Little Annie is No Orphan
By Bill Stork, DVM
As veterinarians and animal lovers, our focus follows a fairly predictable curve as we progress through the stages of pets' lives.
With puppies, we talk about crate and toilet training. Through the middle years, our concerns are often skin and ear problems. We focus on feeding the best diets, and on keeping their weight down, their minds engaged and their bodies fit. By the time we have the first decade in the rearview, we are thinking about quality of life and comfort, like glucosamine and anti-inflammatory drugs to diminish the impact of arthritic changes.
In the exam room, we will often lead with a general question, “Any specific problems or concerns?” We’ve come prepared to address concerns about weight loss, cognitive issues, incontinence and dental health.
I was not prepared for Annie. It’s been two weeks, and I may be smiling for two years.
I asked Sheldon about the 14-year-old dog, “How is her energy, appetite, mobility, water consumption?”
He nearly knocked me off my axis, “Is there any way we can slow her down a bit?”
A dramatic difference from our first visit with Annie, two years ago. The leash hung limp between nine-year-old Ben and his Cocker Spaniel. It has been said that veterinarians are handicapped compared to their human medical colleagues, as their patients can’t speak. I beg to differ.
In the back yard Ben ran, jumped and played in fits and starts like Billy from Family Circus. With Annie’s leash – more a metaphor than restraint - looped around his wrist and clipped to her collar, he slowed to her pace.
In the clinic lobby, Annie mounted the scale in stop-time. First one paw, then another. With her right rear on the scale, she quick-stepped and rocked so that her left could bear the weight. At 11 kilos on the nose, she had lost a third of her body weight.
Plenty aware of the quart of treats six inches from her fully functional, bird dog nose, she hadn’t the strength to lift her head or the energy to ask. When our technician, Sheila, opened her palm to offer a freeze-dried liver morsel, she rolled it around her mouth in search of a tooth that didn’t hurt. Eventually, she opted to swallow it whole. Her tail feathers swayed as she wagged twice in gratitude.
Her coat was scraggly and coarse. Large patches of her flank were relatively bare. Her skin was mottled and bloody.
As veterinarians we are bound by oath to the “prevention and relief of animal suffering”, and to “protect and enhance the human-animal bond.”
As humans we are often well served to give our first impressions… a second chance.
The silence and lack of expression from Annie’s family spoke volumes. She was not a victim of neglect. It might take a battery of tests, a small pharmacy and divine intervention, but it was clear we were to stop nothing short of enhancing the Parsons' bond with Annie.
Antibiotics would clear the sores on her skin, and anti-inflammatories would dull the discomfort of arthritis. Supplements would support her underactive thyroid gland.
In the process of the work-up and treatment, we learned how special Annie is to the Parson family.
Memorial Day weekend 2002, Annie was a puppy; Ben was a toddler. Along with two other families, the Parsons had hiked the spectacular East Bluff of Devil’s Lake State Park. Ben rode on dad’s back, while Annie tested the limits of her leash. No scrap of scat or animal track within six feet of either side of the trail got past the busy little bird dog on the outbound trek. Nary a chipmunk, grey squirrel, groundhog or white-tail deer escaped her nose or eyes, yet she never so much as yapped.
The expedition stopped for photo ops that would find their way onto Christmas cards. They refueled, hydrated and rested their backs. On the return loop, the trail-side banter became muted and sparse with every step closer to the beach shimmering at the foot of the bluff. Annie, having spent her puppy exuberance, was pleased to trot down the trail toward camp.
Their collective “trail sore” was no match for the cool emerald waters of Devil’s Lake. Men, women, children and dogs waded, splashed, and swam. Fresh from his nap in dad’s backpack, Ben toddled on the end of Sheldon’s finger. He punched the water, laughing uproariously as it splashed in his face. In an hour or so, the entourage returned to their camp compound.
As the sun dropped over the West Bluff, the fire crackled and hissed as brats and burgers dripped into the coals. Eight canvas-backed Adirondack camp chairs formed a tight circle around the fire’s warmth. There was a satiated pause after their feast. As the conversation was about to turn from “did you see that doe and her twin fawns?” to “remember that day in college when we inflated the giant turtle on top of the big, square, grey house?” there came a commotion from the least likely candidate.
When Annie woofed twice and growled, the group's first concern was disturbing the neighboring campers. As she crescendoed from episodic to insistent, heads turned in collective urgency. After having quietly watched every mammal in Devil’s Lake State Park scamper through the underbrush, it was downright absurd that it would be an overturned Rubbermaid storage tote that would offend Annie.
Sheldon leapt from his chair and righted the tub, ripping off the lid. There he found Ben, curled in the fetal position, soaked in sweat, and limp as a ragdoll, having used up the last oxygen trying to escape.
With several deep breaths, Ben let out an epic "Waaah!" that echoed between the bluffs and across the lake. Silence, thought and gratitude prevailed for the remainder of the evening.
Annie slept curled in a ball, perhaps oblivious to the hugs and tears, or possibly fully aware.