The Gift of Pets: Stories Only a Vet Could Tell (34 page)

A New Home

The clinic constructed when I first opened the hospital was perfectly suited for one doctor and the three or four people I needed to assist me at the time. When the need arose for me to add a second doctor some six or seven years later, I was able to renovate the space, adding an examination room, a break room, and a couple of offices to accommodate the extra people. But when the clientele grew to a point where four doctors were needed, the building was just too small. It had only eighteen hundred square feet of clinical space, into which I had crammed three exam rooms, a postage stamp–size waiting room, a hallway that doubled as a laboratory, a tiny treatment room, a surgery room that could accommodate only one table, and a minuscule X-ray room. The lot was so small that no room was available to enlarge the building’s footprint, and the parking lot allowed only twelve spaces. My staff and I were forced to park along the street.

For far too long, I ignored the space constraints, until one day when an emergency patient requiring immediate surgery once again postponed the scheduled surgeries and hurled our day into chaos. It struck me that this could not go on indefinitely, and I was forced, against my will, to consider the construction of a new office building.

For months, Cynthia and I struggled with the decision, spending hours looking over the incredible capital investment this would require. Few people understand the significantly higher financial demands that exist for veterinarians compared to physicians. Setting up an office for us entails more than just a few examination rooms and a nurse or two. We cannot refer our patients next door to the hospital for diagnostic services. We must provide all those functions ourselves. So constructing a new veterinary facility must, by law, include the space and equipment for surgery suites, radiology functions, a laboratory, a pharmacy, hospital wards, and the trained personnel to man them. So considering a new hospital was a mammoth investment.

In the end, the decision was made for us when we recognized that the overcrowded conditions in the hospital were simply not sustainable. As time went on, we feared that we might well be charged as accessories to murder if we didn’t give our staff a bit more elbow room. We began to look for land in town on which to construct a new building.

In such a small community, this had to be done under the cloak of anonymity to prevent the rumor mill from whirling out of control. Most of our search was done simply by driving around the area, looking for land that might be ideal, whether or not it was listed for sale, and then making covert calls to real estate agents or trips to the courthouse to look up who the owners of the property were.

The lot that we settled on was being offered by the state power company, whose real estate overseers were three hours away in Richmond, a fact that worked to our benefit. When the survey revealed that the portion of their land they were willing to sell had no access to the road, the power company was ready to call off the deal. Through some last-minute negotiating with the owners of the land next door, we were able to secure a small triangle of their land that allowed access to the land-locked plot.

Since these maneuvers took over a year to complete, plans for the building were finished by the time the deal finally occurred. Jace and I had spent many hours tracing out floor plans for the office. Nothing like fourteen years of living with design flaws in one building to inspire a vision for a new space. The company we hired to design and build the office took our hand-scrawled plans, changed them to meet building codes, and returned to us detailed blueprints of a building that was my dream office. I would roll out the plans on our dining room table, spending hours poring over them, envisioning traffic flow, work patterns, and the best way to format the laboratory or position adequate storage. It was intoxicating to plan and dream.

The nine or ten months during construction were exciting times. To see the office take shape, growing out of a vision in my head into something tangible, was great fun, but it was also exhausting. Details like paint colors, tile selection, waiting room furniture, and countertop design took up enormous reserves of time and energy. Weekly meetings with the contractor and subcontractors kept the process moving despite the inevitable unexpected developments.

Our enthusiasm was diminished by reality only on the day of the closing, when our signatures were required on the legal documents that committed us to ungodly payments for years to come. Even that, though, could not dampen our excitement for long.

In the end, we were proud to unveil a state-of-the-art hospital boasting six examination rooms, a spacious treatment room, a surgical suite that would accommodate three surgical tables, a special-procedures room, and a beautiful waiting room for our clients. We more than tripled our clinical space and greatly improved the facilities for our patients, our boarders, our staff and doctors, and the groomer who works with us. We were positioned on three lovely acres at the center of commerce in the community, with room to expand in the future if necessary.

Moving day was a carefully orchestrated event with more tasks than we could accomplish in one day. We closed the hospital for three days, discharging all the patients and boarders, so we would not have to move animals, too. Each staff member was assigned specific tasks. Some had even invited houseguests to help with the move. Early in the morning on the day of the move, we gathered in the tiny break room in the lower level of the old office building to coordinate our efforts.

I don’t know what it was about the gathering that stimulated my nostalgia that morning, but I began to remember the accumulation of events in that building that had led to this day. I recalled the details of purchasing the land and building the office; of hiring my first two employees; of long hours spent bent over the surgery table in the tiny surgery room, tediously repairing nasty injuries. I remembered noble patients lost, loyal clients served, and dedicated staff members who had selflessly committed their best efforts to the work. I thought, with sadness, about Lisa and wished she was sitting with us. She would have been so proud of our accomplishments. I thought of Tilley, whose stone was under a tree on the west side of the building, and of Cy, whose stone was under another tree on the east side.

As these thoughts swirled around in my head, I couldn’t resist the urge to share them with the staff. They indulged my nostalgia very well, smiling at the memories they shared with me. A few of them even let a tear or two slide down their cheeks with me as we remembered. Then as a group, we made our way outside to the two trees, where we ceremoniously pulled up Tilley’s and Cy’s marker stones. They would go with us, of course—the very first things moved.

Cy’s stone now sits under a tree in the front of the new office. Few of our current clients remember now how she used to sit sphinxlike on the reception desk, welcoming people into the office, her one good eye surveying the patients as they filed nervously into the lobby. Even among the staff, there are now only a few who still hold memories of her—just Susan, Rachel, Cynthia, and me, in fact. And yet for me, her memory encompassed the essence of what had made a new building necessary. The same compassion and devotion to the animals that had saved Cy from the destiny that awaited her had been lavished on our other patients. Of course Cy’s stone would make this move with us. Placed with appropriate ceremony in a place of honor, it provided an emotional cornerstone for the new building;
CY—EVERYONE’S FRIEND.

And Tilley’s stone, too, made the transition from the old building to the new. It sits below a tree just outside my office window, where I can see it as I write records. It is a tribute not only to a courageous dog but to Lisa’s memory, and it is also a testament to the many dedicated staff members who, like Lisa, gave their very best to all those patients that made their way through our office, infusing our work with compassion, meaning, and humanity. It remains a reminder to me of the emotional and compassionate intertwining of hearts and hands, of science and souls, of lighthearted laughter and wrenching sadness that form the core of a veterinary hospital. Yes, it is a business, but one that enfolds within its mission the very essence of the fabric woven of the bond between individuals of different species.

It is indeed a Gift to experience this bond—a Gift that has been graciously bestowed on me as it had been on Lisa. But it is also a Gift to be the guardian of this bond, to be charged and entrusted with its protection and maintenance by people wholly consumed by it. This Gift, this magical and all-encompassing treasure, is at the heart of being a veterinarian. And it is a Gift that, for me, has offered untold rewards of love, of fulfillment, of joy and contentment. It has had its challenges, to be sure, but nothing could have provided me with a more wonderful life’s work than this. I know if Lisa were here to look with me at Tilley’s stone outside my office window, she would agree.

Acknowledgments

There are many people involved in bringing these simple stories to you. The first are those wonderful and eclectic groups of people and animals who are the subjects of the stories. All of the stories are true, though some dialogue may be altered and some people may be composites of several actual clients. For those of you who may recognize yourself in the narrative, please know that it is with appreciation and respect that I relayed your part in the stories told.

I am very appreciative of my office staff for being unwitting subjects in the book. Susan, Rachel, and Krystal are still employees in the hospital and have been very gracious about their inclusion in the book. Rachel, who continues her April Fools’ Day shenanigans (some of which have been cut from this memoir) got to choose her name in these pages. Susan, as of the spring of 2012, has worked with me in the office for twenty years, longer than many marriages.

Much gratitude goes to Lisa, though I cannot thank her personally, as you will see. I appreciate Lisa’s family for letting me tell a story that may be difficult for them to read. Lisa’s is a story of great courage and strength, of personal reinvention and professional growth. But it is also filled with sadness still for those who love her. Thank you, Amelia, Melanie, and Steven for allowing me to share her story with my readers.

I am greatly indebted to Cynthia, Jace, and Tucker for their patience with the process of writing this book. It was often a mistress that distracted me from family events. They are also featured in it, perhaps against their will. I love you all so very much and am grateful beyond words for each of you.

My agent, Jacques de Spoelberch, was a great help in honing and refining
The Gift of Pets
while keeping faith in its eventual success. He is to be credited for helping to keep a few stories in it that were slated for removal as too sad for animal lovers. When Simone passed, his faithful canine companion of many shared years and some 7,000 common miles, it was Jacques who argued that such sadness is a rich and valuable component of our lives with our pets. Even the sadness is a Gift, a testament to the depth of meaning they bring. Thank you, Jacques, for the assistance and professionalism you brought to this project.

A huge thank-you is extended to the entire team of wonderful professionals at Thomas Dunne Books. Toni Plummer has been a partner and active participant in bringing this book to you, and her skills, suggestions, and input have made it better than the manuscript she was originally presented. The copy editor, Carol Edwards, worked to improve the clarity and flow of the stories. And the cover designers, the typesetters, the publicity team, and the rest, whose names I don’t even know, make the production and distribution of books seem seamless and simple, though I can see that it is not.

Finally, I thank my readers who respond so positively to the telling of these stories. Many, many letters, responses on my author Web site (
www.brucecoston.com
), e-mails, and comments at book events have come my way, and they highlight how deep is the impact our animals have on our hearts. Thank you for reading these stories. Go ahead … tell your friends!

Also by Bruce R. Coston

Ask the Animals

About the Author

Bruce R. Coston, D.V.M., earned his Doctorate of Veterinary Medicine from the University of Minnesota. He currently resides in Virginia with his wife, their three cats (Webster, Phelps, and Kimi), and their dog (Starr). While not practicing in his hospital, he enjoys writing, golf, scuba diving, and any time spent on the lake.

Visit his Web site at
www.brucecoston.com
.

THE GIFT OF PETS. Copyright © 2012 by Bruce R. Coston. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

www.stmartins.com

Cover design by Kerri Resnick

Cover photograph of kitten by Orhan Cam/Shutterstock

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Coston, Bruce R.

    The gift of pets: stories only a vet could tell / Bruce R. Coston.—1st ed.

            p. cm.

    ISBN 978-1-250-00666-0 (hardcover)

    ISBN 978-1-250-01498-6 (e-book)

  1.  Pets—Anecdotes.   2.  Pet owners—Anecdotes.   3.  Veterinary medicine—Anecdotes.   I.  Title.

    SF411.5C674 2012

    636.088'7—dc23

2012011013

eISBN 9781250014986

First Edition: August 2012