pet connection

I’ve known my veterinarian a long, long time, through three generations of dogs, in fact. I respect him both as a person and as a professional, and admire him very much for his level-headedness and compassion. Because we’ve know each other so very long and because of my writing, he always tells me some of the inside details of his work.

Yesterday, my dogs Benjamin and Heather had their annual physicals. We were shown into the exam room told that Dr. Bill was running just a bit late. “He’s dealing with a double euthanasia,” said the technician, and we both shook our heads sadly.

The doctor came in just a couple minutes later, the strain showing on his face. “They need more time [to say goodbye],” he said. “So I’m going to do the examination on one of your dogs, and then go into the other room, if that’s OK with you.”

I assured him it was, and he started to go over Heather. Every lump and bump, lots of question and lots of pats for her to let her know how good she was. We discussed one lump we didn’t like, and decided it much come off next week. “With a flat-coat, I don’t like to take chances,” said Dr. Bill. “Flat-coats and goldens … I’ve now put them in the same category as boxers [in terms of cancer].”

And then he excused himself to go into the next room.

When he came back, the strain on his face was even more evident, and his eyes were moist. He was otherwise completely composed. “A tough one,” he said, “two 14-year-old shepherds. She has had them since they were puppies, and doesn’t think one can be happy without the other. Still, 14 is a good long life for big dogs, isn’t it?”

Ben, who is 10, showed his agreement by giving his veterinarian a big kiss. I wanted to give him a big hug, in thanks for all the kindness he shows his clients. But I thought it would upset us both, and perhaps force him to lose his carefully studied professional demeanor.

So … as he went over Benjamin we talked about his family, his pets and his wife’s tendencies to adopt horses he can’t ride. The time passed, and the mood lightened. And then he sighed.

“The next one is a hard one, too,” he said, explaining that the dog would likely die, and the owners didn’t want to hear that. And then he gave Ben a final pat, thanked me and slid through the door into the inner hallway, steeling himself for the next client.

I was never so grateful for the “D” in high school physics that convinced me I was not the science type and led me into writing instead of veterinary medicine. I paid my bill at the front counter and left Dr. Bill to the job I’d never had, where compassion means telling one family they’re going to lose a dog and helping another family say goodbye to two more.

All in a day’s work, and what difficult and often unappreciated work it is.

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