So the clinic is back to humming with the sound of wagging tails and purring cats.  Never a dull moment here.  Today, Crash, a young boy Visla came in for his first procedure.  He didn't seem very smart.  He drooled a lot, and stepped on everyone's paws including his own.  But he must have had some kind of sense that he was at the clinic for a reason, because he was not going to go quietly.  He had a rope for leading people around his neck, but instead of his doing the leading he planted his feet and tried to drag the humans backward.  When Vonnie crouched down to hold his head up, he would roll over.  When they tried to keep him on his side, he would stand up!  Everyone thought that he was just being difficult, bulldog-headed as some might say.  Sweet Sally just figured that Crash was smart enough to have figured out that he was set to get some pinch medicine, and was fighting to get out of it.  I, on the other paw, have unique insight into the communications styles of the dog, and I speak canine body language better than anyone.  Crash was having fun. 
Some dogs grow up always rough playing with their brothers and sisters.  Bea yells at me at least once a day when I bite her too hard.  It's just fun to get a rise out of her!  I never really get to play with the people like that though.  Sometimes my dad holds me down when I nibble too hard in the mornings, but I don't ever get to fight back.  Dad's just too strong.  Today I saw what real strength was;  Crash was being held on the front by mother, on the back by Sweet Sally, Vonnie was working to cover his mouth with a blue mouth-closer and Dad was figuring out how to get in on it too.  That boy jumped, played, twisted and turned.  Finally, Dad gave him one big pinch in the back end and it was game over.  Crash slept so quietly after that too, long after his procedure was over.  I took a long nap myself after all the excitement.  Tonight, I think I'll pretend to be a Visla when Bea comes around the corner.....

A Beau for Bea

There was only one visitor staying at my clinic this morning. His name was Thor. I'm not really sure what kind of dog he was but he seemed long and pointy in every direction. He was already at the clinic when Bea and I made our morning entrance. I think my whole body was the same size as his head. He brought that big pointy nose right down to us in greeting too; not in an angry way, but in that gangly curious way that some of the young people have. I am very forgiving of these kind of introductions and usually just raise a paw and give a cautious tail wag so no one gets offended. Bea, on the other paw, is not always so forgiving, but today was a different day. She did not snap, or crouch away. She just took two curious sniffs and proceeded on to our villa with a notable shimmy to her gait. Later Bea told me that the large dog was a boy dog, and he had boy parts that reminded her of her days at her first home. She said that there was a time when a boy like that would have got her really excited, but for some reason she just never feels like that anymore. I, of course, had no idea of what she was talking about.

Thor was at the clinic today for a procedure. He took his pinch like a real dog though; never so much as a whimper. He must have had a lot to fix too because he went from the no-non-sleepy-dogs allowed room to the water table with all of this tubes and wires. Mother worked on his belly parts and his teeth parts. He woke up like a champ too; none of that whiny “I want my mommy” stuff that so many dogs go on about. Thor was regal, and tough. I was just starting to think that Bea must have some good taste if she fancied a dog like that. It wasn't until he stumbled by later, hopping a little as he walked because of the sore spot between his legs that Bea noticed something was missing. “His boy parts, he's missing his boy parts!”, she panted. And that was it, as quickly as the acceptance had come, it left. Bea was no longer smitten. Just as well I thought, only room for one dog with my Bea.... and that's me!

It's not as easy as it looks

This blog is the first sad story I've had to tell. You see, despite my happy-go-lucky life here at the veterinary clinic with my mom and dad, not everything that happens here is fun. Today was a perfect example of one of those days.
The morning started out as any other with dog and cat visits; lots of wagging tails and barking banter. Thankfully, we had completed our lunch trot around the building, making sure all the the right spots were appropriately scented, when the sick cat came in.
I know it was sick because he wasn't moving, or breathing, like any cat I had ever seen before. Instead of a normal cat voice, he had a low gurgle that seemed to bubble as he breathed. My mother and her team quickly surrounded him and soon, out came all the tubes and wires. The look on my mother's face was enough to tell me everything I needed to know. She was worried. What exactly what she was worried about I wasn't sure, but it's not often that I see her worried, so I knew it wasn't good.
Once all the machines were set up, the cats' breathing seemed to calm down, but then so did all the other parts of him. With each breath he seemed to be saying, "Rest, just rest". I don't think mother speaks cat any better than me because she did everything but rest. She kept looking first at the sick cat, then at some books, then at the machines and then back to the cat. Soon another cat arrived and red syrup was being taken out of one and then given to the other.
"Rest, just rest... just rest" was all that cat would say with each labored breath. Before long, that's just what he did. I heard his heart stop before mother did, and still the worried expression never left her face. I thought that she would have been happy that the cat got what he wanted. As she talked into the black button machine on the wall, I could see her sharing the story all over again.
It's weird that the cat was the sick one, but everyone else seemed to be feeling the pain.
That night at home the water came from mother's eyes, and I did my job and cleaned her face and let her hug me. Although I wish I could have done more to help her today, I know that my very presence that night was enough. After all, this is me we're talking about.