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.
Welcome, friends, to the final installment of my harrowing tale of mammalian mischief and avian antics. If you’re just arriving, I’ll preface simply by saying this journal of the bizarre experiences I was lucky enough to live through is about two decades old but, in many ways, as fresh in my mind as though it was all yesterday. Being a vet assistant was probably the best and worst job I’ve ever had—certainly the most memorable.
Apr. 18
All about Blackbelt:
Blackbelt is a heroically ugly 11-year-old black terrier mix whose list of medical grievances and maladies is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. He has cataracts in both eyes, liver damage (from all the late-night benders, I assume), an enlarged heart, a collapsed trachea (past tense), and pancreatitis. He’s been hit by a car, electrocuted twice (I didn’t ask), and was pronounced dead at the scene of a fire. He’s subject to a bizarre and strict food and medication regimen to retain his rather tenuous grasp on this mortal coil. Blackbelt was apparently despised for many years by his owner, who ended up with him after his previous person died. However, after Blackbelt was pronounced dead, the new owner was wracked with guilt and had a change of heart, which is what she claims made him begin beating again. Like a hideous, cantankerous, ancient, sickly Cinderella. Heartwarming.
May 2
Last evening, I was sitting in the lobby doing some paperwork—hunched over, pen in hand, minding my own business. The office was dark; almost everyone had gone home. Out of the vacuum, a blood-curdling scream pierces the silence. It sounds close enough to reach out and touch. A terrifying chill runs through my body, and I sit upright, then spin my chair around slowly, so slowly. Just a few inches from my face, I am greeted by the pointed beak of a great blue heron, at eye level with me, regarding me as though if perhaps I was smaller, I could be dinner. It screams again and I, being the rational person that I am, dive headfirst under the desk. Within seconds, Dr. B bursts out of the back room in a flurry, bath towel outstretched in her arms, barreling after the wayward bird. Eventually, through much, much swearing, we managed to corral the bloody bird back to its enclosure and end the day without further incident—or lost fingers.
Jul. 15
Today, I learned that a "pack rat" is actually a real animal. Cute as the dickens, too. A flummoxed woman brought the creature to us—she’d captured it in a humane trap under her porch. She’d thought she had a skunk, though, as it was...well, odorous is a very generous way of saying it.
It stank like nothing I’ve had the displeasure of smelling before. Apparently, it was very fond of her garden and kept making off with what it could. It wasn’t unwell, so we just passed it off to the wildlife rescue folks, but even when I got off work and came home, I could still smell it on me—like a hobo died in a trashcan, then someone emptied a porta-potty on top. If you then took all the armpit juice from every basement dweller in the world and mixed that in and further rolled the whole concoction in well-soiled gym socks, that might come close to describing it. How something so cute can smell so foul is a mystery indeed.
Dec. 23
That thing when someone asks for their cat to be put down, but there’s nothing wrong with it, so you convince the owner to sign over the animal, and now you all realize someone has to take it, but you all have cats or dogs already, and this cat will straight up BODY any other mammal it meets. Now, there’s a conundrum. Merry whatever.
Dec. 26
Please, don’t blow dart sparrows.
If you do, I will be forced to fix it, then release it with advanced tactical knowledge and bloodlust.
Jan. 2
Cats can have dwarfism.
Jan. 22
Yesterday morning, I walked into the treatment room as I was opening for the day, and there was a cat who’d utterly decimated his cage—the towel was shredded to bits, soggy food everywhere, bowls tipped over with an air of malice. I approached the feline with caution, as if it was as fractious as it was messy, I’d be in for a trip to the ER. I noted its fur was an ugly sort of wiry, greyish—and what a leathery tail, and why grandmother, what big teeth you have. Ah, well, that’s no cat—that’s an opossum. I would find out later that he’d been hit by a car and had a broken jaw. Part of my daily rounds will now be bundling this creature into a towel and attempting to feed it with a very large syringe filled with a high-fat cat chow. The repulsive creature is oddly affectionate and will wrap his vice-like tail around you if you attempt to transfer him back to his cage. I don’t expect he’ll live long, but for whatever time he has, he’ll be properly spoiled.
Jan. 27
Lyle, the cockatoo, finally has a solution for his er...ongoing issue. Several months ago, this spectacularly genial bird came in with a big problem. He’d prolapsed his cloaca (think urethra, asshole, and genitalia all in one...delightful, I know), and it had to be surgically repaired. Then it happened again, and then again. It was almost as though he was doing it purposefully—and the cost and strain of multiple surgeries were taking a toll on everyone. The owner, a handsome gent in his 50s or so, was at his wit’s end. Finally, the Dr. proposed a most-astounding solution. Lyle must be kept away from blonde women.
Often, birds raised in captivity tend to think they’re people, or at least have what you might call preferences (likes and dislikes for various traits in humans, based on past experiences—or just because). As it happens, Lyle is currently in bird puberty, and the owner had a blonde girl he’d been dating. It seemed that Lyle would push his guts out whenever she was around, but why? Because he was attracted to her. He was straining his muscles because he had a damn woody for this lady. He’d also done it a couple of times at the hospital when our pretty, blonde assistant was there. So, in the end, the owner ended up breaking it off with his gal-pal, as she wasn’t up for dyeing her hair to tamp down the lusty urges of her boyfriend’s bird.
This is the final entry in this journal. I will be moving in a week and leaving behind this group of weirdos. I wish I could take them all with me, and in a way, I suppose I have with this little notebook.
One final thought: For the love of God, don’t name your pet "Lucky."
Esmeralda Rupp-Spangle is an ex-animal wrangler and writer. She can be found on Instagram as @EsmeraldaSilentCitadel.
