Arnold's Guardian Angel

I set the last dog of my evening into the recovery cage, on the thin yellow blanket, I prepared specifically for him.  The animal was still relatively lifeless, but that would change within the hour.   The anesthesia would wear off, the dog would be groggy for an hour or two, opening his eyes for a moment before closing them again, but should be back to his happy dog self in less than a day.  

Someone, in the last twenty-four hours, had named the gray and black wired hair terrier, Arnold.  I didn’t feel that the name fit him, but I was not there to give him a name.  I was there to neuter him, give him his shots, and make sure he was healthy for adoption from a loving family.  

I prefer to take the night shift opposed to most of the other part time vets in the center.  I do a majority of my burdensome work when I have extra hands to help, and the more mundane tasks when I am alone.  It allows me to take time to connect with the animals and understand where they came from.  Many of them had owners that beat or mistreated them or someone found them on the streets.  By the time our center receives them, they are often scared and unsure of their future. I like to let them know they are now safe.  No one will hurt them now.

I checked the clock on the wall.  I had been in the center for eight hours so far and although I would have liked to go home, shower and drink a large glass of Pinot Grigio, I couldn’t allow the anesthesia to wear off without monitoring the four little pups I treated this evening myself.  After all, who else would do it?

I retreated to the breakroom, retrieving a cup of coffee in an ‘I Heart All Animals’ ceramic mug and my phone from my locker.  I propped myself up on one of the metal chairs facing the wire cages where my recent patents rested all in various states of sedation. 

It is this moment of silence that I can read a few pages of my book before the morning crew walks into the center and starts the day, a day opposite of mine.  Every page, I glance up, making sure the animals are all in the stages I expect them to be in.  After about ten pages, Arnold is still not awake. 

“That is strange.”  I moved closer to Arnold to check his breathing and although I can see his chest moving up and down below the cone, it is slower and more shallow than it should be.  I take out my stethoscope to check my hypothesis.  Although I checked his heart rate ahead of his neutering, it appeared a heart condition may have gone undetected prior to surgery.  Was this my mistake or the part time vet before me?   

I glance at the clock, no one else should arrive for another hour.   I could wait until I have a second pair of hands and second opinions to help or I can dive right in and save this puppy’s life.  I unlocked the cage, placed the dog on the nearby operating table and scrubbed my hands at the nearby sink replacing my dry hands with rubber gloves. 

I work with the speed that allows me accuracy.  I take ex-rays of Arnold’s organs and review prior blood tests to help diagnose the problem.  Once I am sure what I need to do, I act without second guessing what my well-trained hands will do.  

By the time my heart calms, I hear slight voices outside the operating room.  I know that the day has started for most of my coworkers.  The good news is that they can take some of the burden off of me, but the bad news is that I can’t release it that easily.  I need to know that Arnold will be okay.  I need to know that all the animals I treat will be okay. 

With care, I placed Arnold back into the cage I took him from, replacing his IV with fluids I had attached him to before his breathing slowed.

“How was the night?”  Felicity asked, walking into the aftercare room.  Felicity had worked at the adoption center for a few months and, despite her constant upbeat attitude, she was growing on me.  But just like many others before her, it is possible that she quits this job for an opportunity that pays twice what she currently makes at the adoption center.  

“This little guy gave me a bit of a scare this morning, but other than that.  Everything went smoothly.” I said.  I scrunch my face at Arnolds groggy mug and continued with the details of Arnold’s brush with death.

“How about you go home and get some sleep?  I’ll take it from here.” 

I bob my head stopping only when I realize the unconscious gesture.  I slug to the break room to collect my things, a canvas bag and a jacket for the frigid air outside, and walk out into the common halls where the public can view adoptable pets.

“Good morning, Beatrix.  Good morning, Yosemite Sam.  Good morning, Roger.” I say to all my prior patience.  

As I get towards the main doors, I spot Ursula, a Cardigan Welsh Corgi, on a thin black leash at the adoption desk.  A little girl is hunched next to her, placing her face in the kanine’s fur.  A man sat next to the little girl, discussing with Charlotte, our adoption coordinator, the intricacies of pet adoption.  

 I remember when Ursula came into the center.  She was skinny and her hair was matted.  She had a severe case of worms I treated her for, and she had two decaying teeth I had to pull.  But watching her with a new family I can only believe will care and love her, I am so thankful for the good people in this messed up world.