"Something That We All Should Read" posted by ---2---
Hello. This is a story that a Doglet, a very good friend sent to me. It moved me to tears and we both thaught that others would like to read this. For those of you who ever doubted how animals affect us or the love that people feel towards them this might change your mind. Here is the story.
a little about...
Al Sicherman has written humorous food and recipe features for the Star
Tribune since 1981, and the twice-weekly Tidbits column of food news and
trivia since 1982. He has written a weekly humor column since 1988.
The U's Animal Hospital Tried, But Fuzzy's Gone
Al Sicherman | March 15, 2004
I'm sorry to have to tell you that my swell dog, Fuzzy, the long, short,
doughnut-loving, piano-practice-hating pal who brightened my life for
the past three-plus years, has died.
This isn't a bid for sympathy: Pets don't live as long as people, so
almost everyone who has a pet winds up at this sad juncture sooner or
later. Still, Fuzzy was only 5 or 6 (I don't know exactly; I got him
"used," from a shelter), so his death was awfully unexpected.
But although this is partly about him, it's mostly about the people at
the Small Animal Hospital at the University of Minnesota's Veterinary
Medical Center in St. Paul who were so kind to him (and to me).
Folks who haven't found themselves sharing their lives with animals
might think it's silly for so much effort and so many resources to be
focused on caring for pets.
But for people who know how huge a place in their lives a pet can
occupy, the remark that such an animal is "like a member of the family"
is the equivalent of saying that a gold coin is "like money." As a
friend said, trying to describe his sense of loss when his beloved cat
died, "He slept on my pillow every night for 20 years."
Pets fill the holes in our lives with happiness. We choose them once;
they choose us every day. Nobody whose dog waits for him in the window
and jumps for joy when he opens the door, as Fuzzy did (except when he
hid after getting into the cookies), can help smiling every time.
I can't imagine what would be too much to give in return.
So when it seemed late one Saturday night last month that Fuzzy, who had
been limping and had seen his regular vet the previous Thursday, was now
much sicker, I described his symptoms to the two other vets I was able
to phone at that hour. Both said his appointment the next morning should
be soon enough.
Pressed by a friend to try the emergency number at the University's
Small Animal Hospital, I was relieved to be told to bring Fuzzy over
right away.
The doctor on duty had to divide her time between Fuzzy and a dog that
had been hit by a car, and she kept apologizing for ducking in and out.
Tests indicated that Fuzzy's liver functions were way off, and she
recommended keeping him in the intensive-care unit overnight, where he
would be monitored until more tests could be done in the morning.
Time For Tenderness
I remember thinking, as I drove home alone at almost 3 a.m., that
besides being competent and concerned about Fuzzy, the doctor had been
surprisingly sweet to him.
Pet-care folks are always nice to the animals, but it struck me as quite
another thing for the ER doctor to take the time on a stressful night to
pet and talk to Fuzzy as she examined him.
Like pediatricians dealing with babies, veterinarians address the needs
of patients who can't tell them what's wrong. A special kind of empathy
is needed to do that well -- not only to diagnose, but to calm and
reassure. I saw a great deal of empathy in the next few days -- for me
as well as for Fuzzy.
The hospital isn't beautiful -- the animals don't need decorations. The
public area is a wide hallway of concrete block, furnished mostly with a
few cheap tables and plastic chairs. But there are also several little
cubbies made of office partitions enclosing couches, creating spaces
where families can visit hospitalized pets.
My most abiding impression is of the constant stream of people and
animals hustling past -- it's a busy teaching hospital, in other words,
but with one big difference:
Almost always as an animal was led or carried or wheeled by (sometimes
in a coaster wagon), off for a treatment or a test or exercise, a
staffer or a student going the other way would stop and give the patient
a word or a caress or a kiss. It's regular medicine, with all the
machines and drugs and tests, but sometimes the patients lick your face.
It took me a couple of days to figure out why Fuzzy, who always smelled
pretty good (if you like how dogs smell), was smelling even better: His
fur was picking up perfume from all the nuzzling he was getting. Two
more details: Fuzzy was getting IV fluids while I sat on the couch with
him. I've seen enough IV-monitor gizmos to know that when they beep,
they usually need only to be reset. In a regular hospital it's a while
before anybody both qualified to tend to that and not above tending to
it comes by. Whenever the gizmo on Fuzzy's IV pole beeped, the next
person who passed took care of it. And petted Fuzzy.
And the first day, after I had been sitting with Fuzzy several hours,
petting him and waiting to hear what was wrong, a student stopped to ask
if I needed anything. I asked if there was someplace I could get a drink
of water. She returned with a cold bottle of name-brand water. I
realized later that she must have bought it.
The News Wasn’t Good
It turns out that by the time he got to the university late that
Saturday night, Fuzzy was very, very sick. The doctor who called me
Sunday morning, and who made me feel, in the next three days, as if she
was his personal physician, told me he was in acute liver failure. Later
that morning she outlined his situation to me in person. When she looked
up and saw my face, she hugged me.
I spent Sunday on that couch with Fuzzy, and because I was on vacation I
was able to spend Monday and Tuesday there, too, although by Tuesday he
was in the intensive-care unit except for short breaks with me. The
doctor and several students kept me updated on his condition far more
frequently than that happens in human hospitals, and always with
kindness.
I don't yet know why he got so sick, and -- although I absolutely know
that the doctor and everyone involved tried as hard to save him as they
would had he been their own -- Fuzzy died that Tuesday afternoon.
Despite how important he was in my life, I have very few evidences of
him. His leash, his dish, his water bowl, a few chew sticks, a squeaky
toy. Dogs don't do worldly goods: We are their most valued possessions.
He liked to chew the squeaky toy fast, so it sounded almost maniacal.
When I was cooking, so I wasn't spending time with him, he'd walk into
the kitchen squeaking it like crazy so I would throw it for him. I think
he thought it amused me. If so, he was right.
I will surely get another dog. Not to replace Fuzzy -- that can't be
done -- but to stand in for him. To be another wonderful animal who will
be as glad to see me when I come home as I will be to see him.
Just one more note about Fuzzy's care: When I went back to get his ashes
a few days ago, along with them there was a small clay disk in a plastic
bag. It contained his footprint, next to which someone had printed his
name.
And drawn a heart.
Al Sicherman is at asicherman@startribune.com.
His columns are available at: http://www.startribune.com/sicherman
© 2004 Star Tribune. All rights reserved.
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