I have been a huge slacker with the blogs lately. Reading, writing... I'm trying to get caught up.
The reality is life has been crazy. Long hours at work, miscarriages at home, depressed husbands on the road. Lots of animals, lots of rain, limited walking opportunities making it feel like even more animals. Definitely enough hair on the floor to make another 100 pound dog all by itself.
But life is still okay. House in North Dakota closed yesterday. We're very slowly starting to look for another house but while John is starting to look for another job, I hesitate to buy and move yet. However, house hunting this time around will be much more fun as there are multiple amazing houses to chose from, rather than a choice of terrible, horrible, or workable.
I can't think of that many funny stories from work from lately except for the case of the appearing spots. This little old woman brought her itty bitty dog in to see me because after she had given her a bath the night before, there were suddenly spots all over her belly and the lady thought her dog was going to die. I picked her up to look at her belly and had to bit my lip almost all the way through to not start laughing crazily. The spots were totally normal pigmentation that I can guarantee had been there longer than the previous night. And when I told the woman they were absolutely no concern and her dog was not going to die, she burst into tears. And bitchy me, I had to bite my lip even harder.
Otherwise, it's been lots of routine vaccinations, ear checks, and vomiting animals. Nothing that exciting.
But life is good and going to shear alpacas in Utah this weekend. :)
Friday, June 4, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
I'm my worst critic
I have been having serious doubts about my performance at work. Basically, I have felt like a complete idiot for the last 2 weeks, and have been sure that my boss is secretly thinking "Why the hell did I hire her?"
But after today, I think I'm doing okay.
The day started out busy and never stopped. When I first got to work, I was immediately handed several cases to take over for the day. Then I get the quiz. "So this dog came in last night because it ate chocolate. [Experienced weekend vet] couldn't answer this question, let's see if you do better..." Uh oh. No pressure or anything. "What's the most common clinical sign to expect with chocolate toxicosis?" Oh, oh! I know that one! Of course, I couldn't remember the name of the drug to use to counteract the elevated heart rate that comes from ingesting chocolate (propanolol, for future reference), but it was still points for me.
Then a rat comes in. (As a side note, why would you spend hundreds of dollars on an animal that cost about $2 at the pet store? I don't get it. I guess it's all about the emotional connection.) Either way, they had two rats. They lived in town but had left 2.5 hours earlier and had only just found the clinic. The female had died on the way. The male was at death's door. And they wanted me to perform miracles. This was an interesting couple anyway, but the guy was sobbing. So I had to try. I gave it some fluids, some antibiotics, some heat, and crossed my fingers. Half an hour later, it was gone. But my boss said "I'm glad you're willing to try on cases like this, I think that's why we're here." Or something like that. But kudos to me for trying!
And then the day gets crazy. [Weekend vet] likes to disappear on me, although I think he's really just chatting as I'm trying to see 5 rooms at once. Either way, I was crazy busy. And boss-man knew that. As we were both trying to finish so we could get out of there, me to my husband and him to a house call, he turned around as he was walking through the door and I was racing around with a foot-high stack of charts, and said "You work very well independently and that is great. I just want you to know how much I appreciate that." Yay!
So all of this makes me think he doesn't hate me after all. And maybe I'll be okay as I'm catching on to his policies more and more.
And on top of all of that, a client I've been working with for almost a week because his ancient lab keeps goign downhill said that he was so glad that I was working on her because some of the other doctors seem to just not care as much. Again, I thought I was totally messing up this case and the guy probably hated me.
Moral of this story: I obviously need to work on not thinking the worst and realizing that people probably aren't anywhere near as hard on me as I am on myself.
Now if only it were that easy...
But after today, I think I'm doing okay.
The day started out busy and never stopped. When I first got to work, I was immediately handed several cases to take over for the day. Then I get the quiz. "So this dog came in last night because it ate chocolate. [Experienced weekend vet] couldn't answer this question, let's see if you do better..." Uh oh. No pressure or anything. "What's the most common clinical sign to expect with chocolate toxicosis?" Oh, oh! I know that one! Of course, I couldn't remember the name of the drug to use to counteract the elevated heart rate that comes from ingesting chocolate (propanolol, for future reference), but it was still points for me.
Then a rat comes in. (As a side note, why would you spend hundreds of dollars on an animal that cost about $2 at the pet store? I don't get it. I guess it's all about the emotional connection.) Either way, they had two rats. They lived in town but had left 2.5 hours earlier and had only just found the clinic. The female had died on the way. The male was at death's door. And they wanted me to perform miracles. This was an interesting couple anyway, but the guy was sobbing. So I had to try. I gave it some fluids, some antibiotics, some heat, and crossed my fingers. Half an hour later, it was gone. But my boss said "I'm glad you're willing to try on cases like this, I think that's why we're here." Or something like that. But kudos to me for trying!
And then the day gets crazy. [Weekend vet] likes to disappear on me, although I think he's really just chatting as I'm trying to see 5 rooms at once. Either way, I was crazy busy. And boss-man knew that. As we were both trying to finish so we could get out of there, me to my husband and him to a house call, he turned around as he was walking through the door and I was racing around with a foot-high stack of charts, and said "You work very well independently and that is great. I just want you to know how much I appreciate that." Yay!
So all of this makes me think he doesn't hate me after all. And maybe I'll be okay as I'm catching on to his policies more and more.
And on top of all of that, a client I've been working with for almost a week because his ancient lab keeps goign downhill said that he was so glad that I was working on her because some of the other doctors seem to just not care as much. Again, I thought I was totally messing up this case and the guy probably hated me.
Moral of this story: I obviously need to work on not thinking the worst and realizing that people probably aren't anywhere near as hard on me as I am on myself.
Now if only it were that easy...
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
This is Tank:
Tank is a 7 year old lab/newfoundland cross that I met today. He was given up by his owners about 3 months ago as they had too many medical issues of their own to be able to care for him any longer. He went to live with one of the receptionists at the clinic. However, she struggled to afford his care so he was looking for a new home.
He is a morbidly obese 165 pounds, possibly due to the meals of dog food smothered with gravy and the spoonful of peanut butter he got each morning and evening to hide his pills. He is also very arthritic and epileptic. And he is a sweetheart.
So being a sucker for gigantic dogs, he came to live with me today. At least, assuming DH approves. He doesn't exactly realize I have this gigantic monster in the house yet. But the dogs like him... :)
Tank is a 7 year old lab/newfoundland cross that I met today. He was given up by his owners about 3 months ago as they had too many medical issues of their own to be able to care for him any longer. He went to live with one of the receptionists at the clinic. However, she struggled to afford his care so he was looking for a new home.
He is a morbidly obese 165 pounds, possibly due to the meals of dog food smothered with gravy and the spoonful of peanut butter he got each morning and evening to hide his pills. He is also very arthritic and epileptic. And he is a sweetheart.
So being a sucker for gigantic dogs, he came to live with me today. At least, assuming DH approves. He doesn't exactly realize I have this gigantic monster in the house yet. But the dogs like him... :)
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Happy despite everything...
I went to bed at 8:00 last night because I could no longer deal with life. And yet yesterday was overall a good day.
Today sucked. I went to my first meeting and am currently at my highest recorded weight ever. Very scary. And then there was work.
I had two very sweet dogs come in today. The first was a 12 year old diabetic lab who was peeing blood. Yes, she had your typical diabetic urinary tract infection. But she also had a bladder wall the thickness of your average paperback. It took three needles to get through the wall to get a urine sample. So then I had to talk to her dad about the fact that she may have a bladder tumor. And when I made the mistake of mentioning an eye doctor in Spokane, I then had to explain that yes, the other vet who told him that she was not going to get her sight back was likely correct. Just because there are vets who specialize in eyes does not mean that doctor can perform miracles. Unfortunately.
The second was also an older dog who comes in because he is not feeling well, breathes like Darth Vader, and is getting some extra tumors. Well, he had laryngeal paralysis. In and of itself a big deal, but fairly treatable surgically. But not an explanation for why he doesn't feel good. So we did bloodwork. It was beautiful. Next was the radiograph. And there we go. His lungs were a disaster. It looked like someone had pelleted a million cloudy bb's into the lungs. This could be pneumonia, but given the lack of a fever or elevated white count, likely not. Probably metastases. And this owner is in the medical field so she understands what I'm talking about, and she understands the prognosis sucks. The lungs aren't good enough and the larynx doesn't work. No wonder he feels like shit.
And yet despite all of this, the evening has been good. Muddy lovey dogs just make my day. :)
Today sucked. I went to my first meeting and am currently at my highest recorded weight ever. Very scary. And then there was work.
I had two very sweet dogs come in today. The first was a 12 year old diabetic lab who was peeing blood. Yes, she had your typical diabetic urinary tract infection. But she also had a bladder wall the thickness of your average paperback. It took three needles to get through the wall to get a urine sample. So then I had to talk to her dad about the fact that she may have a bladder tumor. And when I made the mistake of mentioning an eye doctor in Spokane, I then had to explain that yes, the other vet who told him that she was not going to get her sight back was likely correct. Just because there are vets who specialize in eyes does not mean that doctor can perform miracles. Unfortunately.
The second was also an older dog who comes in because he is not feeling well, breathes like Darth Vader, and is getting some extra tumors. Well, he had laryngeal paralysis. In and of itself a big deal, but fairly treatable surgically. But not an explanation for why he doesn't feel good. So we did bloodwork. It was beautiful. Next was the radiograph. And there we go. His lungs were a disaster. It looked like someone had pelleted a million cloudy bb's into the lungs. This could be pneumonia, but given the lack of a fever or elevated white count, likely not. Probably metastases. And this owner is in the medical field so she understands what I'm talking about, and she understands the prognosis sucks. The lungs aren't good enough and the larynx doesn't work. No wonder he feels like shit.
And yet despite all of this, the evening has been good. Muddy lovey dogs just make my day. :)
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Intuitive eating...
I haven't posted for a few weeks. Amazing how time flies when you're packing, moving 800 miles, unpacking, organizing, unpacking again, starting new jobs, etc.
And I don't have any fun stories to share yet, but I do have some thoughts.
My first week here, I bought "Intuitive eating."
I'd heard about it several times on the boards. Decided it was worth a try. I am now almost done with it, and I am intrigued.
I have been on WW more or less for 9 years. Considering the fact I am currently at my highest weight, I have obviously not actually been following the plan that entire time. But it is always on my mind. ALWAYS. Every time I pick up a cookie and end up eating ten, my mind is calculating points. Every time I make popcorn, I think how much healthier it would be with EVOO instead of butter. And every time I work out, I don't feel like it was worth it unless I burn at least 300 calories.
So this is a whole new concept. Throw out dieting? Eat whatever I want, whenever I want? Sounds amazing. Also sounds unrealistic.
Except here's the thing: it's almost working. Before I started the book, I bought a pack of mint oreos. They were gone the next day. Since I've started reading it and convinced myself I'll try it and really won't go back to WW yet (therefore won't start restricting myself anytime soon), I've managed to leave reeses PB cups, those amazing pink and white frosted animal cookies, PB and cookie dough ice cream, etc. I haven't binged a single time since I started reading the book. The real test? The chocolate-no-bakes. I ate a couple yesterday, the rest are still in the fridge. I DID NOT eat the entire batch for the FIRST time in 9 years.
And who knows who long this will last. Although now there's another catch. DH and I want to start TTC again, which means I need to get some weight off. So now that I've experimented, I'm going to try to integrate. I'm going to go back to meetings. But I'm also going to try to pay more attention to what I want to eat and honor those cravings so I don't binge as frequently. And once I get pregnant, I'll start focusing on the intuitive eating again.
Not quite how they want you to do things, but I'm going to make it work. Because so far both plans have their good points. We'll see what happens.
And I don't have any fun stories to share yet, but I do have some thoughts.
My first week here, I bought "Intuitive eating."
I'd heard about it several times on the boards. Decided it was worth a try. I am now almost done with it, and I am intrigued.
I have been on WW more or less for 9 years. Considering the fact I am currently at my highest weight, I have obviously not actually been following the plan that entire time. But it is always on my mind. ALWAYS. Every time I pick up a cookie and end up eating ten, my mind is calculating points. Every time I make popcorn, I think how much healthier it would be with EVOO instead of butter. And every time I work out, I don't feel like it was worth it unless I burn at least 300 calories.
So this is a whole new concept. Throw out dieting? Eat whatever I want, whenever I want? Sounds amazing. Also sounds unrealistic.
Except here's the thing: it's almost working. Before I started the book, I bought a pack of mint oreos. They were gone the next day. Since I've started reading it and convinced myself I'll try it and really won't go back to WW yet (therefore won't start restricting myself anytime soon), I've managed to leave reeses PB cups, those amazing pink and white frosted animal cookies, PB and cookie dough ice cream, etc. I haven't binged a single time since I started reading the book. The real test? The chocolate-no-bakes. I ate a couple yesterday, the rest are still in the fridge. I DID NOT eat the entire batch for the FIRST time in 9 years.
And who knows who long this will last. Although now there's another catch. DH and I want to start TTC again, which means I need to get some weight off. So now that I've experimented, I'm going to try to integrate. I'm going to go back to meetings. But I'm also going to try to pay more attention to what I want to eat and honor those cravings so I don't binge as frequently. And once I get pregnant, I'll start focusing on the intuitive eating again.
Not quite how they want you to do things, but I'm going to make it work. Because so far both plans have their good points. We'll see what happens.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
All in a day's work
I went on a farm call today and got to see one of my old patients. And she remembered me. According to her owner, she NEVER barks at anyone. Well, she barked at me all right. She barked at me to say "I remember you, get the hell off my property."
But it was great seeing her. She was my very first hit-by-car emergency case. She came in early afternoon on a day when I was already slammed, Doc was backed up on appointments that were waiting in the lobby and no one knew where he was, and I was trying to coordinate everything. Then a guy walked through the door who was younger than me, with tears streaming down his face as he carried in his dog that had just been run over by a truck.
Her gums were white. Her heart rate sounded like a train. Her pelvis ground whenever it was moved. A needle into the abdomen came back with bloody fluid. I wanted to refer her, he had no money. I told him we had to do an exploratory because I thought she had ruptured her spleen. He quickly agreed. I had never done a splenectomy, I had never even done a real exploratory surgery by myself. But I got in there and her spleen looked beautiful. Her stomach and kidneys looked beautiful. The intestines were intact. Then I got to the bladder. It had a huge tear.
We flushed her out with about a million gallons of saline, I sewed up the bladder and then the abdominal wall, we sent her home on multiple antibiotics and pain meds with instructions to stay calm and make sure she was peeing. It took several days before we were sure she could urinate, and I spent a lot of that time on the phone with the owner. But she was okay. A few days later she was walking on 3 legs. A few months later, she was moving the 4th leg. And now, 9 months later, she's just a little gimpy.
Makes ya feel pretty damn good about what you do for a living.
Then there's the other side of the job.
I went out there today so we could vaccinate some heifers. Vaccinating for brucellosis involves tattooing and tagging the ear as well. Which cows don't like. Especially unhandled black cows. I usually have very quick reflexes, but my brain has been all over the place today. Within the first two cows, my right hand had been banged. The third cow tried to bite me. I swear to God I felt teeth going down my arm. Never mind that cows only have bottom teeth in the front of their mouth. It was the fourth cow that nailed me. She was already trying to lunge at me through the head catch. I was very carefully trying to spread ink in her ear, ready to jerk my hands back at any second, when she swung her head around as hard as she could. I didn't get my hand out of the way fast enough and she smashed the outside of my left hand between her head and a bolt in the chute.
Now, if it had just hit the rail, it would have been painful enough. But the bolt was smaller, sharper, with worse edges. It scratched the skin off my hand and I was bleeding under the glove. It took three more cows before I could even begin to move that hand again. By the time I got back to the clinic, it felt like I had stuck my hand in a fire and I couldn't move my pinky. The outside of my hand was definitely starting to look a lot bigger than the other hand. And now, nearly 12 hours later, it's turning black. And it still hurts. Especially when the cats try to rub their heads against it. I still can't move my pinky.
I tried to take a picture, but unfortunately the camera just does not do it justice.
However, injuries like this are pretty common in my job. It'll be better in a day or two. Just to be replaced by some other injury in a week or so. Such is life in the field of cow medicine. And as twisted as it may make me, I'm going to miss it. Although my body may disagree.
But it was great seeing her. She was my very first hit-by-car emergency case. She came in early afternoon on a day when I was already slammed, Doc was backed up on appointments that were waiting in the lobby and no one knew where he was, and I was trying to coordinate everything. Then a guy walked through the door who was younger than me, with tears streaming down his face as he carried in his dog that had just been run over by a truck.
Her gums were white. Her heart rate sounded like a train. Her pelvis ground whenever it was moved. A needle into the abdomen came back with bloody fluid. I wanted to refer her, he had no money. I told him we had to do an exploratory because I thought she had ruptured her spleen. He quickly agreed. I had never done a splenectomy, I had never even done a real exploratory surgery by myself. But I got in there and her spleen looked beautiful. Her stomach and kidneys looked beautiful. The intestines were intact. Then I got to the bladder. It had a huge tear.
We flushed her out with about a million gallons of saline, I sewed up the bladder and then the abdominal wall, we sent her home on multiple antibiotics and pain meds with instructions to stay calm and make sure she was peeing. It took several days before we were sure she could urinate, and I spent a lot of that time on the phone with the owner. But she was okay. A few days later she was walking on 3 legs. A few months later, she was moving the 4th leg. And now, 9 months later, she's just a little gimpy.
Makes ya feel pretty damn good about what you do for a living.
Then there's the other side of the job.
I went out there today so we could vaccinate some heifers. Vaccinating for brucellosis involves tattooing and tagging the ear as well. Which cows don't like. Especially unhandled black cows. I usually have very quick reflexes, but my brain has been all over the place today. Within the first two cows, my right hand had been banged. The third cow tried to bite me. I swear to God I felt teeth going down my arm. Never mind that cows only have bottom teeth in the front of their mouth. It was the fourth cow that nailed me. She was already trying to lunge at me through the head catch. I was very carefully trying to spread ink in her ear, ready to jerk my hands back at any second, when she swung her head around as hard as she could. I didn't get my hand out of the way fast enough and she smashed the outside of my left hand between her head and a bolt in the chute.
Now, if it had just hit the rail, it would have been painful enough. But the bolt was smaller, sharper, with worse edges. It scratched the skin off my hand and I was bleeding under the glove. It took three more cows before I could even begin to move that hand again. By the time I got back to the clinic, it felt like I had stuck my hand in a fire and I couldn't move my pinky. The outside of my hand was definitely starting to look a lot bigger than the other hand. And now, nearly 12 hours later, it's turning black. And it still hurts. Especially when the cats try to rub their heads against it. I still can't move my pinky.
I tried to take a picture, but unfortunately the camera just does not do it justice.
However, injuries like this are pretty common in my job. It'll be better in a day or two. Just to be replaced by some other injury in a week or so. Such is life in the field of cow medicine. And as twisted as it may make me, I'm going to miss it. Although my body may disagree.
Friday, March 12, 2010
The importance of respect
I've been thinking about this a lot lately. As I'm sitting here, exactly one week from my last day at work, I'm actually kind of sad about leaving. With the end in sight, all I can think about is why I liked my job. The parts I hated, the reasons I'm leaving, are slipping out of sight.
Then I get a phone call. It's from one of the new potential hires. My boss gave her my number so that she can talk to me about the job. She asks me a lot of general questions about how the clinic is run. Then she asks me some tough questions. "I've heard he has a temper?" Um, yeah. Temper is an understatement. I've seen him kick cows in the head over and over again because they were too sick to stand and this was inconvenient for him. I've heard stories of him punching a dog in the head that wouldn't hold still, and stabbing the neck of a horse with a forcep because it tried to bite him when he poked it with a needle. Stabbing to the point where they had to sew the neck up afterward. I have his dog in my living room right now, a dog who cowers whenever he walks by because he's been kicked and smacked so many times. So yeah, he has a temper.
"How are the finances?" How do I answer that? If I'm being completely honest, I say that they're awful. Like taxes haven't been paid in 8 years. He handles money worse than any person I've ever met. I've been worried that I won't be able to deposit my paychecks, and we often don't have necessary supplies because he says we don't have the money to buy them.
"How does everyone treat the clients?" Well, if someone has the gall to go somewhere else because he's out of town or too busy, he basically says "Fuck you, keep going to them then." He's always at least an hour late for farm calls, usually closer to 2, because he's "the only vet in town, so where else are they going to go?" He talks about clients he doesn't like to all the other clients, with no interest in confidentiality. It makes him feel important to make fun of one client to another.
I know I've had some issues with the secretary. But the biggest reason I'm leaving my job? I have no respect for my boss. NONE. And when I'm sitting here not sure whether I'm happy to be leaving, he's kind enough to provide me with a reminder.
We had a horse come in that started colicking after working for most of the day. It was trying to lay down, very obviously uncomfortable, sweating like crazy. The owners couldn't afford to take it to Bismarck for surgery so we agreed to watch it. And the first thing Doc did was shove some mineral oil down the stomach to relieve the obstruction that he couldn't even feel. Not how you're supposed to start. He didn't listen to a heart rate. That's your most obvious indication of pain. He didn't pass a tube. Suppose there was a twist just distal to the stomach. Passing a tube would relieve some of the pressure. Putting mineral oil in just increases the pressure and therefore the pain.
We watch the horse overnight and into the next day. He's getting worse. In a few hours, his heart rate went from 72 to 90 (it should have been less than 40). He was rolling more and more. The owner calls Doc, who's on a farm call. They still can't afford referral, so Doc offers to try the surgery. This is bad on several levels. He makes it seem like he's done tons of these. Yeah, a couple, over 15 years ago, with twice the number of people. He makes it sound like there's a good chance. My estimate was 5-10% chance of survival, if that. He refuses to let any of the owners friends, including another vet, come help even though we may have needed as many hands as we could get. (Have you ever seen horse intestines? They're HUGE.) Then the worst part? This conversation took place at 11 am. He spent the next 5 hours finishing his farm call, which was NOT an emergency, then taking the time to get lunch, talk with clients, etc.
So imagine my surprise when we go in and the intestine has ruptured. Now, I realize that as a completely last ditch resort, us going into that horse was okay. But it should have been done with the realization that chances of survival were next to none, it should have been done 5 hours earlier, and it should have been done at least semi-sterily just in case the horse survived. Having intestines strewn across a dirty floor does not count. And considering we were dealing with a pair of very poor newlyweds, I would have highly recommended euthanasia instead of a surgery they couldn't afford. Now they have a bill to pay and no horse to show for it.
My new boss is going to drive me crazy. He's not going to let me do a lot of stuff simply because I'm not the best available, and with everything else he is going to be looking over my shoulder. But I can RESPECT him. After talking to the other employees, he is a person who is easy to admire. He knows his stuff, he makes sure he is current and up-to-date, and the clients and patients are his first concern rather than acquiring as much money as possible.
So yes, I am sad to leave my job. I'm going to miss my house. I'll miss the clients and the cows. I'll miss the tech. But I will not miss a man who makes decisions and acts in such a way that I just cannot respect him. It's just too important.
Then I get a phone call. It's from one of the new potential hires. My boss gave her my number so that she can talk to me about the job. She asks me a lot of general questions about how the clinic is run. Then she asks me some tough questions. "I've heard he has a temper?" Um, yeah. Temper is an understatement. I've seen him kick cows in the head over and over again because they were too sick to stand and this was inconvenient for him. I've heard stories of him punching a dog in the head that wouldn't hold still, and stabbing the neck of a horse with a forcep because it tried to bite him when he poked it with a needle. Stabbing to the point where they had to sew the neck up afterward. I have his dog in my living room right now, a dog who cowers whenever he walks by because he's been kicked and smacked so many times. So yeah, he has a temper.
"How are the finances?" How do I answer that? If I'm being completely honest, I say that they're awful. Like taxes haven't been paid in 8 years. He handles money worse than any person I've ever met. I've been worried that I won't be able to deposit my paychecks, and we often don't have necessary supplies because he says we don't have the money to buy them.
"How does everyone treat the clients?" Well, if someone has the gall to go somewhere else because he's out of town or too busy, he basically says "Fuck you, keep going to them then." He's always at least an hour late for farm calls, usually closer to 2, because he's "the only vet in town, so where else are they going to go?" He talks about clients he doesn't like to all the other clients, with no interest in confidentiality. It makes him feel important to make fun of one client to another.
I know I've had some issues with the secretary. But the biggest reason I'm leaving my job? I have no respect for my boss. NONE. And when I'm sitting here not sure whether I'm happy to be leaving, he's kind enough to provide me with a reminder.
We had a horse come in that started colicking after working for most of the day. It was trying to lay down, very obviously uncomfortable, sweating like crazy. The owners couldn't afford to take it to Bismarck for surgery so we agreed to watch it. And the first thing Doc did was shove some mineral oil down the stomach to relieve the obstruction that he couldn't even feel. Not how you're supposed to start. He didn't listen to a heart rate. That's your most obvious indication of pain. He didn't pass a tube. Suppose there was a twist just distal to the stomach. Passing a tube would relieve some of the pressure. Putting mineral oil in just increases the pressure and therefore the pain.
We watch the horse overnight and into the next day. He's getting worse. In a few hours, his heart rate went from 72 to 90 (it should have been less than 40). He was rolling more and more. The owner calls Doc, who's on a farm call. They still can't afford referral, so Doc offers to try the surgery. This is bad on several levels. He makes it seem like he's done tons of these. Yeah, a couple, over 15 years ago, with twice the number of people. He makes it sound like there's a good chance. My estimate was 5-10% chance of survival, if that. He refuses to let any of the owners friends, including another vet, come help even though we may have needed as many hands as we could get. (Have you ever seen horse intestines? They're HUGE.) Then the worst part? This conversation took place at 11 am. He spent the next 5 hours finishing his farm call, which was NOT an emergency, then taking the time to get lunch, talk with clients, etc.
So imagine my surprise when we go in and the intestine has ruptured. Now, I realize that as a completely last ditch resort, us going into that horse was okay. But it should have been done with the realization that chances of survival were next to none, it should have been done 5 hours earlier, and it should have been done at least semi-sterily just in case the horse survived. Having intestines strewn across a dirty floor does not count. And considering we were dealing with a pair of very poor newlyweds, I would have highly recommended euthanasia instead of a surgery they couldn't afford. Now they have a bill to pay and no horse to show for it.
My new boss is going to drive me crazy. He's not going to let me do a lot of stuff simply because I'm not the best available, and with everything else he is going to be looking over my shoulder. But I can RESPECT him. After talking to the other employees, he is a person who is easy to admire. He knows his stuff, he makes sure he is current and up-to-date, and the clients and patients are his first concern rather than acquiring as much money as possible.
So yes, I am sad to leave my job. I'm going to miss my house. I'll miss the clients and the cows. I'll miss the tech. But I will not miss a man who makes decisions and acts in such a way that I just cannot respect him. It's just too important.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Ferret escapees!
When I walked into my house today, exhausted after a long day of work, this was the first thing I saw:
Now, for those of you who might not recognize it, this is the classic appearance of a little present left by a small furry animal known as a ferret. Oh crap. A ferret got out.
Then I walked into the house a little further and saw this:
This same scene was found in both bathrooms. More piles of poop were found around the house, such as this one hidden behind the toilet:
I didn't come home at lunch today and it was a long day. So technically, these piles and messes, along with the rest of the piles, could have been done by one ferret. Ferrets poop on average every 2 hours, and one ferret can get into a LOT of stuff in a very short amount of time. To support this theory, I found a ferret as I was walking back to the ferret room. And this particular ferret, Max, is known for getting into things. I even found some markers and dog toys where he had stashed them under the dog bed. Unfortunately, I didn't think to take a picture.
However, then I got to the ferret room:
Please ignore how messy the floor is. I've been busy. However, you can see that they have a lot of room to run, although usually they have even more. But when I walked into the ferret room this time? You see on the right of the picture where there's two bins of litter holding the fence against the wall? The litter bins that weigh about 30 pounds each? Yes, somehow my one pound ferrets had managed to shove that entire pile away from the wall and escaped.
Oh. Shit.
I counted ferrets. I have ten. I counted three plus the one I was holding.
There are SIX ferrets escaped into my house! Now this would normally be a problem. But right now? It's a HUGE pain in my ass because this is the state of my house:
And a close up to see just how many hiding spots are available:
Now as I've been writing, the dogs have found one more. But there are still a whole bunch of ferrets around the house, and I have no idea where.
So just in case you ever considered getting a ferret, keep in mind their super-ferret strength that allows them to move things 30 times their own weight, and the disasters they love to cause. :)
Now, for those of you who might not recognize it, this is the classic appearance of a little present left by a small furry animal known as a ferret. Oh crap. A ferret got out.
Then I walked into the house a little further and saw this:
This same scene was found in both bathrooms. More piles of poop were found around the house, such as this one hidden behind the toilet:
I didn't come home at lunch today and it was a long day. So technically, these piles and messes, along with the rest of the piles, could have been done by one ferret. Ferrets poop on average every 2 hours, and one ferret can get into a LOT of stuff in a very short amount of time. To support this theory, I found a ferret as I was walking back to the ferret room. And this particular ferret, Max, is known for getting into things. I even found some markers and dog toys where he had stashed them under the dog bed. Unfortunately, I didn't think to take a picture.
However, then I got to the ferret room:
Please ignore how messy the floor is. I've been busy. However, you can see that they have a lot of room to run, although usually they have even more. But when I walked into the ferret room this time? You see on the right of the picture where there's two bins of litter holding the fence against the wall? The litter bins that weigh about 30 pounds each? Yes, somehow my one pound ferrets had managed to shove that entire pile away from the wall and escaped.
Oh. Shit.
I counted ferrets. I have ten. I counted three plus the one I was holding.
There are SIX ferrets escaped into my house! Now this would normally be a problem. But right now? It's a HUGE pain in my ass because this is the state of my house:
And a close up to see just how many hiding spots are available:
Now as I've been writing, the dogs have found one more. But there are still a whole bunch of ferrets around the house, and I have no idea where.
So just in case you ever considered getting a ferret, keep in mind their super-ferret strength that allows them to move things 30 times their own weight, and the disasters they love to cause. :)
Monday, March 8, 2010
Life is getting good
I am not going to post the story of the day because I would gross everyone out and no one would ever want to read my blog again. Suffice it to say that I had to remove a dead premature calf from a heifer with an extremely small pelvis, and it took me over 2 hours.
But afterward I checked my email, and found the email I've been waiting for. The acceptance of my application for a rental house in Missoula. I have a place to move in to now! And I don't have to hide any of the animals because she knows about all of them!
Have you ever noticed how things seem to happen in groups? Like it seems like everything is going either wrong or right, all at once? This is how my life has felt lately.
It all started last December. I got a job, passed boards, passed my competency test, and found a place to live, all at once. Things were going pretty good for awhile.
Then in October it all changed. Well, okay, there were some pretty big swings in between, but these are the big hills/valleys. In October, we had a "staff meeting" at work that was all about how much Jenny sucks at her job. I started looking for a new job shortly after that. And to make that even better, I had just put down my favorite cat, and DH was deciding that he didn't like his job either. All at once.
Now things are back on the upswing. I got a new job. As of today, I have a place to live. All that's left is for DH to find a new job and to sell the house. But things are looking up.
And yes, that was a very brief rundown, obviously leaving out a lot of details. But the concept remains. Things happen all at once. Either everything goes wrong, or everything is going right and I sit waiting for things to change. Like there has to be a catch if things are good. Because things really can't just be this good, just like that.
I'm not a pessimist. I'm a realist.
At least that's what I keep telling myself. :)
But afterward I checked my email, and found the email I've been waiting for. The acceptance of my application for a rental house in Missoula. I have a place to move in to now! And I don't have to hide any of the animals because she knows about all of them!
Have you ever noticed how things seem to happen in groups? Like it seems like everything is going either wrong or right, all at once? This is how my life has felt lately.
It all started last December. I got a job, passed boards, passed my competency test, and found a place to live, all at once. Things were going pretty good for awhile.
Then in October it all changed. Well, okay, there were some pretty big swings in between, but these are the big hills/valleys. In October, we had a "staff meeting" at work that was all about how much Jenny sucks at her job. I started looking for a new job shortly after that. And to make that even better, I had just put down my favorite cat, and DH was deciding that he didn't like his job either. All at once.
Now things are back on the upswing. I got a new job. As of today, I have a place to live. All that's left is for DH to find a new job and to sell the house. But things are looking up.
And yes, that was a very brief rundown, obviously leaving out a lot of details. But the concept remains. Things happen all at once. Either everything goes wrong, or everything is going right and I sit waiting for things to change. Like there has to be a catch if things are good. Because things really can't just be this good, just like that.
I'm not a pessimist. I'm a realist.
At least that's what I keep telling myself. :)
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
C-sections and rollercoasters
I don't have very many fun stories right now. We're just getting into calving season, so life is getting busy. I've done two c-sections in the last week. The first didn't go very well. The calf was fabulous and huge (112 lbs!!!) but mom didn't make it. The next one went great. Yesterday, we pulled some baby lambs out of a ewe who had already prolapsed twice and was all scarred up, so getting a live lamb was pretty exciting. And it was so freakin' cute!
But besides starting to get busy, life at the clinic is also being exciting for a whole other reason. Everyone is finding out that I'm leaving. And no one is happy about it, except maybe a couple of the people I work with. I have had several people comment that they are so sad I'm leaving, and they really really really don't want me to go. One client and the tech I work with both almost started crying. And this all makes me wonder if I'm doing the right thing.
Well, that, and the fact that I CANNOT find a place to move into in Missoula. Who knew that Missoula would be so ridiculously expensive! I knew it was one of the more pricey places in Montana, but it almost out-prices Washington. Ridiculous. And given the fact that we are going to get barely anything back from this house in comparison to what houses out there cost, we're in a tough situation. We can't afford to buy. No one will rent to us with our dogs. Even when I claim that Wazzu is a heeler cross and don't mention the word "rottweiler."
This is putting me through an emotional rollercoaster. I'm sad to leave our house. I'm sad to leave the people here (well, most of them). We didn't really think we would leave, especially not this early. I'm excited to go to Missoula. I'm frustrated I can't find a house. I'm frustrated that we don't know when DH will be able to follow me. I'm not sure I'm going to love my job. I'm doing all of this- quitting and leaving everyone and struggling to find a place- all for a job I'm not 100% sure about.
But I'm doing it anyway. And today, while I was shoulder-deep in the vagina of a cow who had aborted but not cleaned out and was therefore filled with rotting placenta, with a subsequent temperature of 105.8 (for all you human people, over 102 is considered hot), I realize there are aspects of my job that I will NOT miss!
But besides starting to get busy, life at the clinic is also being exciting for a whole other reason. Everyone is finding out that I'm leaving. And no one is happy about it, except maybe a couple of the people I work with. I have had several people comment that they are so sad I'm leaving, and they really really really don't want me to go. One client and the tech I work with both almost started crying. And this all makes me wonder if I'm doing the right thing.
Well, that, and the fact that I CANNOT find a place to move into in Missoula. Who knew that Missoula would be so ridiculously expensive! I knew it was one of the more pricey places in Montana, but it almost out-prices Washington. Ridiculous. And given the fact that we are going to get barely anything back from this house in comparison to what houses out there cost, we're in a tough situation. We can't afford to buy. No one will rent to us with our dogs. Even when I claim that Wazzu is a heeler cross and don't mention the word "rottweiler."
This is putting me through an emotional rollercoaster. I'm sad to leave our house. I'm sad to leave the people here (well, most of them). We didn't really think we would leave, especially not this early. I'm excited to go to Missoula. I'm frustrated I can't find a house. I'm frustrated that we don't know when DH will be able to follow me. I'm not sure I'm going to love my job. I'm doing all of this- quitting and leaving everyone and struggling to find a place- all for a job I'm not 100% sure about.
But I'm doing it anyway. And today, while I was shoulder-deep in the vagina of a cow who had aborted but not cleaned out and was therefore filled with rotting placenta, with a subsequent temperature of 105.8 (for all you human people, over 102 is considered hot), I realize there are aspects of my job that I will NOT miss!
Friday, February 26, 2010
The dog and the tape
This is Wazzu:
Wazzu is a 13 month old heeler/rottweiler cross that I picked up when the humane society brought him to the vet school to be neutered.
He is usually a goofy dog. But the last couple of days, the goofiness has escalated. He has decided that this is his new favorite toy:
Yes, that is a roll of packing tape. I have not managed to get a picture yet, but he has taken to carrying it hooked around his bottom jaw. Now, he knows he's not supposed to play with it, so as soon as he sees me, he drops it and looks all guilty. Yesterday he had taken it out of my pile of packing things, and I wouldn't have known it was him and not the cats except when I walked into the room, he was standing 5 feet away and looking exceptionally guilty with his head and shoulders drooped and the big puppy eyes.
This roll of tape is nothing like his usual favorite toys. He has an orange cuz that he carries around all night long, biting and biting it so it squeaks and squeaks. To the point my mom has asked me several times what the hell she is hearing on the other end of the phone. He also loves the nylabones. A roll of tape is neither squeaky nor chewy. I don't get it.
However, this is not his only new behavior. Him and Boomer started a race around the dog house in the living room yesterday. I swear they raced around that stupid thing at least 50 times. I was dizzy just from watching, yet if either of them were dizzy, they hid it well. That game ended when Boomer ducked inside then jumped out as Wazzu raced by.
For some strange reason, I think the dogs are enjoying this whole packing process. Now if only they could grab a box and fill it up.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Mean cows and cute calves
I haven't posted for a few days, and will be busy enough for the next month that posts will be few and far between.
WE'RE MOVING TO MONTANA!!!
Yes, I'm a little excited.
But since I haven't posted recently and have not managed to post many funny stories, I thought I would tell the story of my first c-section. We are approaching calving season, after all.
It was last August, I think. It was warm. I remember that. I don't know if I was on call that night, but when it comes down to it, it doesn't matter. If the boss doesn't answer the phone, I'm on call even on my nights off. So the phone rings at 2:30 am. I'm sound asleep. A guy on the other end of the phone proceeds to tell me, in a very mumbly and unintelligible voice, that he has a cow that can't calve. And he can't get hold of Doc. He'll be there in half an hour.
I look at the clock, set the alarm, and roll over to go back to sleep for 20 more minutes (living 5 blocks from work has it's advantages). DH rolls over and asks me what's going on. My reply? "My worst nightmare." This is my very first solo c-section. That makes me very very very nervous. See, when you're doing a c-section on a cow, it's very physically difficult. The cow is awake and standing, her side is just numbed enough that you can cut in. Then you have to reach in and manipulate a uterus containing a calf that can weigh as much as 80 pounds by itself, not counting the fluid and body of the uterus. You have to manipulate it so that the feet, which are supposed to be pointed out the back end of the cow, are now pointed towards the side of the cow so you can cut over them and hoist that 80 pound calf vertically out of a small incision. This is difficult enough by itself, but I am 5'3, have very short arms, and the cow has 4 stomach compartments and a bladder in the way.
But I tell myself I can handle this. My alarm goes off at 3 am, I get dressed, head into work. He's not there yet so I start setting up chutes and getting everything ready. About 10 minutes later, he comes in. Things have gone from bad to worse. Now she's down in the trailer, and he can't get her up.
Okay, deep breath. I gather my things and go outside to the trailer. And there she is. A massive Charlois (I absolutely hate white cows. They are the devil in cow bodies.) She is laying with her head to the front of the trailer, but her rear end is very stubbornly stuck up against the wall of the trailer. I can just barely see two little feet sticking out.
I hang my light up on the bar of the trailer, and the owner and I reach down, grab her feet, and try to slide her so her butt is accessible. She's not having any of that. She starts kicking. And even when she's laying down, she weighs 1200 pounds at least. She kicks hard. So we tie her feet up to her head, and try pulling her tail. Not so successful, but enough that I decide to try pulling the calf without cutting her open. I get the calf jack ready, attach it to the calf, and start winching. The calf comes out to its elbows and gets stuck. I keep working. It ain't happening.
At this point, I start to get worried because I saw the calf move. Now if the calf had already been dead, that would be one thing. I wouldn't have to hurry quite as much. But with a live calf, if it compresses or breaks the placenta, it could suffocate before I get it out. And this calf is moving. I decide I don't have any more time to mess around with the calf jack, I go prep the side for a c-section.
After I'm done prepping, I tie a rope around the cow's leg and tie it back since she's still trying to kick me. Then I start cutting. Her head swings around and she's trying to get me from any direction she can, while I'm kneeling in the straw between her legs in a small trailer. Did I mention small trailer with a mean 1200 pound cow? And an 80 year old man who doesn't have the strength to hold the rope tighter so she can't kick me?
I finally get through all the layers and go to find the calf. This calf has to weigh at least 80 pounds. I cannot, no matter what I do, get the calf to move into a position I can get hold of it. All I can feel is the massive span of it's incredibly slippery back. Nothing to grab. Nothing. And as I'm working on this, the owner decides to try to see what I'm doing in the dark abyss of the cow's abdomen, so he walks over. Rather, he shuffles over, kicking dirt and poop-filled straw all over my sterile surgery pack. So much for a sterile surgery.
After fighting with this calf in her belly for 20 minutes, I know there's no way I'm going to be able to do this. I try to call my boss. He, of course, doesn't answer the phone. I'm running out of ideas. I can't pull it, I can't get it out via c-section. And we live in the middle of nowhere, we are the only vets around for a hundred miles. It's not like I can say, "Sorry, I can't do this, you'll have to take her somewhere else." I have never felt so incredibly hopeless and frustrated before.
But it's up to me. So I settle down to sew her up. And the owner goes to see what I'm doing, bumps the light, and the bulb goes out. We are instantly plunged into complete darkness. I have my hands in the abdomen of a mean 1200 pound cow in a small trailer with a clumsy clueless owner, and I can't see a damn thing. So I cover her up, stumble my way inside, and try to find a light bulb. There is not one in the entire building. I even called the tech and woke her up, but she didn't know where any were. And again, living in the middle of nowhere, there's not a store anywhere to buy one. So I start searching for a flashlight. I find ONE. And it's almost dead. Crap.
So I go back to the trailer. With nothing but a dim flashlight being shined over my shoulder, occasionally onto the incision site but more often a foot off as the owner drifts to sleep, I try to sew up the abdomen. Every time he realizes he's dozing, he wakes up with a start and shuffles his feet, risking contamination of my already not-as-sterile-as-it-should-be surgery pack. But somehow, I get her sewn up with only a few pokes to my own finger. And then I get behind her again and set the calf jack back up. I get hooked on the calf and start pulling again. This time, by some miracle, I finally manage to get the calf out. And even more amazing, it was still alive. Barely. It took one glace to assess that yes, it was alive, but it wasn't going to make it. However, the mom was still alive, she would live another day and produce another calf. Gotta love the life of production medicine...
So what did I learn that day? That doing c-sections in the middle of the night on a down cow in a small trailer with no light SUCKS. And yet, if I were to stay in this job, I'd be doing it again. And may still have that opportunity, seeing as calving is about to start and I still have 3.5 weeks left. But I'm sure crossing my fingers that this particular scene does not repeat itself.
However, when the calves make it, they sure are cute. :)
WE'RE MOVING TO MONTANA!!!
Yes, I'm a little excited.
But since I haven't posted recently and have not managed to post many funny stories, I thought I would tell the story of my first c-section. We are approaching calving season, after all.
It was last August, I think. It was warm. I remember that. I don't know if I was on call that night, but when it comes down to it, it doesn't matter. If the boss doesn't answer the phone, I'm on call even on my nights off. So the phone rings at 2:30 am. I'm sound asleep. A guy on the other end of the phone proceeds to tell me, in a very mumbly and unintelligible voice, that he has a cow that can't calve. And he can't get hold of Doc. He'll be there in half an hour.
I look at the clock, set the alarm, and roll over to go back to sleep for 20 more minutes (living 5 blocks from work has it's advantages). DH rolls over and asks me what's going on. My reply? "My worst nightmare." This is my very first solo c-section. That makes me very very very nervous. See, when you're doing a c-section on a cow, it's very physically difficult. The cow is awake and standing, her side is just numbed enough that you can cut in. Then you have to reach in and manipulate a uterus containing a calf that can weigh as much as 80 pounds by itself, not counting the fluid and body of the uterus. You have to manipulate it so that the feet, which are supposed to be pointed out the back end of the cow, are now pointed towards the side of the cow so you can cut over them and hoist that 80 pound calf vertically out of a small incision. This is difficult enough by itself, but I am 5'3, have very short arms, and the cow has 4 stomach compartments and a bladder in the way.
But I tell myself I can handle this. My alarm goes off at 3 am, I get dressed, head into work. He's not there yet so I start setting up chutes and getting everything ready. About 10 minutes later, he comes in. Things have gone from bad to worse. Now she's down in the trailer, and he can't get her up.
Okay, deep breath. I gather my things and go outside to the trailer. And there she is. A massive Charlois (I absolutely hate white cows. They are the devil in cow bodies.) She is laying with her head to the front of the trailer, but her rear end is very stubbornly stuck up against the wall of the trailer. I can just barely see two little feet sticking out.
I hang my light up on the bar of the trailer, and the owner and I reach down, grab her feet, and try to slide her so her butt is accessible. She's not having any of that. She starts kicking. And even when she's laying down, she weighs 1200 pounds at least. She kicks hard. So we tie her feet up to her head, and try pulling her tail. Not so successful, but enough that I decide to try pulling the calf without cutting her open. I get the calf jack ready, attach it to the calf, and start winching. The calf comes out to its elbows and gets stuck. I keep working. It ain't happening.
At this point, I start to get worried because I saw the calf move. Now if the calf had already been dead, that would be one thing. I wouldn't have to hurry quite as much. But with a live calf, if it compresses or breaks the placenta, it could suffocate before I get it out. And this calf is moving. I decide I don't have any more time to mess around with the calf jack, I go prep the side for a c-section.
After I'm done prepping, I tie a rope around the cow's leg and tie it back since she's still trying to kick me. Then I start cutting. Her head swings around and she's trying to get me from any direction she can, while I'm kneeling in the straw between her legs in a small trailer. Did I mention small trailer with a mean 1200 pound cow? And an 80 year old man who doesn't have the strength to hold the rope tighter so she can't kick me?
I finally get through all the layers and go to find the calf. This calf has to weigh at least 80 pounds. I cannot, no matter what I do, get the calf to move into a position I can get hold of it. All I can feel is the massive span of it's incredibly slippery back. Nothing to grab. Nothing. And as I'm working on this, the owner decides to try to see what I'm doing in the dark abyss of the cow's abdomen, so he walks over. Rather, he shuffles over, kicking dirt and poop-filled straw all over my sterile surgery pack. So much for a sterile surgery.
After fighting with this calf in her belly for 20 minutes, I know there's no way I'm going to be able to do this. I try to call my boss. He, of course, doesn't answer the phone. I'm running out of ideas. I can't pull it, I can't get it out via c-section. And we live in the middle of nowhere, we are the only vets around for a hundred miles. It's not like I can say, "Sorry, I can't do this, you'll have to take her somewhere else." I have never felt so incredibly hopeless and frustrated before.
But it's up to me. So I settle down to sew her up. And the owner goes to see what I'm doing, bumps the light, and the bulb goes out. We are instantly plunged into complete darkness. I have my hands in the abdomen of a mean 1200 pound cow in a small trailer with a clumsy clueless owner, and I can't see a damn thing. So I cover her up, stumble my way inside, and try to find a light bulb. There is not one in the entire building. I even called the tech and woke her up, but she didn't know where any were. And again, living in the middle of nowhere, there's not a store anywhere to buy one. So I start searching for a flashlight. I find ONE. And it's almost dead. Crap.
So I go back to the trailer. With nothing but a dim flashlight being shined over my shoulder, occasionally onto the incision site but more often a foot off as the owner drifts to sleep, I try to sew up the abdomen. Every time he realizes he's dozing, he wakes up with a start and shuffles his feet, risking contamination of my already not-as-sterile-as-it-should-be surgery pack. But somehow, I get her sewn up with only a few pokes to my own finger. And then I get behind her again and set the calf jack back up. I get hooked on the calf and start pulling again. This time, by some miracle, I finally manage to get the calf out. And even more amazing, it was still alive. Barely. It took one glace to assess that yes, it was alive, but it wasn't going to make it. However, the mom was still alive, she would live another day and produce another calf. Gotta love the life of production medicine...
So what did I learn that day? That doing c-sections in the middle of the night on a down cow in a small trailer with no light SUCKS. And yet, if I were to stay in this job, I'd be doing it again. And may still have that opportunity, seeing as calving is about to start and I still have 3.5 weeks left. But I'm sure crossing my fingers that this particular scene does not repeat itself.
However, when the calves make it, they sure are cute. :)
This is me with the first calf I ever pulled, right before I graduated from vet school.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
A history of cats
This is Anabelle:
Anabelle is the clinic cat. She decided last night that the medication we use to remove lice from cows was really tasty. So she drank a bunch of it.
Now, she really should have known better as her brother had previously tried the stuff and his experience was anything but fun. However, instead of learning from Garfield (who was sick for most of the morning), she tried it too and apparently ingested quite a lot more than her brother ever did. Either that or the fact that Garfield is about twice the size of Anabelle played a significant factor.
Needless to say, Anabelle was very drunk when we got to work this morning. She was still barely able to walk, but was falling from side to side, unable to keep her feet underneath her. Her pupils were dilated as far as they could go and were completely unresponsive to light. But she was still very alert. Alert enough that when I tried to get a catheter into her, she turned into the demon from hell. We never did get it in. We also never got any charcoal down her to help absorb the toxin. After awhile, I tried mixing it in some really yummy food, and she actually ate some but she had an intention tremor.
An intention tremor means that every time she went for something (an intentional movement), her head would bob up and down and she would have trouble getting whatever she was going for. She is not the first cat I have seen do this. In face, I owned a cat like that.
This is Joey:
Joey was a stray that was brought into the hospital my fourth year of vet school. He had what we call cerebellar hypoplasia. This means that his mom was infected with a virus while he was still in the uterus that caused part of his brain (the cerebellum) not to develop fully. So Joey had problems with coordination. He walked funny, he ate funny, he had would think he was in the litter box when he wasn't. But he was a sweetheart.
Because of his issues, nobody wanted him. Everyone thought he was adorable, but no one wanted the extra work that would be involved with his care. Including me. Even the humane society said no. But a few days before he was scheduled to be euthanized, I caved and took him home with me.
He was the best cat I've ever owned. He was cuddly, he absolutely adored me. All you had to do was look at him and he'd start purring. Two seconds after I sat, he was in my lap. A minute after I'd crawled into bed, he was trying to crawl up the covers to join me. And he cuddled as close as he could all night long (which, let's face it, I loved since DH is never home).
But, he was destroying the house. He really tried his hardest to use the litter box... about 50% of the time. And of that 50%, only about 50% was actually successful. The other 50%, he would use whatever surface he thought was convenient. This regularly included our carpet. But he was a tricky little guy. The only way I could contain him was to kennel him. Every fence I put up, he would crawl over. Nothing I tried would keep him in the kitchen.
When we bought a new house and decided to think about trying for a baby, we made the incredibly difficult decision to put him down. We didn't want the new house ruined; we didn't want a baby crawling through puddles of cat pee or smearing his/her hand through smelly cat feces. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. There's not a day that goes by that I don't regret it. I couldn't even take his ashes out of the box they came in for almost 3 months, and I still can't look at pictures of him without crying.
Would I do it again? I don't know. I regret that decision every day. And part of the reason is because of this cat:
This is McAleister. McAleister was a rescue who I obtained when he was about 4 weeks old, without a mom, and being threatened by an aggressive dachshund. Ever since the day I brought him home, up until the day I got Joey, McAleister was my buddy. He is my cat, only. He won't look at anyone else. He won't go to anyone else. DH walks in the door and he runs up to me to anounce that "She's mine!" But he was jealous of Joey. After Joey was gone, he started to come back again. But now he's started a new behavior. He's peeing in corners. On the corner by the bookcase (occasionally with sufficient aim to hit the books themselves), on DH's dresser (not-so-clean clothes), in the corner of the living room. So I made the difficult decision to get rid of a cat who didn't know any better than to pee around the house, and another started. And McAleister KNOWS BETTER!
And a huge part of it is because of this cat:
This is Chloe. Chloe was a stray I found outside my trailer. She weighed 4 pounds and should have weighed over 8. She was absolutely riddled with fleas and engorged ticks. She had a microchip but her owner didn't want her anymore so she had just been kicked out the door. I took her in to find her a home, and every person who said they were interested changed their mind. She is still with me.
Chloe is an absolutely fabulous cat. She could very happily cuddle in your lap all day long. She is extremely friendly and purrs non-stop. The catch? She hates other cats. She picks fights with all the rest of my cats, especially McAleister. And him being a contrary brat, this makes him pick fights with her too. And he wins. But it still stresses him out and causes him to urinate all over the house.
The solution: I need to find Chloe a home. But how many older ladies with no other pets who are looking for an indoor-only house/lap cat do I know? Answer: None. Not a single one.
Long story short? (And yes, I realize this post has become extremely long.) I no longer have one of the best cats I've ever had, and the other best cat has been demoted due to excessive urination. I am therefore stuck with a cat who insists on ruining my house (yes, we're working on this still) and a cat who picks fights all the time. Oh, and 4 others.
My world is over-run by animals of the feline variation, and I miss Joey.
The current crew minus Chloe. (And no, I don't normally sleep on a twin mattress on the floor... this was in the old house after we'd already moved the bed.)
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
I like my face... as is...
I almost got mauled today.
Handsome dog came in to get vaccinated. His owner told me right off that he hates vets. Okay, I can deal with that, most animals don't like vets. So I'm sweet-talking him, petting him, his tail is wagging, all appears good. I'm rubbing him, one quick stick, shot is in, he's still wagging his tail. Then he starts "Woo-woo-woo"ing. Aw, he's talking to me.
Next thing we know, I'm standing, he's full length stretching up to my face, I felt teeth on my hand, and his mouth was inches from my neck.
Seriously, no warning. Or if there was (which in reality, there probably was) it was so subtle that not a single person in that room picked up on it.
He was only warning me, because I felt teeth and he could have bit instead of just grazed. But holy crap, what the hell? And afterwards, he didn't stop growling at me until he was taken from the room.
The poor owner was almost in tears. Apparently this dog has never pulled anything like this before. I had to keep telling her that really, it was okay, I was fine, it wasn't her fault, etc, etc.
And yet, through this entire near-mutilation experience, all I can picture is our tech's face as that dog was jumping up at me and she realized she had no idea where to grab. Even at the time, it was such a confused expression that it made me laugh.
So then I came home and cuddled with dogs who don't care that I'm a vet and love me anyway. :)
Aren't they just adorable?
Handsome dog came in to get vaccinated. His owner told me right off that he hates vets. Okay, I can deal with that, most animals don't like vets. So I'm sweet-talking him, petting him, his tail is wagging, all appears good. I'm rubbing him, one quick stick, shot is in, he's still wagging his tail. Then he starts "Woo-woo-woo"ing. Aw, he's talking to me.
Next thing we know, I'm standing, he's full length stretching up to my face, I felt teeth on my hand, and his mouth was inches from my neck.
Seriously, no warning. Or if there was (which in reality, there probably was) it was so subtle that not a single person in that room picked up on it.
He was only warning me, because I felt teeth and he could have bit instead of just grazed. But holy crap, what the hell? And afterwards, he didn't stop growling at me until he was taken from the room.
The poor owner was almost in tears. Apparently this dog has never pulled anything like this before. I had to keep telling her that really, it was okay, I was fine, it wasn't her fault, etc, etc.
And yet, through this entire near-mutilation experience, all I can picture is our tech's face as that dog was jumping up at me and she realized she had no idea where to grab. Even at the time, it was such a confused expression that it made me laugh.
So then I came home and cuddled with dogs who don't care that I'm a vet and love me anyway. :)
Aren't they just adorable?
Monday, February 15, 2010
LD relationships suck
Today was a good day. The first day in weeks that we've actually been busy at work. I spayed 9 cats. Yep, nine. My personal record was 4 in one day. I just more than doubled that.
Happy Valentine's to everyone.
Our Valentine's was actually pretty good this year. It's the first one we've ever actually been able to spend together, rather than celebrating some random weekend. Not that we did anything. DH wasn't able to come home Friday night like usual. He was stuck in a ditch in some middle-of-nowhere driveway where neither a tractor nor another truck could pull him out. And the 24 hour emergency tow truck line? Wasn't answering. Yeah, so much for emergency service. So he ended up getting home at 2 pm the next day.
I was thinking about our relationship the other day. I love my DH and there's no way I would want to be with anyone else. But I was thinking, what if he weren't a truck driver? Wouldn't it be nice to find him a job that allowed him to be home every night? And then I had the thought of, yeah, right, like we could find a job like that. You see, this lifestyle is all we know, other than 3 short months when we first moved to North Dakota when he was indeed home every night, even if he didn't get home until midnight (after I was asleep) and left at 6 (before I was awake). It was still something to feel the bed sink when he crawled in each night, and be able to roll over and sleepily acknowledge his presence.
But that didn't last very long. Now he's gone again. And when I was thinking about this the other day, I was thinking about it as though almost everyone has this kind of relationship. Like it wouldn't be easy to find him a job that would get him home every night. Like in most relationships, one person is gone every night. And then I realized that while I know a high number of women in these relationships, it is NOT typical. The average person probably does have the type of relationship that I dream of.
And that was a depressing thought. Because what if something happened to one of us? We'd be alone never having known what it was like to see your spouse every day. And the worst part? Even knowing all of this and wanting to change it? We still don't know when he'll actually be able to get a local job. We don't know how long he'll be doing this type of schedule.
I keep having dreams, about the closest I ever get to nightmares. And in my dreams, something happens to him. Something prevents him from ever being able to come home again. He doesn't always die, but something happens. And I wake up every morning and the first thing I have to do is call him to make sure everything's okay. I never used to dream like this, and I know it's just stress. But then I have a morning where I wake up convinced he's home, roll over to say Good Morning, and panic when he's not there.
Something needs to change. He needs to be home more. He feels it too. But we don't know how long it will take or when it will be. And the uncertainty is killing me.
And right after I finished writing this post? Guy on the DR show who was an over the road trucker who had just lost his wife of 33 years and was crying on the phone. Not helping...
Happy Valentine's to everyone.
Our Valentine's was actually pretty good this year. It's the first one we've ever actually been able to spend together, rather than celebrating some random weekend. Not that we did anything. DH wasn't able to come home Friday night like usual. He was stuck in a ditch in some middle-of-nowhere driveway where neither a tractor nor another truck could pull him out. And the 24 hour emergency tow truck line? Wasn't answering. Yeah, so much for emergency service. So he ended up getting home at 2 pm the next day.
I was thinking about our relationship the other day. I love my DH and there's no way I would want to be with anyone else. But I was thinking, what if he weren't a truck driver? Wouldn't it be nice to find him a job that allowed him to be home every night? And then I had the thought of, yeah, right, like we could find a job like that. You see, this lifestyle is all we know, other than 3 short months when we first moved to North Dakota when he was indeed home every night, even if he didn't get home until midnight (after I was asleep) and left at 6 (before I was awake). It was still something to feel the bed sink when he crawled in each night, and be able to roll over and sleepily acknowledge his presence.
But that didn't last very long. Now he's gone again. And when I was thinking about this the other day, I was thinking about it as though almost everyone has this kind of relationship. Like it wouldn't be easy to find him a job that would get him home every night. Like in most relationships, one person is gone every night. And then I realized that while I know a high number of women in these relationships, it is NOT typical. The average person probably does have the type of relationship that I dream of.
And that was a depressing thought. Because what if something happened to one of us? We'd be alone never having known what it was like to see your spouse every day. And the worst part? Even knowing all of this and wanting to change it? We still don't know when he'll actually be able to get a local job. We don't know how long he'll be doing this type of schedule.
I keep having dreams, about the closest I ever get to nightmares. And in my dreams, something happens to him. Something prevents him from ever being able to come home again. He doesn't always die, but something happens. And I wake up every morning and the first thing I have to do is call him to make sure everything's okay. I never used to dream like this, and I know it's just stress. But then I have a morning where I wake up convinced he's home, roll over to say Good Morning, and panic when he's not there.
Something needs to change. He needs to be home more. He feels it too. But we don't know how long it will take or when it will be. And the uncertainty is killing me.
And right after I finished writing this post? Guy on the DR show who was an over the road trucker who had just lost his wife of 33 years and was crying on the phone. Not helping...
Friday, February 12, 2010
Pre-midlife crisis
I am having a crisis right now.
I am an avid Dave Ramsey fan. Sure, I think he can be preachy and sure, I only mostly follow his preachings. But the man knows what he's talking about.
But something hits me as I sit here watching episode 10/52 that I have DVR'd right now (amazing how they build up when you go on vacation for a few weeks). It hits me that I have more debt than 99% of the people calling into his show.
True, not a single penny of it is credit card debt. And not a single penny of it is car debt. I drive a piece of crap car and we payed off DH's truck several years ago.
So where is my debt coming from?
Student loans. Lots. And. Lots. Eight years of school. Let's just say when people talk about how much debt the average veterinarian is graduating with today, and how massive that amount is? Well, I have about 1.5 times that amount.
And this is frustrating to me. I wish someone had introduced me to Dave Ramsey before I ever stepped foot into college. Would it have changed what I did? I'm not sure. When I first moved to college, I was doing anything I could to get away from my divorcing parents. So I got out of the state. And really, finances aside, that was one of the best decisions I've ever made in my life. But it accrued some debt. Nothing compared to what I accrued during vet school, however.
So here I sit in a job that I don't even really like, not even sure if I went into the right field (upsetting in and of itself because this is what I've wanted to do since I was 8), and the only way I can get rid of the debt faster would be to die or become permanently disabled. Yeah, not an option.
If someone had introduced me to Dave earlier, I probably would have still become a vet. But maybe I would have delayed it a few years. Maybe I would have gained residency, which would have been very easy to do considering I probably would have qualified at the time of entering vet school anyway. Maybe I would have taken the full-time position at the zoo and saved up some money. Between savings and being a resident, maybe I could have done school without any debt.
Or maybe I would have done the same thing, but I would have been more frugal about spending during school so I wouldn't have had to use my checks each semester to catch me up because I'd spent all the money I was supposed to use for other things.
Now the best thing I can do is try to convince DH that we really need to tighten up our budget. Sure, it won't be fun for 4 years. But I'm only 26, DH is just about to turn 31. So we'll be 30 and 35. Really, not that old. Plenty of time to live still. And our kids won't be anywhere near college, so we'll have plenty of time to save up for that. Retirement will be a little behind but we'll suddenly have all this income to put towards catching up. And then I can decide whether this still really isn't where I want to be, and look into a career change while DH looks into being a SAHD for a few years.
If we can do that, we'll be okay. We'll be great in a few more years. But one thing's for sure: I'm going to make damn sure my kids know how to budget long before they get to college so they won't end up in this same situation. Because feeling overwhelmed by debt? IT SUCKS.
I am an avid Dave Ramsey fan. Sure, I think he can be preachy and sure, I only mostly follow his preachings. But the man knows what he's talking about.
But something hits me as I sit here watching episode 10/52 that I have DVR'd right now (amazing how they build up when you go on vacation for a few weeks). It hits me that I have more debt than 99% of the people calling into his show.
True, not a single penny of it is credit card debt. And not a single penny of it is car debt. I drive a piece of crap car and we payed off DH's truck several years ago.
So where is my debt coming from?
Student loans. Lots. And. Lots. Eight years of school. Let's just say when people talk about how much debt the average veterinarian is graduating with today, and how massive that amount is? Well, I have about 1.5 times that amount.
And this is frustrating to me. I wish someone had introduced me to Dave Ramsey before I ever stepped foot into college. Would it have changed what I did? I'm not sure. When I first moved to college, I was doing anything I could to get away from my divorcing parents. So I got out of the state. And really, finances aside, that was one of the best decisions I've ever made in my life. But it accrued some debt. Nothing compared to what I accrued during vet school, however.
So here I sit in a job that I don't even really like, not even sure if I went into the right field (upsetting in and of itself because this is what I've wanted to do since I was 8), and the only way I can get rid of the debt faster would be to die or become permanently disabled. Yeah, not an option.
If someone had introduced me to Dave earlier, I probably would have still become a vet. But maybe I would have delayed it a few years. Maybe I would have gained residency, which would have been very easy to do considering I probably would have qualified at the time of entering vet school anyway. Maybe I would have taken the full-time position at the zoo and saved up some money. Between savings and being a resident, maybe I could have done school without any debt.
Or maybe I would have done the same thing, but I would have been more frugal about spending during school so I wouldn't have had to use my checks each semester to catch me up because I'd spent all the money I was supposed to use for other things.
Now the best thing I can do is try to convince DH that we really need to tighten up our budget. Sure, it won't be fun for 4 years. But I'm only 26, DH is just about to turn 31. So we'll be 30 and 35. Really, not that old. Plenty of time to live still. And our kids won't be anywhere near college, so we'll have plenty of time to save up for that. Retirement will be a little behind but we'll suddenly have all this income to put towards catching up. And then I can decide whether this still really isn't where I want to be, and look into a career change while DH looks into being a SAHD for a few years.
If we can do that, we'll be okay. We'll be great in a few more years. But one thing's for sure: I'm going to make damn sure my kids know how to budget long before they get to college so they won't end up in this same situation. Because feeling overwhelmed by debt? IT SUCKS.
Monday, February 8, 2010
It's been awhile...
I've been reading through other blogs, and realized... I haven't posted in almost a year. 11 months. So much for my attempts at being a serious blogger.
The reality is that I've been busy, life has been crazy, and I have to think a lot harder to blog than some of you ladies. I mean, sure, I can ramble on with the best of them. But posting something that is actually entertaining and fun to read? I'm more of the "and I woke up and I went to work and I came home and I made dinner" type of blogger. Being creative and witty is a stretch for me.
But we'll try to get it up and going again. And if no one reads? Well, I probably won't even know.
Jenny's blog gave me the idea that I could be posting tales of my everyday encounters with the animal world. Her stories about c-sections and being an OB are hilarious. They actually make me wonder if I went into the right field, although I know this is mostly the unsatisfied disillusioned mind thinking. Hence the other reason I haven't posted forever. My dislike for North Dakota has become extreme and is affecting most of my thoughts and actions.
But that's a whole other subject with which I won't bore all of you kind enough to read along.
We're pretty slow right now. The highlight of my day today was removing a mass off the rear end of a dog. However, this was nowhere near straight-forward. It was a farm call. Well, a house call, if we had such a thing in our computer. I went out on Friday for a routine nail trim and anal sacs, as this is an older gentleman in a wheelchair and a 110 lb obese husky cross. Much easier for me to make the drive than them.
When I first met the pup, she was excited to see me. Tail wagging, sniffing, licking. Then I swear she saw the syringe in my hand. A switch flipped. She became a 110 lb demon ball of fur. It is only by a miracle my hands escaped without harm. And as her owner was in a wheelchair, I was on my own.
Somehow I managed to get her sedated and start working on her. Then I went around the back end and discovered a mass the size of a walnut. Working out of my personal vehicle over 50 miles from the clinic meant I didn't have a single thing to use for a mass removal. So we scheduled to Monday.
Fast forward to today. I took our tech with me to help. We are admitted to the house, and first thing we see is the owner, butt naked except for a shirt that comes nowhere near covering everything. Okay, avert eyes. Then the dog runs out the door. I'm the only one with boots on so I spend the next few minutes trying to herd her back into the house but unable to use my hands as she thinks they look very tasty. Lovely.
Once we get her in and get her sedated, she sprawls as close to the door as she can. She knows where I need to access, and she is not going to let me near that area, even when she's so out of it she can't even stand. I have to drag the rug underneath her to rotate her. She finally goes to sleep. Then we're confronted with another problem. As I've mentioned repeatedly, she weighs 110 pounds, and she stinks. She's not going on the kitchen table, and there's no other raised surface. So I had one option. I plopped down on the floor and proceeded to do surgery while practically upside down in order to see what I was doing.
Not the most convenient method of mass removal.
And as if she hadn't already made it as difficult as possible? For the life of us, neither one of us could find a vein to give her the reversal and wake her up. Between me and our tech, one of us is almost always guaranteed to find a vein. NOT.TODAY.
Luckily, the dog woke up shortly after, is doing fine, and now it's just a matter of finding out what kind of mass I removed.
Even better? The drifts going across the road hadn't grown so much by the time we drove back that we weren't able to get back to the clinic. Now the drift in front of my garage is a different story, but at least I'm already home. :)
The reality is that I've been busy, life has been crazy, and I have to think a lot harder to blog than some of you ladies. I mean, sure, I can ramble on with the best of them. But posting something that is actually entertaining and fun to read? I'm more of the "and I woke up and I went to work and I came home and I made dinner" type of blogger. Being creative and witty is a stretch for me.
But we'll try to get it up and going again. And if no one reads? Well, I probably won't even know.
Jenny's blog gave me the idea that I could be posting tales of my everyday encounters with the animal world. Her stories about c-sections and being an OB are hilarious. They actually make me wonder if I went into the right field, although I know this is mostly the unsatisfied disillusioned mind thinking. Hence the other reason I haven't posted forever. My dislike for North Dakota has become extreme and is affecting most of my thoughts and actions.
But that's a whole other subject with which I won't bore all of you kind enough to read along.
We're pretty slow right now. The highlight of my day today was removing a mass off the rear end of a dog. However, this was nowhere near straight-forward. It was a farm call. Well, a house call, if we had such a thing in our computer. I went out on Friday for a routine nail trim and anal sacs, as this is an older gentleman in a wheelchair and a 110 lb obese husky cross. Much easier for me to make the drive than them.
When I first met the pup, she was excited to see me. Tail wagging, sniffing, licking. Then I swear she saw the syringe in my hand. A switch flipped. She became a 110 lb demon ball of fur. It is only by a miracle my hands escaped without harm. And as her owner was in a wheelchair, I was on my own.
Somehow I managed to get her sedated and start working on her. Then I went around the back end and discovered a mass the size of a walnut. Working out of my personal vehicle over 50 miles from the clinic meant I didn't have a single thing to use for a mass removal. So we scheduled to Monday.
Fast forward to today. I took our tech with me to help. We are admitted to the house, and first thing we see is the owner, butt naked except for a shirt that comes nowhere near covering everything. Okay, avert eyes. Then the dog runs out the door. I'm the only one with boots on so I spend the next few minutes trying to herd her back into the house but unable to use my hands as she thinks they look very tasty. Lovely.
Once we get her in and get her sedated, she sprawls as close to the door as she can. She knows where I need to access, and she is not going to let me near that area, even when she's so out of it she can't even stand. I have to drag the rug underneath her to rotate her. She finally goes to sleep. Then we're confronted with another problem. As I've mentioned repeatedly, she weighs 110 pounds, and she stinks. She's not going on the kitchen table, and there's no other raised surface. So I had one option. I plopped down on the floor and proceeded to do surgery while practically upside down in order to see what I was doing.
Not the most convenient method of mass removal.
And as if she hadn't already made it as difficult as possible? For the life of us, neither one of us could find a vein to give her the reversal and wake her up. Between me and our tech, one of us is almost always guaranteed to find a vein. NOT.TODAY.
Luckily, the dog woke up shortly after, is doing fine, and now it's just a matter of finding out what kind of mass I removed.
Even better? The drifts going across the road hadn't grown so much by the time we drove back that we weren't able to get back to the clinic. Now the drift in front of my garage is a different story, but at least I'm already home. :)
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