Laughter Is the Best Veterinary Medicine

                        Our veterinary assistant, Meghann, raises Golden Retrievers.  When she began working for us four years ago, she had two dogs, Dixie and Daisy.  Dixie was her show dog and her breeding future, and had even been featured with Meghann in this very newspaper.  Daisy was her old dog, and as dog lovers know all too well, became really old way too quickly, and passed away.

                        The day after Daisy died, I knew Meghann was having a tough time, so I sneaked out to the drug store to buy her a sympathy card.  After a quick scan of the selection, I couldn’t believe my luck. There, before my eyes, was the perfect card that read:  “Sorry for the loss of your Golden Retriever.”  This was too good to be true.  And it was.  Closer examination of the card, and by “closer” I mean farther away and with a good squint, revealed that it was “Grandmother,” not “Golden Retriever.”

                        Still, this card with the heartfelt message inside, was the best of the lot.  So I did the only thing I could.  I scratched out “Grandmother” and wrote “Golden Retriever” overtop.

                        Comedy is not unlike veterinary medicine, particularly surgery.  To achieve good results with either often involves some risk.  Knowledge of the audience, or in our profession, a proper history of the client and patient, is essential.  With Meghann, I knew she had a good sense of humor.  But, when one is treading on a grandmother and a Golden Retriever with the same card, the ice is pretty thin.

                        I couldn’t see Meghann’s face when she opened the card, but I thought I detected a gasp and small shudder when she got to the “Golden Retriever” part.  That was followed by some trembling that increased to mild convulsions.  She was laughing.  The operation was a success.  The only repercussion of that event is that ever since, she seems to think it’s okay to call me a “dork.”

                        Two months ago, a lady who wasn’t a client called our office inquiring if I would be willing to come to her house to euthanize her old dog.  She wasn’t ready to do this yet; she was just pre-planning, as her own veterinarian couldn’t, or wouldn’t, perform this service for her.  Although home euthanasias are not high on my list of favorite things to do, she didn’t live far from our office, so I agreed.

                        Weeks went by, though, and I never heard from her, until four Thursdays ago.  I noticed an appointment scheduled late in the day for a new client regarding a geriatric Boxer and the need for a second opinion.

                        When I entered the exam room the lady was already crying, and based on the pile of used tissues, crying a lot.  She had been under a fair amount of pressure from friends and family members to put her dog to sleep.

                        Her main complaint was that the dog had a hard time getting up and was stiff when initially ambulating.  I always cringe when I hear that as a reason to euthanize----I have days like that myself.

                        My initial impression of the patient, a grey-faced, somewhat overweight, senior citizen, was positive.  He seemed to be walking around our exam room just fine.  Like many Boxers of his age (although quite frankly, there aren’t that many), he did have numerous skin lumps and bumps, and some areas of hair loss which could be indicative of hypothyroidism, Cushing’s disease, or seasonal alopecia common to his breed.  Overall, though, he looked like he had a lot of life left.

                        As I was completing the exam, between bouts of tears, the lady made it very clear that she didn’t want any more tests or medications; she only wanted a second opinion.  This is where my friend, Doug, a comedy genius in his own right, says she threw me an underhand pitch.  I, of course, just had to take a swing.

                        “You want a second opinion?” I said as I carefully laid my stethoscope around my neck.  She nodded. 

                        With my best “Marcus Welby” face, I looked her straight in the eye.  “I think your dog looks pretty good…but, you’re too emotional.”

                        That was followed by pin drop silence for a very uncomfortable eight or nine seconds.  As the “uh-oh’s” and “whoopses” began to build inside me, suddenly she burst into laughter, much to my relief.  Better yet, she cried no more for the rest of the visit.

                        We both knew that the bad time was coming, but it wasn’t here yet, and it certainly wasn’t going to be that day.

                        Laughter is never going to cure a disease, or make the old young again. But, sometimes, in the right situation, it can be a darn good band-aid.

Author:  Dr. John Jones
Image courtesy of savit keawtavee at FreeDigitalPhotos.net