The Gift of Pets: Stories Only a Vet Could Tell (13 page)

Besides, Rachel is the last person I would have suspected. She is an unassuming, quiet woman who, having worked in the office as a receptionist for many years, I know quite well. She is a remarkably proficient receptionist, one whom the clients love and who diligently goes about her duties. She was in her late twenties at the time and married, with a daughter and a fascinating personal history full of unexpected ironies. Her personality is very settled, with few emotional swings and a wit that is keen but subdued. She is one of those people you think you know well but whose waters run deep and unseen, with surprising turns and eddies, which become evident most easily when viewed from farther downstream than while passing over them.

“Mrs. White wants you to call her right away. Frosty has had diarrhea for a few days now and she is worried,” she said as she handed me a phone message and Frosty’s record.

“Did she not want to come in?” I knew Frosty was a tiny Maltese and it wouldn’t take long before he was seriously dehydrated from persistent diarrhea.

“She will, but she wants to talk with you first.”

“Okay, I’ll call her. Anything else?”

“Yeah, guess who I just made an appointment for?” Rachel’s smile revealed altogether too much enjoyment. I felt my guard go up, but I wasn’t sure why.

“Who? Is it a client I’ll be glad to see?”

“Mr. Johnston!” Now Rachel was laughing.

“No way! Not Mr. Johnston,” I responded.

There are clients whose appearance on the schedule raises the spirits of everyone in the office. They are people who sweep joyfulness along in their wake, washing it over all those they encounter. These people usually have pets with the same delightful attitudes, and their effect on the staff is an amazing thing, infectious and uplifting. Then there are people like Mr. Johnston, whose presence blankets the environment with a critical and dissatisfied air of heaviness, one that is toxic with disdain and polluted with scorn. This attitude, too, has a predictable effect on the staff and poisons my own outlook.

“When is his appointment?”

“Two weeks from this Thursday.”

“That’s just great,” I said in a tone of voice that communicated just the opposite. “Oh well, at least I won’t have to worry about him for a couple of weeks. I’ll go call Mrs. White about Frosty now.”

I turned my attention to the other tasks at hand. There were patients in the hospital, surgeries to do, calls to make, clients to see. These all took my attention and occupied my time. But it would not be true to say that I did not worry about my upcoming appointment with Mr. Johnston. The truth is, It was always there as a nagging presence in the back of my mind. I knew I would have to suffer Mr. Johnston’s negativity and pessimism, his lack of confidence in me, his disrespect and rudeness. I would somehow have to buffer the staff from his bullying and demeaning manner. The thought hung on like a virus, or the persistent cough after a bout of bronchitis.

Rachel didn’t help matters any, either. Every other day, it seemed, she reminded me of the appointment. Sometimes it was with a laugh, as if she enjoyed the stress this was causing me. Sometimes it was with apparently the same dread that I felt, and she’d bemoan the emotional terrorism that she knew awaited her as a “lowly” receptionist. Many people who are civil, even friendly, with the doctors turn a nasty side to the receptionists. But Mr. Johnston was an equal-opportunity beast. He would berate both me and the staff equally—and seem to enjoy it.

“We’ve taken a survey and decided that you should be the one to deal with Mr. Johnston when he comes in,” she said one day, a week or so before his appointment.

“Oh, yeah?” I replied. “Why, is everyone afraid of him?”

“There is just no reason why we should be treated badly by him. We don’t get paid enough for that kind of abuse.”

Neither do I, I said to myself. In fact, there wasn’t enough money to compensate for the blatant disregard for common courtesy that Mr. Johnston displayed.

As I did routine surgeries, my mind was occupied with thoughts of Mr. Johnston and how to best handle his appointment. While I had purposed to be assertive, such confrontations do not come easily for me. I am one who loathes conflict. Attracting bees with honey is a much more comfortable tack for me. But I had already tried to overwhelm him with cheerfulness and that had failed miserably. I figured perhaps it would be better simply to keep the interaction on a strictly professional basis to minimize his chances of turning the conversation to personal things. Yet I knew from past experience that he would as quickly attack my professional skills as my personal failings, so that strategy provided me little cover, either.

These thoughts jumbled around in my head till nothing made sense and I felt silly for investing so much energy in hypothetical exercises. Why did Mr. Johnston even matter to me anyway? He was just an unhappy person whose personal approach to life I could not alter. Why let this one person so dominate my thoughts? There were, after all, lots and lots of clients who were loyal to the office and completely satisfied with our services. The management gurus tell us that fewer than 20 percent of clients are responsible for 80 percent of the complaints and that we should not allow that unhappy 20 percent to determine our approach and outlook with everyone else. Good advice! But difficult for me to internalize with Mr. Johnston’s appointment looming.

This internal conversation persisted, on and off, for the entire two weeks I knew Mr. Johnston had an appointment scheduled. Finally, on the day before the dreaded appointment, Rachel struck again.

“Tomorrow’s the day, you know.”

I knew without hesitation what she was referring to. I had been counting down the days in my brain, like an appointment with the IRS auditor.

“Which animal is he bringing in?” I asked.

“I don’t remember, but it’s one of the cats. I pulled the record today for tomorrow’s appointment and remembered that he’s one of your favorite clients.” She chuckled. Apparently, she was enjoying my discomfort.

“Hardly. I’ve thought of little else since you told me about the appointment two weeks ago. I’ve about got myself worked up to an ulcer. I’ll just be glad when it’s over.”

Why it was that I simply didn’t call him up and cancel the appointment is beyond me now. But the thought had not entered my mind. I had charted a theoretical course through this minefield. But even up to that fateful morning, I had not decided exactly how I was going to handle Mr. Johnston.

As I showered that morning, though, I rehearsed a carefully worded speech that I would deliver to him when I first entered the examination room. Lathering my hair and soaping down my body, I edited and rehearsed the speech till I could say it without hesitation or apology.

I’d start it out nonchalantly. “Hello, Mr. Johnston. I’d like to talk over something with you before we get started today to make sure this appointment is successful for both you and me. It’s been my observation over the years that we at Seven Bends Veterinary Hospital have often not been able to meet your expectations. This has apparently been very frustrating for you, judging by the way you interact with my staff and me. You should know this is very frustrating for us, as well. We want to provide the best care we possibly can for your animals and develop a relationship with you built on mutual respect. You can be sure that we will commit our best efforts on behalf of your pets. We will do it with care and compassion, and we will be sure to communicate with you exactly what is needed and why along the way. This we are committed to.”

In my mind’s eye, I could see him beginning to get uncomfortable. At that point, it would go one of two ways. Either he would fold and crumple into compliance like most bullies or he would get belligerent. I was prepared for either response. I would hold my hand up in a gesture of calm and continue.

“Let me finish, Mr. Johnston. This is important for us to get clear. I will promise you to do all those things. But you must promise me a few things, as well. For your part, you must promise to interact with us in respectful ways. It is neither fair nor acceptable for you to demean our efforts, our knowledge, and certainly not our compassion. It is not acceptable for you to criticize me or my staff while you are in this office. If we are unable to meet your expectations, I will be glad to provide your pets’ medical records to a veterinary hospital that can. But it is important to me that I have relationships with my clients that are based on trust and respect. And if I am unable to earn your trust and respect, it’s probably better for both of us for you to find another vet. Is that a fair request?”

It was a long speech for me to memorize. But over the course of two weeks, I had considered all the options, and this one seemed to be the best. I had parsed every sentence. I would be assertive but not rude. I would set ground rules for our continuing professional relationship that would be positive for both him and me. This would give him a way to opt out gracefully if he wished. It was the best I could do, but it still made me nervous.

The drive to the hospital that morning was clouded with concern over the impending interaction. The Bradford pear trees lining the streets of Woodstock were in full bloom. In flower beds in front of homes and businesses, the crocuses and daffodils had pushed through their blankets of mulch and were unfolding their colors to the springtime morning sunshine. On the shoulders of the Massanuttens, the trees were leafed out with their early spring green, fresh and vibrant, not yet the duller, darker green of summer. Unfortunately, these harbingers of spring escaped me as I drove, so involved was my mind with the task before me.

So it was with this sense of purpose and plan, overshadowed by acrid foreboding, that I walked into the clinic that morning. Mr. Johnston’s appointment was the first on the book and I was ready. That was a good thing, too, because just a few minutes after I arrived at the hospital, Rachel found me.

“Mr. Johnston’s here with his cat. And he’s already ticked off. Good luck with this one.” And she handed me his record.

I took a couple of minutes to go over the speech again in my mind, cementing the most important points in my brain before going into the room. Then I took a deep breath of resolve and pushed the door open.

Confusion was the first impression I had. Nothing was as I’d expected it. Where was Mr. Johnston? I had expected to meet a surly, angry man with unkempt hair, but there was no one in the room. Sitting on the examination table was a stuffed teddy bear with a bandage on his leg. Around his neck hung an index card with writing on it, tied in place with red yarn. My mind struggled to understand the scene. What was going on? I pulled the door partially closed and looked behind it, half-expecting to find Mr. Johnston lurking there as he had been lurking in my mind for the past two weeks. But he was not. Bending down so I could see the writing on the index card, I noticed in the periphery of my vision movement behind me in the hall. What was written on the card? It hung so the writing was not immediately visible to me. I turned the card and pulled it closer so I could make out the words.

“APRIL FOOLS’!”

For a moment, the words made no sense to me. But then hooting began behind me, and I turned to find that my entire staff had mustered in the hall and were now cheering and laughing at me good-naturedly. Slowly, reality began to dawn. It was indeed April 1. I had been had!

I looked around at the small group of people enjoying the prank in the hallway. At the front was Rachel, laughing uproariously. It hit me at that moment. She was the one! She had conceived it, planned it, orchestrated every detail, and implemented it to perfection. It had been Rachel who had brought it up to me every other day, who had planted ideas in my head, who had fueled my fears and stoked the fires of drama. Rachel, of all people! My estimation of her climbed a few notches for the sheer chutzpah required to pull this prank off.

I began to laugh with them—in appreciation for the beauty of a plan well laid, in celebration of the camaraderie that fostered fun like this, in gratitude that my staff trusted me to respond appropriately. I laughed for all these reasons, yes. But to be honest, there was also the unburdening mirth of great relief. I would not have to see Mr. Johnston after all!

The Coronation of the Queen

Practically every veterinary hospital has a hospital mascot. These are usually rescue cats that Good Samaritans drop off for veterinary care or are patients whose owners discard them at the office, never intending to pick them up again. Veterinarians and their staffs are invariably good-hearted people who would rather gnaw off their own limbs than put such a kitty to sleep.

My own office is no exception. We have a long history of successive monarchs, Cy being the first. You may remember Cy if you read
Ask the Animals
. Cy’s story came full circle on the very day of her passing when a little gray kitty was presented to the office for euthanasia, a coincidence that happened to be very much in her favor. No one in the office that day had the heart to put another cat down, especially one who could benefit from a little love and attention. She became the next hospital mascot. That little gray kitten, like Cy, had to have one eye removed due to severe upper respiratory disease and the subsequent rupture of the globe. Because her circumstances were so similar to Cyclops’s, we named her Ditto. She was the second queen of the office.

Even though Ditto was missing an eye, her beautiful gray color, rich lustrous coat, and diminutive size made her an endearing figure in the hospital after Cy’s passing. It was fun to watch her grow, displaying the wonderful antics that make kittens so irresistible. The hospital staff was quickly drawn in by her. As an adolescent, she submitted without complaint to all the care kittens require in their first year. She went through her series of vaccines, let us collect stool and blood samples, and treat her ears for mites, her skin for fleas, and her intestines for worms. She even sailed through her surgical sterilization without batting her eye.

As a kitten, she made a bold statement to the clients when they saw the little bundle of gray energy on the reception desk. They, too, thought she was beautiful and showered her with attention. The kids, especially, wanted to hold her and hug her and carry her around the lobby. But as time went on and Ditto grew older, we realized she had one huge disadvantage that might compromise her success as a hospital mascot: She was gray!