Many, many moons ago (20 years!), when the Earth was still young, I had the opportunity to function as an assistant at a veterinary hospital in Washington state. I’d been hired as a receptionist, but the line became foggier and foggier as months turned into years. Within the first week of being hired, I knew I would have to keep a journal of the absolute madness I had become a part of—so, I did. I would write daily, recording every idiotic decision made by inept owners, every unwisely ingested sock or chocolate bar, every Kamikaze cat, and every curiously amicable turkey vulture (to be fair, there was only one of those).
Some salient information: Firstly, there were three vets, one of whom specialized in birds and exotics. Secondly, I had started there with no experience other than having grown up with too many cats (between 7-13 at any given point, so yes...too many). Probably why I approached these situations with such amazement—I hadn’t become jaded to it all. Lastly, the vet who specialized in birds and exotics did a fair amount of pro-bono wildlife rescue.
Here are some notable entries from said journal, modified only slightly for spelling, grammar, anonymity, etc.
Apr. 25
Today someone injected their cat with topical flea medicine. This spectacularly moronic blunder was made by a lady who had a whole mob of cats and was trying to be frugal by buying large, dog-sized flea medicine (as per ml it’s cheaper this way, apparently), draw it into a syringe, remove the needle, then distribute it amongst her feline pack. Since she had neglected arguably the most important step, when ol’ Socks inevitably objected to cold, wet gunk being put on his neck, he ended up being stabbed with the needle instead. He got a small measure (less than a cc) of the pesticide injected in him thusly but was extremely fortunate in that the only side effect he ended up exhibiting was a nightmarishly grotesque case of excess salivation, and he suffered no long-term ill effect. I thought it was funny to put "rabies" on the kennel cage label, but sadly the doctor disagreed. Narrowly avoided being put on diarrhea duty.
Apr. 27
Today a woman walked into the office with a cardboard box, which she handed to me rather brusquely while offering the following explanation:
"Seagull"
"Excuse me?" I asked, rather gingerly trying to prevent the contents of the box from jolting around so much.
"Seagull," she repeated and left hurriedly.
I was, and remain, nonplussed.
Apr. 30
Things I wish I could respond with #73:
"I don’t want my cat to receive pain medication during his neuter. If I gave birth without any, I don’t see why he needs any."
"Look, lady, just this one conversation with you, and I needed four ibuprofens. If it were up to me, I’d give that cat enough morphine to open a goddamned opium den, just to make up for having to live with someone as horrible as you."
May 1
Our hospital shares its suite with another vet, who specializes in small mammal eye surgery. Today, I met one of their very special clients, an incredibly sweet cat born without eyelids. The doc had created/grafted new ones for him, and he was simply back for a check-up. Though he remains rather funny-looking, he’s in good health. His name, unironically, was Blinky.
May 3
Today one of the vet techs brought in her resident corvid, Frankie the crow. He’d had a brother, Johnny (of course), who’d sadly passed away recently. Frankie had been rather despondent, so A (the tech) opted to just tote him around with her. He has a degenerative muscle disease, a poorly healed broken wing (so he cannot fly), and is missing an eye—but for all that, he’s quite an active chap. His favorite pastime is apparently Tai-Bo, which he mirrors his mistress (or anyone) doing with astonishing accuracy. I got the opportunity to hand feed him, which was both exhilarating and terrifying. That tiny dinosaur looked at me, and I swear if he was big enough, he’d have just eaten me whole, with nary a second thought. Side note: I learned there is a product made specifically to discourage dogs from eating poop. The fact that this is necessary is just... There has never been a day that I have less wanted a pet dog.
May 7
Angus, the morbidly obese dog, was in today to have his massive lipoma (fat tumor) removed. Before its excision, it looked like nothing so much as a massive goiter, so I’m sure it will be a great relief to be rid of. The operating team had left it (the tumor), a 4-lb blob of tissue, sitting out in a large, nondescript, blue plastic bucket. When poor, unsuspecting me walked into the treatment area, I was quite taken aback by the sight. I did notice, though, that there were little quart marks on the side of the bucket, and this tumor in a bucket was almost precisely at "1." I wish I could say I expect never to see such a ghastly thing again, but I know that is the antithesis of truth.
May 8
Fed a barn owl today. It was rather gruesome to watch this elegant, mighty creature hork down roughly dismembered, thawed mouse hunks like some kind of feathery shark, yet somehow it made me feel rather motherly to hold them out to him via tongs. He made this funny clicking noise and turned his head alarmingly when I tried to imitate his sounds. I couldn’t tell if he thought I was annoying or just an idiot.
Also, we are hosting a seagull who’s got the charming habit of bashing his head relentlessly against the walls of his small enclosure—apparently enraged at his inability to fully extend his wings. I told him to cut it out as I passed, but he just screamed and thumped some more.
May 12
Well, this is something new. This afternoon, we had a bald eagle come in. Someone had shot him with a BB gun, and he was covered in blood. He also has a terrible case of mites. I feel like there is some kind of analogy to be made here about the state of our nation, but I’ll leave that for the philosophers.
May 14
There’s a woodpecker periodically thumping on the sides of his wooded (who’s bright idea was that?) cage (thumpathumpathump), a cockatoo who’s picked up an empty water bottle and is repeatedly running it against the bars of his enclosure (thwackalackalacka), a cat named "Buzz" (waking up from having his troublepuffs removed) that’s joined the song (MROWRRRRR), and of course, a whole chorus of dogs from the back room. Everything from the wee ankle-biters (yipyipyip) to the baleful hounds who feel they’ve been abandoned forever (hooooooooooo). It’s like if Stomp was all transformed into pets. Anyway, it’s definitely the perfect time for a staff meeting.
Jun. 14
Angry Moluccan cockatoo—rabid, frenetic monkey
Jun. 15
In my hiatus from writing this last month, I neglected to recount a curious tale, which I will do so now, as it’s so wonderful I don’t want to forget it. Dr. B had randomly happened across three baby Canada geese alone on the road. They appeared lost and distressed, so she merrily piled them into her car and dragged them into the clinic to ensure their well-being.
Dr. B is worth commenting on.
As a woman of extremely slight stature (4’11" on a good day, maybe 95 lbs soaking wet), her diminutive exterior belies an intense and ferocious interior. Full of power and willfulness, spit and vinegar, she can come across as brusque or even rude, though one could never doubt her skill or devotion to her craft. She tends to inspire either enormous respect or seething resentment in people—I find myself (mostly) in the former category, though it will always be tinged with humor after witnessing the events that transpired around these birds.
She’d let the three goslings out to wander independently in the treatment area, as their cage was being cleaned—and I imagine—to give them a bit of exercise.
After their cage had been scrubbed and sterilized, she was trying to lure them back—advertising the amenities of soft towels, a large container of fresh water, and so on. They showed no inclination to return, though, so Dr. B was trying to herd them towards the kennel, suggestively waving a handful of spinach, alluringly wafting it near them to absolutely no avail. I was just leaving the room and heading home for the night, and the last thing I heard before I shut the door behind me was a long string of creative expletives and
"WHO WANTS SOME SPINACH, GODDAMNIT?!"
This will be etched in my mind forever.
This is all I’ve room for this month, but tune in next time for more of my 20-year anniversary celebration of not getting my hand ripped off by an angry Belgian Mastiff.
Esmeralda Rupp-Spangle is an artist, writer, and professional weirdo. She can be reached on Facebook as Esmeralda Marina and Instagram as @EsmeraldaSilentCitadel.
