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&mash;so, I did. What follows are some notable entries from said journal, modified only slightly for spelling, grammar, and anonymity.
Yes, dear reader, it’s time for the second installment of my tenure in the care and wrangling of pets. Buckle up!
Jun. 24
Your choice for the most aggressively stupid call this week:
"My dog just got hit by a car. He’s bleeding, and his leg is at a weird angle, but he seems ok. I don’t need to bring him in, do I?
"My bird is laying down on the bottom of the cage and not moving. Do you have medicine for that?"
"Snarfles just had a hairball, and I’m really worried about him. Can I make an emergency appointment?"
"My dog just ate a huge slug. We’ve been fishing slime and goop out of his mouth for the last hour. Do you think he’ll be ok?"
Jun. 29
An extremely ungraceful avian&mash;a cockatiel belonging to that a thoroughly flummoxed customer brought us this morning, seems to have knocked its own beak off. I was utterly unaware that this was even possible, and though the doctor is valiantly trying to reattach it, the surly little creature keeps prying it off. It’s got to be one of the oddest-looking things I’ve ever seen. Like when your dad shaves his beard, and you barely recognize him, only far, far more unsettling.
Jul. 2
Today I had the pleasure of meeting Lars, the mastiff. He’s approximately 180 lbs of slobber, farts, and love. His human is wheelchair-bound, and I was delighted that when they left, Lars indeed pulled his human along like a horse-drawn carriage.
Aug. 9
A runaway goose we have taken to calling Martha is about to finally be retrieved by her human keepers. She just sort of...showed up one day at the doorstep of an unsuspecting family. They brought her to us because she was wreaking havoc with their yard (all geese are agents of chaos, after all), and they didn’t know what else to do. One of my co-workers, M, decided to foster her for a while but brought her along to work some days (because M had come home to "her fat ass stomping all my succulents"). We’ve all grown fond of her, and she seems to really enjoy being carried around and snuggled by the staff. At last, though, her actual owners have been found, and they’ll be taking her back today. They claim she has a habit of running off and finding new people off whom she can mooch, so they were unsurprised by her walkabout. They even said we could keep her if we wanted because she’s such a pain in the butt. M considered it but apparently, had received complaints about "incessant quacking" from her neighbors.
Oct. 11
When I was certain it couldn’t get any more bizarre, I was once again proven wrong. Today our clinic was paid a visit by a hermaphroditic cocker spaniel, who was here to be spayed/neutered/whatever (expansive shrug here). Apparently, this is a fairly common occurrence in the breed, like cancer in golden retrievers, hip dysplasia in labs, or eye troubles in pugs&mash;the major difference being, this is so much stranger.
Nov. 4
"Shakespeare" the barred owl, was just released to the raptor rehabilitation folks. He’d come to us initially after an injury to his wing and ended up charming the entire staff with his suave personality. Unlike most wild birds, Shakespeare seemed to truly enjoy the company of humans. Every time the doctor would hang a towel over his cage (placed to prevent him from becoming too acclimated to humans and demanding beer and pizza or something), he’d pull it down with his beak to observe the comings goings of the staff. I also had the opportunity to feed him thawed-up mouse hunks, which he would devour with grisly relish, and I even got to pet him&mash;there’s a lot of fluff-to-actual-owl ratio there. I found that if you scritch behind where his earholes are, his eyes flutter half closed, and he makes this clicking noise&mash;maybe something akin to a purr?
Jan. 20
It’s been some time since I last recorded all the inadvisable things dogs have eaten or what have you, but this event was so notable that I would be truly remiss if I didn’t recount it.
"My dog’s not feelin’ good; he just ain’t right."
"What seems to be the problem? Is he not eating or pooping? Has he been singing show tunes?"
"I dunno, but he ain’t right." Very good then. So, the doctor pokes around, and it seems like his stomach is really, really full. We do an X-ray, and it just shows this...mass taking up every millimeter of space. Surgery is prepped, and later, as I walk past the suite, I see diminutive Dr. B pulling out from the unconscious canine’s guts what appears to be a huge piece of plastic or fabric. Like a clown with the never-ending scarves, it just goes on and on. After full extraction, it becomes clear that this dog ate an entire picnic tablecloth in one piece. Sure, it had holes in it here and there, but it was largely intact. I just can’t. Someone must have spilled something on it&mash;dog goes in and just starts chowing down, realizing surely, at some point, they’ve gone too far to turn back&mash;and boom. How dogs have not extincted themselves is truly amazing sometimes.
Mar. 7
Sammie, a cat with no eyeballs, paid us a visit today. There was nothing really wrong with him, just his exam and vaccines. His person was delighted to share the news that somehow, he’d caught a mouse that morning, tossed it once, passionately into the air before it skittered off to tell its mouse family the most humiliating "how I almost died" story ever.
Apr. 3
Once a year, every year, for the duration of his life thus far, we are paid a visit by a black and white shepherd, who seems to think this year will be different. This is the year a porcupine will want to be friends. His boundless optimism costs his human a pretty penny, but he will never, ever give up. After removing them, I made the quills into a necklace and sent it to my mother.
There it is, folks, the second installment of my strange tales of pet preservation. There is but one more after this un, so I thank you all for sticking with me through this walk down memory lane.
Esmeralda Rupp-Spangle is a retired cat wrangler and can be found on Instagram as @EsmeraldaSilentCitadel.
