No Easier for a Professional Vet
I stroke the soft fur behind Saxon’s ear and am rewarded with a soft moan of pleasure rumbling from his chest.
As I lay in front of the fire, my head cushioned by the strong chest of my Doberman, Saxon, my hand gently stroking his smooth fur, I think how special such moments are and how difficult it has been in the past month to find time for such simple pleasures. My veterinary practice has been a flurry of activity, and although Saxon accompanies me to and from work daily, we haven’t had the opportunity to be together until this evening. We’re like an old married couple, I think, rushing from one responsibility to another with no attention on the moment at hand.
But it’s for moments like this that I work so hard, I think. I stroke the soft fur behind Saxon’s ear and am rewarded with a soft moan of pleasure rumbling from his chest. I continue to contemplate the ironic twists that life regularly offers, as my hand wandered down the front of Saxon’s neck, enjoying the silky smoothness and warmth which emanates partly from his body and partly from the glow of the fire.
Suddenly, my hand stops at the juncture where his neck merges into his shoulder. What’s that? The gears of my mind grind as I shift from woolgatherer to professional. Turning my head slightly to see what my wandering fingers have stumbled upon, I feel the area again.
A lump — a large lump; easily the size of a lime. Lymph node — must be the pre-scapular lymph node. From a distant corner of my mind, another voice argues, “Can’t be — much too large.”
Yes, too large. Too large to be a normal node. The sense of dread spreads like a stain of freshly spilled red wine. I twist my body around to get a better look and notice Saxon open a lazy eye, then shut it again as he surrenders to the warm glow of the fire. Slowly, reluctantly, I feel under the angle of his jaw — another node, almost as large as the first. My mind screams, This can’t be. Not Saxon, not my dog. It must be something else. They really aren’t that large — a lot of things can cause swollen lymph nodes…but not nodes this large in a dog who otherwise appears in perfect condition.
The awful thought takes over in spite of all my attempts at denial: CANCER!
The night was in the winter of 1980, over thirty years ago, yet the memory is as vivid as though it were yesterday. A friend and colleague of mine confirmed my suspicion two days later — lymphosarcoma, a deadly cancer of the lymphatic system. Chest x-rays delivered the final crushing blow. The cancer had already spread to the lungs. It was only a matter of time. We instituted chemotherapy immediately in hopes of performing the impossible. Saxon’s condition improved for the next couple of months. A ray of hope. The nodes reduced to almost normal. Hope grew. We continued the treatment but slowly the cancer gained the upper hand. We adjusted dosages, called the veterinary school for expert advice. They told us that everything we were doing was in line with the latest research.
Then one morning I awoke to the deep raspy sound of labored breathing. Saxon lay at the foot of my bed fighting for every breath. The end was near. I climbed out of bed and sat with him for almost an hour then made the most difficult call of my life to my friend.
“It’s time,” I said simply. “Will you take care of him? I can’t.”
It was all I said. It was all I needed to say. My friend understood. As I hung up the phone, I broke into sobs. My eight years with Saxon flashed through my mind. The trips back and forth to the clinic. Our romps through the country fields. The camping trip to Canada where I picked up the occasional hitchhiker for company, reassured that with Saxon in the back seat, I was safe from danger.
All the pleasant moments stored neatly in my memory like a family album tucked away in the bottom of a chest in the attic. Yet, the strongest memory of all is of that wintery evening in front of the fire. Remembered as one of the most special and most dreadful. Remembered as though it were yesterday.
Not Any Easier with Patients
In over fifteen years of private practice as a small animal vet, losing a patient never became easy. If anything, it became more difficult. This was especially true when I opened my own practice. These pets were my patients. I followed many of their lives from their first puppy visit at 8 weeks of age until they came in for the final visit, their owners walking out of the clinic, sobbing as I had done that morning many years ago.
One such pet comes most vividly to mind — Smokey Kapp, a black Lab. Smokey and I met on the morning when his owner, Marty Kapp, brought her new family member into the clinic for his first visit. I had no way of knowing at the time the long tortuous path Smokey, Marty and I were stepping onto. I often speak about the lover’s triangle that exists with the owner, pet and vet. I was privileged to be a side of that triangle with Marty and Smokey for almost ten years, and what years they were.
Unfortunately, Smokey wasn’t a healthy dog. In fact, through the years the phrase in the wedding vows, “in sickness and in health,” seemed appropriate for the Kapps. Never once did Marty consider anything but what was best for Smokey. That included the time when Smokey was four-months-old and came in with severe vomiting. I had to operate on him for an obstruction of the small intestines. It also included dozens of visits for his flea bite allergy. Smokey had one of the worst allergies I ever treated. Or the time, in the later years of Smokey’s life, when he developed seizures. We eventually sent him to the veterinary college for a full neurological workup complete with a cat scan back before such diagnostics were common. Through it all, Smokey was a trooper and a favorite of my entire staff. Sometimes it seemed as though he spent as much time at my clinic as he did at home.
Despite Herculean efforts on everyone’s part, the cause of the seizures was never determined and although they were lessened with medication they never completely disappeared. Finally, they became more severe and frequent. Marty, always looking out for Smokey’s best interest, realized there was only one final choice to make. She brought him in for a final visit.
Smokey, nearly ten years old looked even older with his white muzzle and wasted condition. I knew in my heart that Marty’s decision was the right one. It didn’t make my final act as Smokey’s vet any easier. As I slipped the needle into his vein, I paused for just a second, suddenly remembering a similar moment with Saxon when I stood in Marty’s shoes. I pressed the plunger of the syringe sending the pink euthanasia solution jetting through his vein. I removed the syringe and gently stroked his head barely able to see him through my tears.
“Good bye old friend,” I whispered to him as his head settled on his paws for the final time. I realized as I sat there with him for several minutes, I was saying farewell to not one but two close friends. In that moment, I was finally at peace with Saxon’s death as well. After years of hidden guilt, I forgave myself for not being able to save him, realizing that despite my years of training and experience, I was still a human being and no match for death. And it was okay. In both cases, I had done my best which is all any of us can do.
Years Later
It’s been over two decades since I sold my veterinary practice to pursue a second career as a writer, coach, and public speaker. My love for animals is as strong as ever. On my office wall is a pastel portrait I did of Saxon a year or two before his death. He is always with me in that special place we keep such memories, as is Smokey and the hundreds of other special animals that have touched my life.
Included in those memories is Koala, an Australian Shepherd who, as a puppy, often herded Saxon by nipping at his heal in one of their favorite games of chase. They were the best of buddies. Since the days of Saxon and Koala, I’ve married and have become a father. Pets have continued to be an integral part of our family. My wife and I have had to say goodbye to three other dogs: Maggie, Lucky, and Lady. Today we share our home and lives with Lil Bit and Hiccup along with three cats and a tank of tropical fish. It’s never easy saying goodbye to our loved one, and the truth be told, I don’t want it to be easy. The contrast helps me appreciate the joy of living with animals.
