Rainy Day, Thoughts on Euthanasia

Worked a morning shift today and was planning on going for a double, but the schedule was pretty dead today, so I left at 2. And by "pretty dead," I mean Dr. Boss Lady had me, the new assistant, the senior assistant, and the receptionist on ladders, on the floor, and crawling around behind furniture looking for things around the hospital to "spruce up."

Later on in the day, the senior assistant got out the Dremel and the stainless steel brush piece so that he could, I wish I could say I was kidding, scour the kickplate of the door to the treatment area in an attempt to remove about three years' worth of congealed floor wax that had been splashed up onto it. It actually worked like a charm, and after a coat of Brass-O you could see your goddamn reflection in that kickplate. So add "door shine restoring" to the list of things that the Almighty Dremel can do.

I also spent about 45 minutes today going through our stock of Frontline and taping two extra doses to the front of each box, stamping the "buy 6 get 2 free" coupons with our Merial number, and carefully folding each one and tucking it between the freebies and the box. It's actually a pretty tidy little package that I make, if I say so myself. If I don't complete this ritual as soon as the new Frontline comes in, no one seems to be able to remember (1) that we have this awesome deal in the first place, which we should really be pushing after the Fleamageddon of Fall 2012, and (2) that we can't get reimbursed for the freebies unless we fill out the forms and mail them back to Merial, and nothing makes Dr. Boss Lady angrier than having to eat costs. I practically had to beg her to even bother with the discount at all, and promised her that I would personally oversee its implementation and even offering to take missed ones out of my own paycheck. (I really, really hate fleas!) It seems like there should be a less time-consuming way to work that whole system, though.

Patient-wise we started the morning off with a walk-in euthanasia. Those types of appointments always have me on edge, because the horror stories happen far too often, it seems. Dr. Boss Lady is particularly fond of telling us about the time that she worked at a large referral and critical care facility, and a lady brought in a completely healthy dog for euthanasia. After some careful questioning, she finally admitted that it was actually her neighbor's dog, whom she had dog-napped in a fit of frustration after it had woken her up in the morning with its incessant barking one time too many. Miraculously she was shamed into returning the dog to his home and fessing up to the neighbors, so the police didn't have to get involved, from what I understand.

One look at the dog that was brought in this morning, an ancient Shepherd mix, and it was apparent that the flea-infested, emaciated, and incontinent creature was more than ready to shuffle off this mortal coil. She was a sweet girl who still had life and intelligence in her big, tired eyes. The owner's story was that this was the last of the dogs that had belonged to her mother, who had passed away from lymphoma recently. The owner herself was not doing well health-wise, and was actually on the verge of being admitted to the hospital for long-term care following the onset of acute renal disease, and she could not take Sad-Eyes with her. I think she knew that Sad-Eyes didn't have long left, anyway. She hadn't been able to stand for the past two weeks.

After we put together an estimate, she admitted she was a few dollars short. Was there any way to bring down the bill? I told her she could always opt to take the dog home and bury her, which would save the cost of the cremation, and she seemed to like that idea. She wanted to bury her under the magnolia trees her mom had liked. I asked her as gently as I could if she had anyone who could come by and help her dig the grave, and her face fell and she admitted that, no, she didn't, and she wasn't well enough to attempt it herself. But she stepped outside and made some phone calls, and when she returned, she opened up her wallet and handed us her last of her cash, enough to cover the cremation. I gave her back her $10 in change, and that was all that she left with.

I held Sad-Eyes' head up as the doctor gave the injections, and I wasn't even bothered by the fleas she shared with me or the smells that came from under the blanket she was wrapped in. I told her she was a good dog and that propofol was really great stuff, she would see, and how nice it would be to rest. The owner and I both cried. When she left, she thanked us all, and we wished her the best with her treatment. I suspect we won't ever see her again, but I'm glad that she was able to come up with the money for the procedure. I hope that she didn't have to dig too deep. Sad-Eyes was a lucky girl.

So that, along with the rain that has been falling steadily for three days now, put a damper on the day that no amount of creative Dremeling could really shake. When the office manager came in at 1:30 and asked if I wanted to take the rest of the day off, I gladly accepted. I came home and hugged my kitty tight before taking a nap, a luxury that I haven't been able to afford in months. (And a rainy nap, too, which are always the best!)


Euthanasias aren't something I had much thought to before I decided on this career path. I've only been working at an animal hospital for five months now, and already I've experienced so much more emotion than I thought I would. I wouldn't really describe myself as a bleeding heart, and to be honest I thought I was going to be much more detached than I've ended up being about the whole thing. I've been present for probably around like 20 procedures, and intimately involved in perhaps a dozen.

One aspect of euthanasias that I had never really grasped when contemplating this career is how vastly different one can feel from another. I can watch a frightened wild rabbit with a broken leg take its last breath less than a half hour after some well-meaning person brings it in to the hospital, and my only thought is whether anyone would play Good Samaritan if they knew ahead of time that a wild animal with a broken anything is nearly always going to have the same outcome, and what that procedure would normally cost if it were someone's beloved pet. (With ill-fated rescued wildlife, our hospital's general procedure is to write up the full invoice for the procedure, show it to the hapless client, and tell them that we won't demand payment, but if they'd like, they can make a donation of $100 to cover our supply costs, or even pay in full in they choose. If they are able, most opt for the donation.) I might even feel a twinge of... not quite disgust, but sort of a mild feeling of distaste for the poor creature in its mindless, unfocused panic. For an animal that has never been exposed to humans for any long period of time, there is none of that (entirely irrational) sense of guilt or betrayal that can pop up when you have to put someone's pet bunny to sleep. Yes, that wild rabbit's last few moments in life were frightening and painful, but such is often the case for them. This time, for this rabbit, it was more drawn out, and involved some trauma, then pain, then brief flashes of human contact, followed by peace. For the next rabbit, it might be a shorter death at the talons of a red-tailed hawk, or an instantaneous one under a car bumper.

But for animals that have come to love people (each in their own way, no matter the species), the emotional burden of having to be the ultimate agent of that creature's demise, though merciful, can sting. Yet, that's really the greatest gift that we can give those animals who bless us with their companionship. We can offer them a detour, if you will, from the cruel ways of the wild. An old family hound facing what would be a painful and arduous battle with cancer can instead be given one final car ride to an end that is free of pain, where he can trust in and be comforted by his master's presence.

I know all of this. Some days it's all I can think about on the car ride home. I go over all the reasons why it's a good thing, because sometimes the grief wins out over reasoning.


I knew before starting this job that once I started seeing clients long-term, watching their animals grow and thrive, overcome setbacks, and ultimately decline, when the time came to end it, I would be pretty emotional. What kind of person wouldn't be? What I absolutely did not expect was the implausible-unless-you've-been-there idea that I could be so distraught over an animal that I had met just a half-hour beforehand. I will say that it does get easier, if only for the simple fact that once you've experienced that kind of situation the first couple of times, you start to learn how to prepare for it so it doesn't sneak up on you. I don't think it will ever be easy though.

Rainy day naps definitely help.