Dr. Whiteley.com "Almost a Vet"

    It was expected that we veterinary students would intern at an animal hospital the summer between our third and fourth years in veterinary school. I found a job at Anderson Animal Hospital in Alexandra, Louisiana. The arrangments that I made with Dr. Dawson, owner of the hospital, were $200 for the summer (this was 1967) and a room in his house.
     I shared the room with one of Dr. Dawson's five children. However, I had the house to myself the first week, because Dr. Dawson and his associate and their families departed for the American Veterinary Association Convention in Dallas soon after I arrived.
     In spite of being the newest employee at Anderson Animal Hospital, I was left in charge of seeing patients, because I was the one who was almost a vet. Today, I would never be allowed to practice without a license, but in the mid-sixties, rules were less stringently enforced.

Almost A Vet

     I immediately discovered that it was one thing to hold dogs and administer treatment in junior clinics and quite another to be standing across from a client and a sick pet. Earl, the kennel man who had worked at the hospital the longest, predating even Dr. Dawson, gave me the following advice that first morning; "If there's anything you're not sure of, just make an excuse and bring the patient to the back, and I'll help you." The "back" was treatment/boarding/surgery and the "front" was the reception/exam rooms: in those days the client did not go to the "back." The first two days, I managed to make an excuse to take every animal requiring more than a rabies vaccination to the back.
     Earl diagnosed a case of hardpad, a form of canine distemper that is rarely seen today, from the thickening of the dog's footpads. He diagnosed heartworms in another patient and leptospirosis, a disease I've seen only once during the ensuing thirty years. We treated sore throats, parasites, and ear mites. Other than cat neuters, I performed no surgery, and with Earl's help, I survived the week.
     I spent more time that summer with Earl than with anyone else. I became fond of him and respected his veterinary medical knowledge. Earl was black, had little formal education, but had worked for Old Doc, who was the Dr. Anderson from whom Dr. Dawson had bought the hospital. Earl had also worked for Old Doc's father who had orginally built the hospital.
     Old Doc had been a veterinarian in WWII and had come back from the war a paraplegic. With Earl's help, Old Doc had operatede Anderson Animal Hospital from a wheel chair. In those days, most veterinary hospitals catered to both large and small animals. Earl told me about the days when Old Doc was courting Miss Agnes, who became Old Doc's second wife. Much to Earl's chagrin, Old Doc would try to impress Miss Agnes by roping calves from his wheel chair; Earl said that it took twice as long to do something when Miss Agnes was along, because Old Doc was always trying to show off. I suspect that for many years Earl did most of the veterinary work that was performed behind the scenes.
     Earl and Dr. Dawson both seemed to take my ineptness in stride. It was my duty to take surgery patients to the front when it was time for them to go home and to explain to the owners about their after-care. I always gave the dog or cat a quick brushing and tried to make the animal look attractive before I released him. Once I cleaned a cat's ears with alcohol before taking him to the front. Dr. Dawson brought the cat, salivating and hyperventating, to the back a few minutes later.
     Dr. Dawson said, "I thought something was up when I saw those shiny, clean ears." He explained that an occasional cat is allergic to the copious amount of alcohol that I had applied to the sensitive ear skin. While he treated the hapless cat, Dr. Dawson shared the story of Dawson's Folly.
     "During my first job out of vet school, I worked for a practice in Little Rock. One of my boss's best clients brought her parrot Jessie in for a respiratory infection. I gave Jesse a penicillin shot, and he died in the cage after I left for lunch. When I returned, Jessie was hanging from a rope attached to the treatment room ceiling with a large sign reading 'Dawson's Folly'. It is the procaine preservative in most penicillin preparations that is toxic to birds."
     The cat with the allergic reaction to alcohol recovered, and I never again produced such shining ears or forgot about birds being allergic to procaine penicillin.
     One Sunday while Earl was feeding and cleaning and I was treating hospitalized patients, Mrs. Duruso brought in a little terrier named Tippy who had just been hit by a car. I decided to give Tippy a quick exam before trying to locate Dr. Dawson at home or church. Tippy looked fine and did not appear to have any broken limbs. I had just finished studying shock the previous semester at veterinary school, and I was intent upon imparting to Mrs. Duruso a sample of my superior knowledge on the subject.
     "Mrs. Duruso, even though Tippy looks okay and isn't limping, there is always the possibility that he could go into shock. I think that we ought to keep him for the day, monitor his progress, and have Dr. Dawson check him after church. If he's doing all right tomorrow, we might consider a radiograph, just to confirm that he has no broken bones. And, to be on the safe side, I'll give him an injection now to make sure that his blood pressure stays okay."
     Mrs. Duruso was paying rapt attention to my words of wisdom and seemed favorably impressed. About this time, I glanced at Tippy, and the patient had sort of melted into the exam table and was staring glassy-eyed into space. While I was busy impressing Mrs. Duruso with my knowledge about shock, poor Tippy had slipped into the terminal stages of it.
     I grabbed my syringe and loaded it with the solution that I had just spent critical minutes lecturing about. Tippy's blood pressure was so low, however, that I was unable to slip the needle into his vein. I left Mrs. Duruso in the exam room and, yelling for Earl, headed for the back with the dog. With my mentor's help, I managed to hit the vein and administer the drug; it was while I was attempting to attach an intravenous solution line to the needle that Tippy died.
      Tippy may have had such severe internal injuries that nothing I could have done would have saved him. I was convinced, however, that I had caused the pup's demise just as Dr. Dawson had injected the fatal dose into Jessie the parrot. I had been so intent on my performance that I had forgotten the most important part of medicine--the patient.
     I was fortunate that summer to have such great teachers--Tippy, Earl, and Dr. Dawson to name only a few. All taught me that there is more to being a veterinarian than book knowledge and that failures can be turned into learning experiences.