Priorities

This is an installment in the ongoing Vet Tech Tales series. These Tales are usually Friday features -- except when I forget to actually schedule one to appear on Friday. Oops.

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It takes a special kind of person to work with animals. Having an affinity with them and loving them are prerequisites for a career with them, of course, but it doesn’t end there. My first paid day on the job had underscored the basic things that would be required of me if I were truly serious about continuing to be an animal care worker.

Only as the days turned into weeks and then into months did I fully come to understand that working with animals meant working for them too. Veterinary medicine at its core is a service industry, and one in which the balance between doing what’s best for an animal must always be weighed against what the owner wants, what they can afford and what they perceive to be the relationship between their family and their pet.

After just a few days on the job I considered myself an expert on pet owners. Clearly there were only three types: those who loved their pets and treated them like household members, those who neglected the animals in their care and those who outright abused them. At 17 – having grown up in a nice, middle-class neighborhood in the folds of a nice, middle-class family – it was easy to define neglect rather loosely. Any animal that wasn’t pampered and indulged was obviously being neglected. Why the majority of owners were even allowed to keep a pet was beyond my rose-colored judgment. At 17 and brimming with idealism, distinguishing levels of gray was a skill I’d yet to fully develop.

So when Ms. Crane walked in with carrier in hand and a hint of panic in her eyes, I knew only neglect could turn the once-pristine face of her tiny Persian kitten into the hairless, scabby-looking mess it was now. I prepared myself to be outraged, as indignation rather than empathy seemed the easier emotion to conjure.

On closer inspection, once I’d pulled the purring ball of fluff out of the carrier, I saw it wasn’t so much the entire face affected but maybe just the muzzle. And maybe only around the top of the kitten’s nose and across her upper lips.

The ginger-colored kitten purred in my hands while Dr. Norris eyed the lesions. “How long has she been losing hair?” he asked.

Ms. Crane hesitated. When she did answer, she wouldn’t meet the vet’s eyes. “Maybe a week?”

Aha! Guilt and hedging. My suspicions were confirmed.

Dr. Norris flipped off the exam room lights and shined an ultraviolet Wood’s lamp onto the kitten’s face. A few of the hairs surrounding the lesions fluoresced with a tell-tale green glow. “Yep, what I suspected. Ringworm. I’d like to do a culture to be sure, though.”

Ms. Crane shook her head. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

I shuddered. Not only had Ms. Crane waited a week – a week! – to bring her kitten in, she wasn’t going to let Norris confirm the diagnosis.

Gripping the kitten under her forelegs, I swung her out at arms’ length as Norris flipped the lights back on. The kitten’s back feet dangled in mid-air as its purr-motor throttled into high gear. To its delight, I jounced it a bit, and even Ms. Crane cracked a smile as the kitten danced in the air above the exam table.

Such a sweet and funny kitten deserved far better than the life of neglect it seemed destined for.

“Do you have children or other pets at home?” Norris asked. “You probably know ringworm is transmissible to humans and other animals.”

Ms. Crane nodded. “I have a 6-year-old daughter. She and Bonnie are inseparable.”

“Well, they’re going to need to be separated for a while.”

“A little late for that.” Ms. Crane’s voice sounded tired and flat. “I told her not to handle Bonnie so much. It’s my fault really; she’s too young to know any better.”

“Just because she’s been exposed doesn’t mean your daughter will get ringworm,” Dr. Norris pointed out. “But you’ll want to consult with your pediatrician to be sure.”

“That’s just it.” Ms. Crane’s expression twisted to match her rueful sigh. “There was an outbreak of it at my daughter’s school. I’m pretty sure she’s the one who gave it to the kitten. I wanted to bring Bonnie in earlier, but my mother-in-law broke her ankle last week and we’ve been helping out at her house, and I knew the ringworm wasn’t life-threatening, and we’ve all been exposed already anyway, and, well, poor Bonnie just got pushed down the list.” She threw the still air-dancing kitten another half-smile.

I lowered Bonnie to the exam table and she immediately pounced on a stray pen cap that spun out of her claws and across the cold laminate. Grudgingly I had to concede the kitten didn’t appear to be overly suffering as I flicked the pen cap back toward her and she batted it back to me. Bonnie was a happy, well-adjusted kitten with a little girl at home who apparently adored her. The only thing standing between Bonnie and her visit to the vet was a list of other priorities.

Sometimes kittens come third.

And sometimes, as in Bonnie’s case, it’s okay for kittens to come third. Just as it’s sometimes okay for children to come third. Or for the rest of the family to come third. When life is full of priorities, dispassionate triage is often necessary. Hard decisions and delays aren’t the hallmarks of neglect. Prolonged indifference is.   

It wasn’t long after Bonnie that I saw my first case of true neglect. That’s when the ground beneath my 17-year-old idealism shifted, creating new continental formations that readjusted my thinking forever.

~~~

Next Tale: "Collared" -- why there really are some people who should never be allowed to have animals.

A Tail of Two Kitties

Today's guest post is by Jo-Ann.

IJK

Em and me found them in the spare room.

We usually never noticed the spare room. It was just a door we bolted past on our way to the kitchen. Except one day, there was a note taped to the door saying to be careful if we went in. What else would we do? I was expecting a stack of boxes to tumble down when we pulled the door open. But it was just the normal mess.

“Look!” Em squeaked.

Two tiny faces with huge eyes stared at us over the side of a box, before ducking away.

“Kittens?”

We rushed to them, and took one each. They looked like twins with tabby stripes and white socks. One could fit on my palm. It seemed to be made of air and fur. Its heart tap-tap-tapped under toothpick ribs.

“Awww, little babies!” gushed Em. It looked terrified when she brought her face close to it, and struggled to get out of her hands. She put it on the floor, and it ran for cover. Under her skirt.

“I don’t think they’ve had much to do with people before,” she said, laughing. “This one doesn’t get that my head and legs belong to the same person.”

I reckon we must have looked like giants crossed with skyscrapers to them.

By the time Dad came home we’d tried to feed them milk, but they’d stuck their faces right in the bowl and snorted and spluttered. Em reckoned they were too young to drink proper. “Might drown,” she’d said, and went to look for an eye dropper.

Except when she found one, she changed her mind. Could have been used for medicine, and that might poison them – even if we washed it. By that time I’d got a better idea. I dipped my finger in the milk and let the rough tongue do its job. Talk about keen! Once my fingertip was shiny, it nipped my finger with its tiny teeth, looking for more. The other started to get annoyed – it could probably smell the milk – so I juggled one kitten per hand. Which was fine when they were drinking, but as soon as I took my fingers away to get more milk, they got a wild look, like they was scared the food had vanished.

Dad came home and we rushed to tell him how great it was he’d got us kittens, but he shook his head. He’d found ‘em, abandoned, and dropped them off home first ‘coz he had to rush to his next job. He was gonna take ‘em to a shelter. Sorry, but we weren’t going to keep them.

Em and me agreed on one thing - no way were they going to the shelter. We’d seen stuff on the news, about how most strays got put down because nobody wanted them. That was never gonna happen!

After a few days of solid whining, Dad forgot about the shelter, and after a few more days he forgot about them sleeping in the laundry. Me and Em had one cat each, purring us to sleep.

Once they’d figured out that our heads and legs belonged to the one person each, they climbed up our jeans to let us know they wanted something. One kitten per leg. You’d pick one lot of claws out of your jeans and gently put it down, and the other would be halfway up your other leg.

Em named them Artemis and Apollo. Stupid names, but it seemed to fit the stories of a wild sister and brother who were gods or something. I wanted Itchy and Scratchy, but she won the toss. In the end I called them Artie and Pol.

Every time my friends dropped by, they sounded like those aunties who go on about how much you've grown. Except those kittens really had grown. Heaps. They stopped fitting in your palm. They hurt when they climbed our legs, and they only stopped doing it after we howled and jumped.

Me and my friends liked to play a game with a small mirror. We’d make the reflection jump up and down, all over the wall, and Pol went nuts trying to catch it. He could jump like there were trampolines over the floor. He’d reach half way up the wall before landing back down without catching nothing. His face looked confused, frustrated, wondering why he could never get his paws on that shiny thing. He never got sick of hunting it, and my friends never got sick of watching him.

Pol was bigger than his sister and liked telling her who’s boss. Anything Artie had was his. We had to feed them separately.

“Can’t believe he’s so nice to everybody and so mean to his sister!” I said once, and Em smirked and asked me if that reminded me of anybody. Had no idea who she was talking about.

I wish I had a photo of the times Pol and Artie were sitting together on the window sill, looking outside, and he’d put his paw around her shoulder. It looked real lovey-dovey, but I knew the truth. He wanted her sunny place all to himself, and knew he’d be in troub if he started a fight. So instead, he’d start by sitting real close to her. I could see Artie getting annoyed, by the way her tail flicked. But she put up with it. He’d ramp up the annoyance by putting his paw around her shoulders and start to lick her face. And when I say lick, I mean scrub, real rough. Scrub, scrub, scrub until Artie’d had enough and swiped him. But ‘coz of his paw being where it was, he had the advantage, and the fight was over before it begun. A few r’orws later, and Artie’d stalk off, looking disgusted.

Yeah, Pol  was mean, and I’d tell him off, but I knew he didn’t believe me. Coz I was thinking how clever it was for him to come up with such a sneaky plan. He was smart and cute and he knew it. Smartest cat ever.

Pol was a year old when I came home to find him lying in the gutter, looking as though he was asleep. At first, I couldn’t tell which cat it was, but when I came close, I could tell it was him. I couldn’t bring myself to touch him. The guy down the road saw, came over and checked him. “Sorry, kid,” he said.

He offered to take him away, but I couldn’t let him. Instead, he brought a towel and we wrapped him and I took him to the backyard. I dug and dug and dug. It felt good. It was something I could do for him. The last thing I’d ever do for my cat.

Artie came and sniffed the bundle in the towel. I wished it was her instead, but then I felt sorry, coz it was her brother too, and hugged her. Even though he was mean to her, they still curled up together when it got cold and cleaned each other in a nice way.

By the time Em and Dad come home, I’d got the hole deep. We all cried and told each other silly stories about him. Then we put him in and covered him with dirt and that was that.

After a few months, Artie’s personality changed. She became more like him, confident like. She’d talk and play more, like she hadn’t been allowed to when Pol was around. She even figured out how to open doors (I’m sure Pol would’ve too, if he’d been around long enough). I still missed Pol, but got to know Artie better. Artie would always be Em’s cat, but I sometimes gave her a reflection to chase up the wall. She never jumped as high as Pol did, but I’d still have a laugh. Even though it hurt and always would.

NPQ

(Jo-Ann doesn't have photos of Pol or Artie. The accompanying pics are of Eowyn and Galadriel, Phoenix's dear friends who've long since passed over the Rainbow Bridge)

If you'd like to tell your animal-related story, send it to phoenixsullivan @ yahoo.com.