suffered almost as much as the goats.  It was with a heavy heart that I had to euthanize one of them but two others are recovering at this time.

Maria prepares Ivy for surgery on her leg

Little Ivy clearing her head after surgery

    Goats are cool to have in the clinic as they make really cool little noises as opposed to barking and howling.  In addition, their little poo piles sweep up so nice and neatly and don’t stink the place up like doggie poo.  I’m just real sweet on goats.

     I met another turtle courtesy of the Rudloe clan down the coast. This time it was my friend Jack who met me in the lot with a 22 pound snapping turtle.  Someone had brought it to him because it appeared that his abdomen was protruding through the leg holes in his shell.

     This creature was most intimidating and certainly garnered instant respect from me as I examined him looking for more insight into his issues.  I ran a battery of tests, xrays and cytologies as well as reading and scratching my head all week.  I finally emailed my pathologist friend at Disney (the one who hooked me up on the Whoopers) and begged him to talk it over with his team.  I sent x-rays, photos, lab reports, cytology findings along with my notion that I was out of ideas.

Serious Chompers

     While waiting on his reply I had just about come to the conclusion that this turtle was nothing more than very well fed, to be kind. In other words he was just fat – Sumo Fat.  To test my theory I filled our big clinic tub with water and when he was two feet deep the water pressure pushed his abdomen back in the way it was supposed to.  Dang, I felt like Columbo.  I had a fat snapper that had obviously been eating well and was equally sure that he was ready to return to where the buffet was being served.  So that evening Melody and I delivered him back to the river where he eagerly headed off to dinner.  The next day Scott the pathologist sends me an email and asks “Norm, do you think he might just be fat?”

Notice the flubby protrusions from his shell

  Moral of this story: It is harder to convince yourself that something is not wrong than to diagnose what is wrong.

           There has been sadness as well. I have been trying to help address some problems with infectious disease at the animal shelter.  It is difficult to go there and see all the homeless souls but even harder to see them sick.  We are going to get it fixed, of that I am sure, but it is difficult to be patient when there is suffering. 

     I have exciting news to share soon.  Peace…

     Several months ago I started doing a large part of the calling and, in so doing, bore the brunt of the heckles and other nonsense that a drinking crowd inflicts upon it’s friends.  Rather than taking a grin and bear it approach, I just encouraged it.  The atmosphere has evolved into a big party every week with Bingo being the excuse to gather.

     When most people hear someone say something about playing Bingo they immediately conjure up an image of 30 seniors quietly staring at their cards searching for the appropriate numbers.  I get that look all the time but when I talk someone into joining us on Thursday, they nearly always thank me before they go home and bring a friend back the next week. 

    The banter gets a little rough around the edges at times but only naughty – never nasty.  Our crowd is truly all age.  Folks bring kids (I wish they wouldn’t as you must be 18 to play) and we have some in their seventies.  Everything in between. The only requirement is to enjoy yourself and spend a few bucks on the cause. If you care to join us you will have a good time, I will see to it.  If you can’t come, don’t say I didn’t invite you.

     Euthanasia is a topic that we rarely discuss.  Earlier in my career I just considered it part of my job and survived behind some of those “walls” that I wrote about in the story of  “Buddy”.  But the seasoning that comes with all the gray hair tends to peel all the shucks back and leave me as emotionally naked as an ear of corn when it comes to euthanasia of my patients. It can become such an emotional burden that veterinarians actually require support groups to deal with it. 

     I have watched countless precotious little pups grow into adulthood, often side by side with children in my client’s families.  Then, after the years whistled by, I had to stand there and try to be strong and supportive to my clients when the final decision had to be carried out.  I wish I could say how tough it is to be professional and supportive when, inside, another dagger is placed in my heart.  Even now, as I struggle to broach this very dark subject, I hear the names and see the faces of so many, many great patients, companions and trusted friends.  I hurt, but I do find some peace in the fact that I know the last thing that I had to do to them was truly, in my heart,  for them.

    I am not treading on this difficult terrain to seek sympathy or understanding but, instead, to set the stage for my next little installment in this blog.  Indeed, this very preface has taken me to an emotional place I would rather not be, so it is past time to move to the story.

    A couple of months ago it was my pleasure to meet “Bear”.  “Bear” is a wonderful six year old Wire Haired Fox Terrier.  He is an absolutely fine example of the breed; warm, loving, much calmer than most terriers as as gentle as a butterfly.  He is the kind of dog you just want to hug.  At that meeting I told his owner that the first dog I ever had as a boy was “Whiskers”, a Wire Haired Fox Terrier. 

     Two weeks ago “Bear”  was on my exam table because his appetite was off and he was vomiting.  As I examined him I realized just how sick he really was. His gums had a yellow pallor as did the sclera or “white” part of his eyes.  This condition is known as icterus.  Icteris is not a disease but rather a symptom.  Most often it is caused by either a very sick liver or by the breakdown of red blood cells so suddenly that a normal liver is overwhelmed with the hemoglobin from the blood cells.  The byproducts of those broken blood cells accumulate in the body and cause the jaundice that most people relate to.

     I told “Bear’s” mom about my findings and explained the gravity of his condition.  After a couple of blood tests, we were able to isolate the problem specifically to his liver.  I told her it could be viral or bacterial hepatitis or, more seriously, liver cancer. We all understood how serious this was for “Bear” and with a heavy heart I sent him home on some medications and hopes to reevaluate him in a few days.  At that time, if necessary,  we could move on to more specific tests to confirm a specific diagnosis.

     A few days later, as I was finishing up a routine surgery, my receptionist, Alison, came back to advise me that “Bear’s” mom had just called and was about to bring him in to be “put to sleep”.  I was crushed that she could give up on such a wonderful dog so quickly.  I sat at my desk and didn’t know whether to curse or cry.  Why? Could he be that much worse in such a short time?  We were just not ready to give up on “Bear” without giving  him a fighting chance.

     I looked up and Kathy and Alison both had the same look on their faces that I was feeling. I picked up the phone and called “Bear’s” mom and violated about half the ethics codes ever written. I politely asked her if “Bear” could just be my dog for a while.  There would be no cost to her; I assured her that Bear would not be allowed to suffer; I would do everything in my power to help him; we would heap love on him; and I would call her every day and tell her about him. I was really afraid she would say no and I would be forced to “understand” .

    Lady Luck, God love her, winked at me that day. A very sick “Bear” showed up about an hour later with all his toys and his own bed. He was sick alright.  Liver disease makes you feel about as yucky as a toad in a cow pie. I put an IV in him and started him on fluids and every medication in the book that may offer him some help.  

     In one of those down moments, “Bear” and I sized one another up.  He was asking “What the heck is wrong with me?” and all I could do was to hug him and silently hope I was doing the right thing.  If I was wrong and only continued his suffering needlessly, I was going to look and feel downright stupid when this was over. Be that as it may, I wanted to believe that “Bear” and I were, for better or worse, in this together.

     His blood tests quickly revealed that his liver enzymes were still a train wreck.  I found one small glimmer of hope in the fact that his total bilirubin appeared to have peaked.  “Bear” fought on and vomited nasty yellow bile in his lovely bed. The girls cleaned him up and turned up the love and affection.  They made it hard for him to give up.

    The next day, instead of looking at food with disgust, “Bear”  actually sniffed a piece of chicken biscuit I shared with him.  The medication regimen continued full bore and, with a little imagination, I thought he looked more “alive”. I called his mom and, with some positive spin, advised her of his condition. She came for a visit. So far, so good.

     On day three we repeated his liver enzyme tests. I wanted to dance a polka when the analyzer spit forth his numbers. This liver was getting better. I told “Bear” and he ate half my chicken biscuit.  We prepared a buffet and he thanked us by vomiting my chicken biscuit into his bed at the site of the food.  No matter, I told the girls, “Trust me, this dog is getting well!” 

    Days went by and things continued to go well and “Bear” spent the Memorial Day weekend back home where he belonged.  He continues to do well and as I write this, I believe that his ordeal is over. “Bear” is well and I was so lucky that I didn’t have to minister over the passing of yet another little friend. 

    “Bear”, I hope that day is many years away. If it comes, God forbid, I will find some comfort in the bonus days I was lucky enough to offer you. I know that you will continue to provide great joy to the hearts of all that know you.  And, most of all, thank you for the nobility of your struggle and your will to live.  Your battle, though uncomfortable, may just touch another to not give up too early.

     Hugs, little buddy. Live long and happy!

     I could not just leave it as raw video. My son taught me how to compile it with music.  This is my best way of sharing with you what I felt that day. The bird, on the other hand, had no problem depicting her emotions. I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think.

Be patient, it takes about 10 seconds to start.