The laboured gasping is now echoing in another voice as I end the life of this elderly cancer patient’s last and only companion. She sobs and sobs, cradlng his lifeless body, crying with unending heartbroken sorrow, and she wails to no one, why, please why can’t she go with him too, please. All I can do is clutch her hand tight as her tears soak into my shirt.

1. Client brings cat in without a cage (or even a box, or a pillowcase) even though it says you must do so clearly on the front door. In large print. In all caps.
2. Client puts unrestrained cat on front counter where it starts to wander around and knock things over.
3. When told to take her cat, client gruffly dumps cat on floor in waiting room as if you've been rude.
4. Cat starts to wander arou nd the waiting room where clients are coming in and out of the door and the clinic is near a busy street.
5. Both receptionists are busy on the phone so cat wanders behind the desk and into pharmacy where vets are often taking (large, boisterous) dogs (that may appreciate a tasty snack) to and from the hospital
6. Client is a bitch when you tell her to please restrain her cat.
7. Cat is here because owner is pretty sure it has cat flu, a highly contagious disease spread by sneezing.

Sometimes a little part of you wishes something would go wrong just to teach rude idiots a lesson.

But you know they'll just end up somehow blaming you for it.

Young guy with a 6 week puppy for vaccination.
"I don't know if this is normal, or not... but... um, I'm having weird gender confusion, I don't know if I should be its mum or its dad or what..."
I.. huh?!?

A phone call.

"But how did my beloved Tigger die? I mean I know he was a 20 year old cat and he was emaciated and not eating or drinking because of his kidney failure, but did he have a heart attack or did he have a stroke, or what?"

I... what?

Tips for a harmonious working environment #12
When asking a colleague for help, refrain from obliviously spraying them with blood as you're trying to explain how you have this artery you just cut and it just won't stop squirting everywhere

A simple test:
If you're using the electro-cautery unit on "cut" mode, and you don't make lightsaber noises while slicing/burning straight through tissue, then there's definitely something wrong with you.

Sometimes you wish animals could communicate with you.

O: There’s something wrong with Miffy. She’s sick.
Me: Okay. What do you mean when you say she’s sick? Is she vomiting?
O: Oh, she’s just not right. Something’s wrong.
Me: Okay… is she eating? Drinking?
O: Yes, she’s eating and drinking well.
Me: Toileting? Are they normal motions and normal frequency?
O: Yes yes they’re fine.
Me: Vomiting, diarrhoea, coughing, sneezing?
O: No, none at all.
Me: She looks like she’s quite bright and responsive here. Is she lethargic at home?
O: No no, she’s quite alert.
Me: So… when you say that something’s wrong, you mean….
O: …
Me: You mean, what exactly?
O: She’s just off.
Me: So her behaviour is abnormal?
O: Yes!
Me: What is the behaviour she is displaying?
O: She’s just not right.
Me: I.. um. Can you describe an example?
O: Well, she's eating and drinking, but sometimes, she, she just doesn't seem right. Like something's wrong.
Me: Uh. Well........ clinically I can’t find anything abnormal.
O: No she’s definitely unwell.
Me: I… well, I think she’s okay, but I can run some blood tests to double check.
O: Oh, I can’t afford that.
Me: I... uhh… look I think she’s fine.
O: Can’t you just give her an injection to make her feel better?
Me: No.
O: Oh.
Me: Yep.

Sometimes you wish owners could communicate with you.

Why?
“Oh Bella, oh Bella my beautiful baby girl.”
I warned you.
“This is my fault, I’m so sorry.”
I warned you. I told you, six months ago.
“Bella, Bella, I’m sorry.”
All the apologies in the world can’t change what you’ve done.
“Mum, don’t kill her, please please please.” The kids are all screaming.
You’ve got three kids. You’ve gone through childbirth. Can you imagine it?
“This wasn’t supposed to happen, Bella.”
“Why didn’t you get her desexed?”
“I couldn’t afford it.”
“Why didn’t you bring her in yesterday when she started having trouble?”
“I couldn’t afford it.”
No, you couldn't. You can't afford to have a dog. Here's the green needle to prove it.
"I'm so sorry."
Can you imagine it? Can you imagine having a baby stuck in your birth canal for hours, endless hours, not knowing when the pain will end, while the remaining babies inside you rot and putrefy and turn to pus inside you?
“This is all my fault, this wasn’t supposed to happen, he was only twelve months old, I didn’t think it would happen.” I told you, six months ago when you had them here for a vaccination. $180 desexing then, $700 caesarian yesterday, $1000 dying dog now, and how much suffering?
And here we are now. 
"Why do you charge so much money?"
Honey, even if I can get away with not charging you any service fees, for which I will end up jobless, you still couldn't afford all the drugs and materials alone. If you couldn't afford to feed and shelter and provide medicine for two dogs and three kids then... why?
Look what you’re making me do.
Look what I freaking have to do now.
“This is all my fault.” She’s sobbing.
On a better day, when I’m not so tired, unwell, exhausted, having had four hours of sleep, and having lost three of my patients already today, ones that I desperately tried to save, perhaps I would have been more sympathetic. Perhaps I would have tried to comfort her.
But I don’t feel like lying today.
“Bella, I love you.”
You did this to your dog.
How could you do this to your dog?
The four puppies are starving, their mum hasn’t been able to feed them for hours. The owner is clueless. Could she get up every two hours to feed these puppies? To check them, stimulate them to go to the toilet, keep them warm, help them if something goes wrong?
No. No, I don't think so.
The owner, the children, and the puppies are all crying. The sounds fade to nothing as I hold the beagle’s head and look into her soulful, tired eyes. She looks as sick as I feel.
“Bella, I love you so much.”
I’ve got the needle in my hand.
Why?

“Oh god, you have to help him, you have to put him out of his suffering.”
The owner is openly crying as I walk out to the van.
“He’s just been screaming in pain since I got home, I don’t know what’s wrong with him but I can’t stand it, he’s in so much pain, you have to put him to sleep.”

I open my mouth to say something comforting or to convince him I can help, that we don’t have to take such drastic measures. But as I near the van I can hear the yowling for myself. It’s a bone chilling, soul rocking sound when you hear an animal in unmistakable, unimaginable agony.

I slide the van door open gently. The cat screams and runs headlong into the back of the van. Crying, the plaintive cry of a creature in pain. He looks at me, looks at the open door. In the same split second the owner and I realise that he’s going to make a dash for it. I leap into the van and the owner slams the door shut behind me. I can hear the owner sobbing, becoming fainter as he is obviously walking away.

Alone in the dark now. It’s the weekend and I have no nurse to help me catch the poor frightened animal. I look at the euthanasia solution in my hand, at the needles in my pocket. This animal is in pain - and an animal in pain will bite. It’s dark. I have no way of catching it, and restraining it while holding up the leg vein, and injecting the solution into that vein... It will probably try to kill me if I touch where it’s sore. I don’t even have sedation on me, and I’m reluctant to open that door lest the cat make a run for it. My policy is to never do euthanasias in cars, because you just don't have control. But I don't have a choice here. What on earth do I do? Some days I have trouble euthanasing an animal that’s on its last legs and can’t even lift its head - and those are pretty much the only animals I would volunteer to do on my own without a nurse, someone to hold and comfort the animal, and to raise the vein so I can see where I'm injecting.

I move into the square of light from the tiny window. The cat has stopped crying for a moment, but I can hear it gasping. “Puss puss,” I whisper. How on earth can I help this poor animal?

A flicker of whiskers appear in the light. The cat is crawling to me, panting heavily. His paw touches my foot.

I reach out and pat him. He doesn’t move.
I reach out and take his leg. He doesn’t move.
I hold up the leg vein with one hand. With the other I insert the needle into his leg, a blind shot, I can't see what I'm doing. In the dim light a rush of blood into the syringe confirms that I’m in the vein.
The cat mews, soft little mews between laboured gasps.
I inject the solution. His panting softens, slows, and fades away.

He laughs and thanks me, bundling up the nine puppies and heading off. The work phone sits in its dock, untouched.

Fifteen minutes earlier: “Chryso! Chryso! It’s crying! It’s crying!”
No way. No way!

Twenty minutes earlier: Oh, yuck. Oh, yuck. This uterus is full of rotten browny greeny dying rotten… rot! There’s no way there could possibly be anything alive in here. This ranks among the top 5 of worst things I’ve smelt in my life. I’m a vet. That’s bad.
Gross, the puppy in here is swimming in a bag of brown gunk. Better hand it to my nurse, but there’s no real point in trying.
“Oh yuck Chryso. It’s blue and covered in all this disgusting green stuff. Is it even worth trying to revive it?”
“It will probably die but let’s try anyway, then we can say at least we tried.”

Twenty minutes earlier: Okay don’t panic don’t panic, so you haven’t done an afterhours caesarean by yourself yet and this is your nurse’s first night on call, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine don’t panic. The phone’s right there. You’ll be fine.

Ten minutes earlier: “The x-ray shows that there’s still a puppy inside. We’ll have to do a caesarean, it’s got to be dead and there’s no way she can push this out by herself.”
Oh, crap. I’m scared out of my mind.

Ten minutes earlier: “Okay, I got the dead pup out. We have to take an x-ray to find out if she has any more inside - she might need a caesarian."
Please let me be wrong.

One hour earlier: “Your beagle had eight pups this morning, and she just has one hanging out of her now twelve hours later? And it’s dead? You need to bring her in. She could have more in there, we need to take an xray.”
Oh crap, oh crap, I hope I don’t have to open her up what do I do if she needs a caesarian??

Six hours earlier: Dr Boss catches me in the corridor. “Okay Chryso, now that Dr Newbie is starting, we won’t be able to back you up anymore. Tonight will be the last night you can call for back up.” He puts the phone in its dock and smiles. “But you’ll be fine. I think you’re ready.”

Dear readers: a few announcements. 

Firstly, thank you for still following us despite the obviously decreasing number of posts. Our sincerest apologies for not keeping this blog up to date. I'd thought that by this time we'd be well into what I was going to call Season Two. As always, life kept happening and we all got too busy. I think the episodic/thematic approach made it harder for us to keep it up. So for the sake of regular posts, we will be dropping that - for now.
The final announcement is that since things have settled down, I hope to be posting regularly again. You see, we're no longer new grads. We are now recent grads, looking over the new new grads, and entering a new world of responsibility.

And there are so many stories to tell.

Admission for desexing:
Owner: I heard you give them tattoos when they're asleep?
Me: Yes, we put a small tattoo in her ear to indicate she has been desexed.
Owner: Does it hurt her?
Me: Nope, she'll be under anaesthetic so she won't feel it.
Owner: Awesome. Can you give her a heart tattoo please?
Me: Um.... No. We're not allowed to do any procedure purely for cosmetics.
Owner: But you're going to tattoo her anyway, what's the difference??
Me: Sorry, it's not that kind of tattoo. We can only use the standard desexing symbol. It would be illegal for us to do any procedure that does not benefit the dog anyway.
Owner: Oh... okay fine.
Me: Okay now is there anything else while we have her anaesthetised?
Owner: Can you pierce her ears?

*facepalm*

A phone call.
Owner: Help, I just got home, and my dogs are stuck!
Me: Okay, where are they stuck?
Owner: Like.. together! They're stuck together! From their bottoms!
Me: Right.. do you have a male and a female?
Owner: Yes...
Me: Sounds like they're tied...
Owner: Oh no! Is it bad?
Me: Uh... depends. It means they're mating.
Owner: No, there's no way they can be mating. That's physically impossible.
Me: Are they desexed?
Owner: Oh no no! I mean they're brother and sister!

Yep.
Thousands of miles away, in remote untamed Cambodia, after three weeks of holiday... and hearing that ringtone in the distance still scares the living bajeebus out of me.

Oh man. It looks bad. It looks really bad.
The skin is all in tatters. The wounds are raw and bleeding still, oozing bright red. I can't stop staring at it. It must hurt. I'm sure it hurts.
I'm crying at work again, but I don't care.
I wish there was something more I could do. But it's done. It's over.
Oh god, what have I done?
There are consults waiting again. Have to smile. Have to be helpful and friendly and carry my mistakes with me, in every corner of my day, could I have done something different? If only I had been more careful.
There was no way I could have known.
The blood on my hands is drying.
Okay, Chryso. Okay, Chryso. You're okay. You've been standing here by yourself in the consult room for fifteen minutes now. They're gone. It's behind you. Smile. Move forward. You can't undo it. In time, it will just be another burden of yours. A mistake. One of many. Let's go squeeze some anal glands, k?
I moisten some tissues and try to clean the blood off the wall.
I can still her her sobbing. Her face crumpled and soaked from crying, as she carried that precious little dog out of the room.
You couldn't have known. You just made a mistake.
Just a mistake that caused suffering and grief and anxiety. How can I get through this day?
I pour some chlorhex on my knuckles. It stings now, but I don't care. I know I'll regret this tomorrow. Sorry, wall, it wasn't your fault. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry for the pain I've caused you. It was a mistake. I just didn't know.
I can't quite get the bloodstains off the wall. They'll remain there, but no one else will know. I'll see them. I'll see them every day I walk in here. Slowly fading with time. Just another stain.

Friday morning. Bluuurrrgh. I don't want to get out of bed. Just a few minutes more? Oh jeeze Chryso, you've set your alarm fifteen minutes later than normal so you could sleep in. Come on, you can do it. Need coffee. Yeah. Lots of it.

I don't want to go to work.

I don't want to go to work.

*Looking at blood smear*. Oh man, this poor cat, it's so sick. This blood smear doesn't look good. What are all these cells? Oh, crap, this looks really bad. *Zooms in* Oh jeez, these look like... these really look like lymphocytes (white blood cells). *zooms in again* Oh, these look like really angry lymphocytes. I think this is lymphoma (cancer of white blood cells). This looks so bad. Crap, crap, these poor people, they love their cat so much, but they won't be able to afford chemo. *scans around to make sure*. Cancer, cancer, angry nasty cancer. So many lymphocytes, with lots of signs of malignancy and.. oh, hey, look, that pattern in the blood! It looks exactly like a panda face! It's smiling! Awwww!!! I need to take a picture of this. *click* Oh, and a few more. It's so happy, hee hee! I wants to hug it! *click click*. *click* So cute! And....Um. What? Okay. Right. Cancer. Angry, nasty, bad cancer. Crap.

Some days it's like the universe is just trying to rub it in.

Majorly obese labrador. Hmm. Needs to lose about 6 kilos. Arthritis, liver disease, shortened life span.
Cocker spaniel with dirty ears. Really needs to have those checked. Gotta make sure those ear drums are okay. Will probably need a topical antibiotic.
That dog is a walking hair mat! He needs to get it clipped straight away. Yuck.
White fluffy dog drinking manically, thinning fur, pot belly. Most likely hyperadrenocorticism. Needs a low dose dexamethasone test.
That poodle has the worst teeth I've ever seen! It needs to be anaesthetised for a full scale and polish, and probably about twelve extractions.
Woman playing tug of war with her Staffie puppy using a shoe. Oh, jeez. That pup is going to destroy everything if she doesn't curb that behaviour and give it something appropriate to chew and play with.

Nope. 800 kilometres from work, relaxing on a beach, I can't stop being a vet.

Me: And, finally, to help Chubby get over this gastroenteritis, he needs to be on bland food only. Plain chicken, plain rice.
Owner: Okay, no problems Doc. Chicken and rice. 
Me: Excellent. Now, here are-
Owner: He loves chicken anyway, especially the skins.
Me: It's best to take the skin off. We want to give his gut something gentle to deal with, to let it completely reset before making it work hard again.
Owner: Oh. What about gravy, can it have gravy on it? He loves gravy.
Me: Nope. Plain chicken only. If it's a bit of a hassle to prepare every day, you can get a bland version of dog food in a can, we sell them here.
Owner: Oh, that's okay, we normally give him chicken flavoured dog food anyway.
Me: Actually, the supermarket dog food isn't bland enough. It has to be pure chicken meat, or a special diet from here. The chicken must have nothing added to it. Just plain, boiled chicken. 
Owner: Okay, I got it doc. No worries.
Me: Great. Now, these tablets are-
Owner: Wait, what about his beef bones? He loves having those every day. He'll get upset if he doesn't have them.
Me: Here. Have this can. It's a special formulated food for him. Feed him this and only this and nothing else. No snacks no treats nothing else but this.
Owner: Oh, okay. I'll get a slab of those thanks.

With some people you just have to be assertive.

Owner: So is it bloat Doc? Is my Midnight Star going to need surgery?
Me: I'm afraid it's a full blown gastric torsion. She's twisted her stomach and it's filling up with gas. It doesn't look good at all.
Owner: Oh no! She's my best show dog. I'll do anything for her. She's precious to me.
Me: Surgery is the only way. We need to get that stomach out and untwist it. It's a poor prognosis even with surgery. Because of the twist, it cuts off circulation to some parts of the bowel and spleen which may die. Sometimes we do surgery and the patient might die despite intensive treatment. She'll require several days in hospital afterwards. An estimate would be about $1500 all up.
Owner: I'll do anything for her. She's my best show dog. She means so much to me.
Me: Of course. I'll get her prepared for surgery right now. Sign here.
Owner: Absolutely no fur clipping please. *writes it on the form in big letters*
Brain: Sure. Your precious dog who you'll do anything for is probably going to die, but at least she'll look nice.
Brain: ...I am a professional. I am a professional. 
Me: I strongly advise a wide clip for this one.  
Owner: What? The other vets always respect my request for minimal clipping!
Me: This time we need to fully take the stomach out, and we really don't need fur going into her abdomen and setting up a peritonitis on top of everything else.
Owner: I wash her once a week, her fur is perfectly clean! Hmph!
Brain: ...Sigh.

So I wander into reception since it's quiet for the next half hour.
A client walks up. She looks familiar.
Client: Hi, how are you? *looks at me funny*
Brain: Crap, I'm not usually in reception. I hope it's not too difficult to work out.
Me: I'm good, how are you? *grinning like an idiot*
Client: Not too bad. (pause) I saw you with Max last time.
Brain: Oh crap, I don't remember why Max was here. Um, um, ask her something generic. Ask her something nice. Ask her how Max is!
Me: How-
Client: Thanks so much for putting him to sleep. It was so quick and painless, and you were so gentle. I'm still so devastated that he's gone but I'm glad his suffering is over.
Me: That's okay and you're most welcome. It's the last gift you can give them.
Brain: !!!