I have always wanted to be a veterinarian. As far back as I can remember, I have wanted to be the doctor in the white coat helping the sick and injured animals find their way back to health. I wanted to take care of people's pets and maybe some livestock, too. The summer of my senior year in high school, I got a job as a veterinary assistant and my dreams abruptly changed. I witnessed the dark side to those sparkling white exam rooms, the shiny metal gurneys, and the clean, bleached coat. I learned a lesson I won't ever forget and learned something about myself as well.
My duties at the clinic were simple: greet the client, ask what needed to be done for their animal, and take them back to the exam room to get the pet's weight and temperature. Then, if it was needed, I would draw up the vaccinations, suck up the liquid into a syringe and squeeze out the air. The bulk of my work was cleaning. I would clean the exam room after every patient, clean the kennels in the back, clean up after dogs in the waiting room if they forgot their housebreaking, and clean whatever else needed a good scrub. It wasn't until I had been working at the veterinarian clinic for a few weeks that I had my change of heart.
On a sunny afternoon, a family brought in their elderly dog, Pepe, who was suffering a mysterious malady. He had been fine all morning, but took a sudden downhill turn around noon. Pepe was a large poodle, but wasn't groomed poodle-style with all the puffs and bows; it seemed he had been allowed to groom himself for at least a few years with no intervention by scissors or brush. He had probably been white in his youth but was now a dull dirty gray with brown circles under his eyes. Pepe's family, four or five people in all, accompanied him into the exam room. I took their old dog into the back and checked his weight and temperature, and then reunited him with his people. They welcomed him back, and we all waited for the doctor. When the doctor got there, he did his usual examination, asked all the usual questions: Has he been eating anything out of the ordinary? Is he lethargic? How is his appetite? What was he doing right before he got hurt? The family answered quietly, solemnly. I could see that they were scared for their elderly pal. They told the doctor that Pepe had been fine earlier in the day, but later that afternoon had gone around the side of the house, alone, yelped and had been acting strangely ever since. He couldn't walk very well on his own, yelped when he was touched, and had developed misty gray shields in his eyes, cataracts. No one knew the source of the dog's trouble.
The doctor's brow furrowed in a serious way as he contemplated the family's story. He took a moment to decide how to tell them his diagnosis. The dog was in bad shape. From what the doctor could see and what the family had told him, it appeared that Pepe had either gotten into some poison or been electrocuted. There were procedures that could narrow down the source of the dog's discomfort, and more procedures that could possibly correct whatever was wrong, but it would be costly. The mother and father of the family took a moment to deliberate. How could they pay for it? Would it be worth the cost in the end? Pepe was an old, old dog, after all. Finally, with tears in their eyes, they gave us the verdict. Pepe would have to die. The doctor and I gave them a few moments alone with their ancient pet. The children gathered around to say good-bye as we closed the door. I waited outside the closed door, feeling sorrow of my own. When the door opened, the doctor, a technician, and I led Pepe into the back room where he would draw his last breath. Pepe went quietly, smelling the ground, orienting himself in his new surroundings. Once he was separated from his family, however, things changed.
I don't know if dogs have a sixth sense, or if someone had told him in a way he could understand that he was going to die, but he knew it and he did not want to go. Once the syringe was filled, that dusty dog found his strength. He struggled with his leash, bucked his head and front paws into the air, and clawed for his life. Breath came out of his nose in high-pitched whines and whistles as he pawed at the doctor, the technician, and me. The family must have heard the commotion because suddenly a little girl was at the door. Pepe's little girl had come to witness his final moments. Her big, scared eyes looked at us with the purest horror. Pepe was bleeding and blood was spraying, flying everywhere. I didn't know where it was coming from; I hadn't noticed any wounds on him when he arrived. That little girl stood in the doorway with a shocked expression on her face for what felt like hours, but was probably only a minute or two. Finally, the doctor yelled for me to close the door.
I took the little girl back to her family, Pepe's family. The family left one member short; they exited the clinic while their old buddy was still in his death throes. They took that little girl home without her friend. Pepe struggled mightily for his life. I know because, as an assistant, it was my job to clean up the huge mess he made. He had knocked over a gurney and spilled a few boxes of gauze, but the worst was the blood. He left pieces of himself all over that room. Blood was splattered everywhere, on the walls, the floor, the cabinets. Blood in pools, blood in trickles like tears, blood with fur matted into it was all around. It took three people several hours to clean up after the dog that didn't want to die. He did die, though. He died away from those he loved, with strangers, but he died a brave death. He died fighting. .
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