I Never Went to Work
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About this ebook
about life as a small animal veterinarian in the heart
of the Midwest. Through this lens, Dr. John A.
Blair shares his passion for animals and their human
counterparts, his love of medicine and surgical
technique, along with his desire to teach us about
caring for these creatures that so greatly enrich our
lives. These stories represent the human-animal
companionship bond to its fullest. We should all be
so lucky to never go to work.
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I Never Went to Work - John A. Blair
CONTENTS
Acknowledgement
The Art Of Practice
Excused Absence
So, Dog Parts*
Some Bum Thumb & My Right Hand Man
A Good Death
Sally
Sally Forth
Fluffy—A Story About A Boy And A Dog
Virgil
Spring
K-2
Flood
Hubcaps
Too Full, Too Deep
Li’l White Truck
Sword Horse
Milk Fever
Calf’s In The Cab
The Chicken Project
Indy
Barn Wall Stories
My Dog Has Something In His Eye
The Rose Tattoo
The Trouble With Bones
Expect The Unexpected
My Last Solo
Furry Fury
Mother Nature
Wabbits
Stormy Weather
Fascination With Urination
Myiasis
Hot Dog
Variations On The Cinderella Theme
Snips And Snails And Puppy Dog Tails
Hooves, Horns And Nails—Don’t Forget Scutes & Scales
Cauliflower Ear—And Grandma’s Buttons
Foreign Bodies
Neutering
Stuck Stick
Obsessing With Abscesses
Wildlife
For The Birds
Hug
One Can Only Imagine
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
Iwould like to thank my editor, Joseph Bennett for his encouragement and continued support throughout the book writing process. I also want to thank my many friends who read my initial stories and my three girls for their combined efforts in typing, proofing and finalizing this book. Finally, I want to thank my wife, Shirley, who nudged me endlessly to get writing.
—John
To my clients:
Thank you for sharing with me the joy of having an animal.
Doc
THE ART OF PRACTICE
After receiving my degree in veterinary medicine from Michigan State University, I started to work in midsummer of 1962, returning full-time to the Kokomo, Indiana practice where I had done my summer internship. The two veterinarians, Paul and Carl, had bought out the practice owned by Paul’s father several years earlier. Both men were hard workers, efficient and well liked, and they were kind to me. They guided me into the art of practice with great wisdom.
Carl and Paul’s communication skills with clients were contagious; their object lessons were handled with kid gloves. I especially admired their diplomacy when dealing with pet owners. Watching them work, I began to love practice—the challenges and the rewards.
One day an elderly gentleman presented me with Pepper, a sweet-natured white toy poodle. Pepper had developed seeping, infected sores on his body. An exam revealed no evidence of fleas, and the man assured me there had been no change in diet or environment. I suspected an allergy and recommended an oral cortisone medication. I told the man to give Pepper one teaspoonful, twice a day with food.
A week later, Pepper and his owner were back. The man was very unhappy because he had very carefully applied the medicine twice a day with a teaspoon to all the sores while Pepper ate breakfast and dinner. It was difficult, messy and it didn’t work, he announced. The whole bottle was gone and the sores were no better!
How, I asked myself, would Carl and Paul handle this situation? I was sure they would have a way of getting the medicine into Pepper without embarrassing the man. I assured him that the failure was my fault.
The treatment I gave you isn’t working, Sir. We have a new medicine that has just arrived and I’d like you to try it. Instead of putting it on his skin, we’re going to give this one by mouth! I don’t think you’ll have a problem because dogs like the taste. I think he’ll lick it right down. And, tell you what, there’ll be no charge this time.
(The old-timer really liked that deal!)
I substituted another cortisone product for that first one—I even poured out a dose for Pepper, who lapped it up eagerly. So ended the story with three results:
A. Owner observed the dosing technique and the dog’s easy acceptance;
B. I learned to explain things more clearly, give a demonstration when possible; and
C. My bosses saw me sidestep a problem and satisfy a potentially unhappy client.
And—not to forget the main objective—Pepper was on the way to recovery within a few days.
EXCUSED ABSENCE
Kyle and Squeaky are special to me. They became my very first regular clients. My first job as a veterinarian was with the Kokomo Animal Hospital where I was the assistant for two established vets in a general practice.
General practice means dogs, cats, horses, cows, pigs and everything else—even monkeys. My employers, Paul and Carl, assigned me to Squeaky because, as they explained to Kyle, This young doctor is up on all of Squeaky’s problems. Graduated first in his class. He’ll be able to help you right away.
Real reason: Paul and Carl were tired of Kyle’s constant complaining about Squeaky’s endless litany of symptoms. But, I didn’t care; I was proud to have a client of my own!
I saw Squeaky, a perky, young Chihuahua Toy Terrier mix, and Kyle, a middle-aged, overweight, balding bachelor, every Friday afternoon. One week it was allergies. Pollens, dust, grasses, trees, fleas—the suspect list went on and on, but fleas were most commonly suspected. Flea control methods in the 1960s were not very effective, and often caused problems worse than the fleas themselves. Wait for a good frost
was usually the best advice.
But the next visit, Squeaky had a new problem. He wasn’t eating well; Didn’t touch his sausage snacks all this last week.
The next week, poor Squeaky seemed to have a limp. I can’t tell if it’s the front left or the front right. Won’t you check him, Doc?
Kyle said hopefully.
A week later, the limp was gone, but his eyes were red, And he rubs them with his front paws. He wouldn’t have something in there, would he?
Hold on Kyle, I’ll get the ophthalmoscope.
A thorough exam showed only slight increase in redness. Probably another allergy, Kyle.
Each Friday the treatment offered for the previous week’s ailment always seemed to have worked well. Kyle was pleased, always. I seemed to be gaining a little insight—the doctor must treat the owner too.
Now, though, Squeaky seemed to be gaining weight—his sweater fit more tightly. Squeaky continued to thrive. I’ll be sure to record his weight and we’ll check next time,
I said as they left the exam room.
The middle of the next week Kyle called to cancel that Friday afternoon’s appointment—Squeaky seemed to be okay!
With three doctors the hospital was not as frantic as in earlier summers. Carl and Paul had been able to take a day off here and there. The new guy was busy all the time, and loved it. It was well into October when I realized Kyle and Squeaky had been absent for several Fridays. Suddenly I missed them and their weekly problems. My first clients—had I alienated them?
Between patients, I worried from time to time why my first and most regular clients had stopped needing me. It all became clear one Sunday morning with an announcement in the Kokomo Tribune. Kyle smiled out from a photo of him and his new bride, a lovely lady named Helen. Between the happy couple was Squeaky.
SO, DOG PARTS*
* The story’s title is an anagram of the official title. A clue will be found in the story’s last paragraph.
Mrs. Starr was very proud of her new Dalmatian puppy, Lucy. She had gone six months without a pet. Everything was going to be perfect this time. Ever since her visit to me two months ago, Lucy’s life had been strictly programmed. Three-way vaccine every two weeks for three doses and a dose of broad-spectrum worm medicine every two weeks—no slip-up this time. A previous puppy had developed distemper, a common virulent, viral infection in dogs. Two scheduled doses had, unfortunately, been postponed due to a minor family problem. The make-up vaccine came too late; the virus attacked quickly and that puppy died within a few days.
The previous pup had been carefully selected many months earlier from a highly respected kennel in the East. That pup was to have replaced the Starr’s second Dalmatian from that breeder. Both predecessors had been such wonderful pets nothing would do but to replace them from the same lineage. The kennel people had taken the normal precautions to protect that earlier air-freighted pup on the way from upstate New York to Indiana. They air-shipped pups often, but a temporary
vaccine had failed. They felt so badly that Lucy was a free replacement.
There would be no mistakes this time. All vaccines were given on time; wormings done by the doctor. No doses missed. Regular fecal re-checks were negative. This cute puppy was going to live a long, happy life! Spay surgery had already been scheduled; obedience training had been started. Everything was under control.
Now this! These things! These worms! All over Lucy’s fresh stool! Doctor, Lucy has worms! I saw them, alive, moving, all over!
First thing every morning Lucy goes out the back door and down the flagstone walk to my flower garden and does the ‘necessary.’ Then she checks the back gate and comes in to eat. Well, then I go out to clean up the mess. Today when I went out, THERE THEY WERE. Big, fat worms crawling all over it! EEEEEW! I just couldn’t get a very good look at them. Smelled yucky! It looked like they even had horns!
Mrs. Starr, I don’t understand even the possibility of these being worms. And besides, what you’re describing to me doesn’t sound like any possible canine parasite. I think there is another answer to this. Could you capture two or three of these ‘things’ and bring them to me as soon as possible. I’ll call you as soon as I get them identified.
Mrs. Starr seemed satisfied that I would find the answer. Horns,
I said to myself, Horns. She must pour too much bourbon in her morning coffee!
The next morning Mrs. Starr appeared at 8 o’clock with a wax paper covered cup in hand. They’re in here, Doctor!
Follow me to the lab,
I said.
Wax paper off; there they were—a cup full of SLUGS attracted to the dog’s warm, moist stool on a cool spring morning. Lucy is just fine, Mrs. Starr,
I said. Better stop by the garden shop on your way home. They’ll have some chemicals to take care of those ugly slugs. We science guys call them, GASTROPODS.
SOME BUM THUMB & MY RIGHT HAND MAN
In the spring of 1963, I was finishing my year of externship
in Kokomo when my right thumb began to hurt for no apparent reason. Not a dog bite, just an all-over minor pain. After a week, it felt no better and was a little red and swollen. Soon there was a faint reddish streak up my right forearm. Then my thumb appeared to be swollen and was definitely more painful.
My bosses, Paul and Carl, began to worry. They sent me out one morning to see a physician friend of theirs. He sent me back with a supply of a new antibiotic. A week later, the thumb was really angry looking—I was using