“Dogs are my favorite people.”–Richard Dean Anderson
Bethany, CT is just a typical, quiet New England exurban town. Now. But some thirty years ago, when Cheryl started working there, it was still imbued with a certain quirky character hailing from its agrarian Yankee roots. The vet she worked for was a lanky, laconic and formal kind of guy who actually wore a tie to work, even on the road for large animal barn calls. If Dickens were alive in the 1980’s and living in New England, he would have found all the persona inspiration he could ever need right there in Bethany. This story hails from that era.
The client, Cathy X, was a groom at a local stable. She was short, chubby, slovenly and smelled like her work. It seems her dog, a massive Russian Wolfhound, was in distress, and she let Cheryl know about it the instant she walked in the clinic door.
“He’s got a twisted gut, I just know it.”
“What’s going on, Cathy?” My wife was a bit skeptical up front.
“Well…um…,” the exasperated woman could hardly get her words out, ” he’s lethargic, not eating, and his stomach is distended.”
Cheryl felt around and disagreed, it just didn’t feel like a torsion. She thought it was just an upset stomach. But the client persisted.
“Ok, Cathy, I’ll try a stomach tube and see what that yields.”
The idea here was simple, if the gut was twisted, the stomach tube would not pass. In went the tube–all the way in. Seek and ye shall find. VARRROOOOM. Almost immediately there arose a torrent of projectile vomiting. But it was not just gunk. It was black and white fur, followed by a completely intact trachea and set of lungs!
“OH MY GOD! I BETTER GO HOME AND COUNT THE CATS!”
Momentary silence (while everyone in the office painfully held back laughter).
“Um, maybe not,” my wife protested, “these organs are way too big to be a cat. And the smell…ugh.”
I assume by now you have figured it out. If not, let’s just say it was a mistake worthy of Pepe Le Pew.
You now have permission to hold your nose pending my next smelly post.