Saturday, December 15, 2012


I did not know when I went in to work today what the theme would be. There is always a theme when you work nights in emergency, not always good, but usually there. There are Cat Nights, Large Breed Dog Nights, Hit By Car Nights, and Oh God Will Something Please Come In Nights.

Tonight’s theme was not along the lines I was expecting.

See, I wasn’t expecting “Boobies Night.”

True, one client flashed Dr. Aardvark a boob one night when digging for her wallet in the foothills of her chest. It just popped right out –-pop!— This was seen as the lesser evil when the selfsame doctor reported that the client lacked any undergarments, confirmed with her own eyes, much to her chagrin.

And Dr. Fish told of a time when she worked emergency on the east coast how a well endowed woman came into the ER with a bird that needed care. She plunged her hand ‘neath the plunging neckline and produced a small bird from between the pressing sides of cleavage.

“My bird!” She cried, all aflutter, “My bird needs CARE!”

Observing the crushed state of its feathers and the breathless nature of its wee body, Dr. Fish replied, “No, it’s already gone.”

“No!” she screeched, “He was alive in the car! He needs CARE!”

Dr. Fish gave her a pointed look. “Your bird needs a cardboard box and an owner who knows how to dig a hole in the ground,” or words to that effect that would allow her to retain her job.

Tonight’s tales, however, are a little more direct with their references.

Cue the woman who came in to discuss financing options for a pit bull that her daughter was trying to “rescue.” (Ah, after that last post, it’s all I can do to keep a straight face around that word.)

I suggested Care Credit as an option.

If you don’t know about Care Credit and are trying to finance veterinary or even your own medical needs, this is a great thing; look it up in advance.

The woman paused, then said:

“Yes, she has Care Credit. She used it to pay for her boob job last year.”

Picture Redgirl quirking a small smile, thinking this was something the woman would join her in. Alas, the woman was merely relaying it in the spirit of sharing information, not a laugh.

But it was the phone call an hour later that did it in.

Her: My dog just had puppies three weeks ago. Now she’s like whining and doesn’t want to get up and the puppies only nurse a little bit and her titties are swollen and sore.

CoWorker: One moment.

(Puts call on hold, lets me in on the scoop, and we both try to compose ourselves. I call ER to find out the symptoms of a “retained puppy”, a puppy that never came out and is rotting in the womb. Note: doc on tonight is Dr. Bat, the doctor who made the comment about people who play fetch with rocks with their dogs.)

Me: Does she have any vaginal discharge?

Them: What discharge?

Me: (Must. Keep. Composure.) Vaginal discharge.

Them: Where would that come from?


Them: (to friend) Any vaginal discharge? No.

Me: That’s good.

Them: But what about her titties? They are all sore. Should I rub the stuff they put on cow’s udders on them?

Me: Well, the puppies not nursing aren’t going to help matters…maybe if you came in –

Them: I could just try the cream on her titties first, see how that does. What age can puppies have dog food?

Me: (sigh) Let me check. (I call to ER) Hello? Hi, yeah, we have some first time parents here who really 
don’t know anything.

Dr. Bat: Is this the dog you just asked about?

Me: Yup. Also, quote, “her titties are swollen and sore,” unquote.

Dr. Bat: Well tell her to get down there, he dog might have a titty infection.

Me: You slay me.

Dr. Bat: You have to speak to these people in their vernacular. Those titties need to be looked at.

Me: By a titty inspector.

Dr. Bat: I’m open for business.

Dr. Bat is one of the fun ones, for sure. And as a woman, is in possession, if I may say, of her very own set.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012


So I realize this is my own humor here, but I really just crack myself up:

Coworker: So...Mrs Smith called, she's coming in tomorrow on ER. Dog has vomiting, lethargic, and a loose stool. She can't come in tomorrow for an appoint because it's packed. The schedule is packed!

Me: I bet she wishes the same could be said of her dog's stool.


Bragging Rights

One of the things I've come to love is the client who feels the need to impart a certain fact about a dog or cat they are bringing in that really doesn't matter.

Take, for example, this familiar scene from an ER visit. The client has handed over paperwork, and Fluffy has been taken to the back.

Me: Ma'am? About how old is Fluffy?

Her: We don't really know.

Me: Do you have an idea, roughly?

Her: He's a RESCUE dog. Our vet said between seven and nine years old.

Or how about this:
Such-and-such client is checking out

Me: Who's this cute little one?

Them: Zumba....she's a rescue dog.

I guess it's not difficult to figure out why people do this.

First off, they may be trying to make conversation, maybe hoping for the following:

Me: Oh, a rescue dog? Fascinating! Do tell me the particulars, as I am doing absolutely nothing else at this time!

Them: Well, it all started one day in the ghettos of Auburn (Does Auburn even have ghettos?)...

Possibly, this is their reasoning:

Ohmygawd I'd better tell them it's a rescue dog, otherwise, they'll think that *I'm* the reason he has a broken leg and an oozing contusion on his rump when that's not the case. I FOUND him like that, and they'll think I'm a horrible person if I don't clear that up right away!

Don't worry. We don't judge.


Honestly though? Most of the time? I think this is what they're looking for:

Me: Oh, a rescue dog? You rescued this poor unfortunate? Good for you! You must be a fantastic person, full of goodness and rainbows! You deserve an award of some type!

I realize that I may be simplifying or putting things way over the top, but attend:

There are reasons people actually rescue dogs (and cats), and those are perfectly valid. What I want to know is the motivations for mentioning it constantly for no discernible reason.

Me: Do you have pets?

Them: Yes! Our poodle, Stevie. He's a rescue dog.

Why did you add that? The dog is still just as rescued without you telling the world that you did it, and in my field, everyone can claim to have a rescue dog. Lets pull the definition of rescue, shall we?

1) To free from confinement, danger, or evil.

Hmmm. Okay. This one makes sense. At the pound in danger of being euthanized works. Moving on.

2) To take (as prisoner) forcibly from custody.

This could be stealing your neighbor's dog. Look! Here's Fifi, our new cockapoo!

Them: Hey! But that's our dog!

Them: We rescued him....

3) To recover (as a prize) by force.

You just finished winning the "Greenest lawn in a drought, by golly" contest, and have decided that your prize is the loser's Brittany Spaniel. Good luck convincing the Home Owner's Association of the spoils of war there.

4) To deliver (as a place under siege) by armed force.

This just goes to show that a "rescue" dog can be saved or wrested with the help of canons and land mines from anyone you feel is undeserving. Your mother-in-law. Those neighborhood kids who never fessed up to denting your car with that baseball.

So go forth, rescuers! Go forth and rescue dogs! For how else to make yourself feel good this holiday season but to obtain an animal and then announce to the world your good deeds....


You can stop now.

I mean it.


I need a raise.