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.

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.  :)

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. :)

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!

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.

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.  :)

 

This is me with the first calf I ever pulled, right before I graduated from vet school.  

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.)