9. The Vet

This last week has been stressful. Last Saturday, around 10:30pm, as I went out to the car, I heard one of the goats screaming. I ran immediately to their enclosure, yelling frantically, in an effort to frighten away the coyote I was certain had gotten in to the pen. It was pitch black, so although I could make out a goat flailing on the ground, I could make out little else. I ran to get a flashlight and came back out to see our goat, Judas, laying on the ground convulsing. His limbs shot out in front of him, his neck twisted back, rigidly, and the pupils of his eyes rapidly moved up and down like the wings of a hummingbird. My mind raced. Poisonous weeds? Kick to the head? Snake bite? Seizure? Parasite? Illness? What? I immediately called our vet whose cell phone number is programmed in to my phone.

 

Relocating can be difficult. When we moved we gave up a wonderful pediatrician, an excellent dentist, a trustworthy mechanic, and a fabulous vet. I knew that selecting replacements would be a matter of trial and error.

Top of my list was finding a vet. Our Dane, Mars, had developed a limp and as any large dog owner can testify- this is a major concern. In the city though, because I had done so much rescue work, I had the opportunity to work with at least 30 vets and choose my vet from the best of those. While driving Mars back to our regular vet was an option, it was not something I really wanted to do. Thus the interview process began. We made appointments at the offices of two reputable veterinarians in the most major city near us.

The first vet we spoke to was immediately eliminated when he said that Danes are not prone to hip dysplasia. The second was omitted just by gut instinct when we weren’t allowed to actually speak to the vet, themselves, and had to relay any questions through the staff. Finally, out of desperation (since those two vets came at the recommendation of the largest local rescue group in the area and again at the recommendation of the local animal shelter) we chose a small town vet, down the road from here.

The country doesn’t have more characters in it than the city, but, my eyes are definitely more open to them now than they were before. Our vet is one of those characters. On our first visit with her she met us in the waiting room. She talked about our various issues, and understood all of our concerns. She did this, the entire time with a 4 year old on her hip, picking his nose. Her long hair hung to her tailbone and swung back and forth with each of his nasal clearing attempts. I had to laugh at the image of any of the pretentious city vets, that I had worked with, in the same situation.

We see our vet several times a month for various reasons. Once, when we asked her if she would look at our turkey that suffered from a limp, she suggested slaughtering it instead. My husband’s informative speech about our not killing animals and being vegetarians fell on deaf ears. Her stance was drastically more practical: if the animal suffers, kill it, eat it.

Her practicality doesn’t end at turkeys. While treating our elderly dog for cancer we asked if this treatment would help. To which she responded, “I always tell everyone the same thing. I do all I can and the rest is in God’s hands”. For some reason this rationale always reminds me of the death of Margret Mitchell, author of “Gone With The Wind”. She was hit by a car in the 40’s and died. The driver of the car was drunk at the time. At first there was a general outrage over her death but later sympathy gravitated to the driver since… it was obviously Miss Mitchell’s time to die. In both cases, everyone is exonerated of responsibility.

I left a message with the vet, that Saturday night, which was promptly returned. She apologized for having the flu and not being able to come over personally. She recommended a ton of various medications for the symptoms that the goat was suffering and said she would have her husband meet us over at the office to give us everything. She admitted to having no idea what was wrong with him but felt that giving large doses of penicillin, vitamin E, vitamin D, and Vitamin B, could not hurt. This recommendation was followed by a quick, “It is in God’s hands”. 
 
A few days ago, my husband called to give the doctor an update on Judas. (He seems to be doing better. for the first 24 hours he remained on his side. A goat has to be upright to digest food so we were desperately trying to wedge his body up even though he continuously fought to lay back down. After 48 hours he had regained control of his back legs and would attempt to stand, only to shove his face in to the dirt. After 72 hours he was able to stand, while leaning against the side of his stall. Now after a week he is back out with the herd, staggering behind them as if drunk but at least he is walking). When he finally got in touch with her she was clueless as to what he was talking about. Her assistant was heard in the background informing her about the sick goat, to which she responded, “That was you? I was really sick.” What city vet would have given out all of those medications without knowing who they dispensed them to? Who of you, out there, has your vet’s cell phone number? This isn’t exclusive to us, either, she has her personal number on the office answering machine. On top of that, I pay half what I would at a big city vet. Practicality has it’s benefits. I am just thankful that she never suggested that we eat him. 

Author: Green Acres Learning Curve

City girl stuck in the middle of No Where, Texas.

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