Vets

Fresh out of reading matter, I've been rereading James Herriot for probably the fourth time. And like every time before, I'm amazed at how he does it: the cold nights attending cows in labor in the byres, the crusty farmers, the patient beasts, his own foibles. How did this lively voice emerge unscathed from decades of large-animal practice?

And I've been thinking about my maternal grandfather, also a vet, whose career overlapped Herriot's (my grandfather was probably fifteen years his senior) in Spain rather than Yorkshire. Like Herriot, by the time my grandfather retired in the 1960's his work had changed from healing mules, donkeys and horses to overseeing sanitation and medication practices for industrial chicken farms and piggeries.

As veterinarian, he had been one of the quartet of professional men reigning over the village, the others being the doctor, the mayor, and the priest. But my grandfather was different from them: he did not go to church—a gesture far bolder than, say, being a tattooed transsexual in the middle of Kansas in this day and age. He also, in the early decades of the 20th century, scandalized everyone by insisting that my grandmother accompany him to the movies, the only man in the village to do so.

Another one of his traits, and one that drove my grandmother to distraction, was his reluctance to demand payment for services. People didn't have to ask for credit—he offered it voluntarily. “Did you see how those children were dressed?” he would respond as my grandmother complained about yet another unremunerated visit. “I couldn't possibly stand there and ask for money. Do you want those people to starve?” It didn't matter how much a client owed. If a mule fell into a ditch or a cow came down with mastitis, my grandfather would put on his cap, hop on his bicycle, and get to work.

That was in the days when I knew him, in the long summers that my parents and I spent at my grandparents' farm. But years before I was born, before the Spanish Civil War changed everything, my grandfather used to drive to his visits in his own car. But with the war, the car was requisitioned by the Republican forces, food became scarce, and my grandfather and his family knew the terror of rushing out of bed in the middle of the night and cowering in a nearby ditch to escape bombardments.

They also knew the terror of civil strife, where old grudges were settled by a false accusation, a knock on the door at dawn, and execution in the field behind the house. The middle class, the well-to-do were special targets of the rage of the disaffected poor.

And here is where my grandfather's reluctance to exact payment from his peasant clients saved the entire family. In the anarchy of the war, when certain villages were marked for certain raids, my grandfather would secretly be given advance warning, told to keep his head low and disappear for a few days.

I don't remember much about his work as a vet. It either took place away from the house or, when an animal was brought to him, I was kept indoors, well out of the way. But I must have seen something, because one of my favorite games was to “disinfect” my toy horse's leg by rubbing it briskly with a rag, fling the rag to the ground as I'd seen my grandfather do with used cotton swabs, administer a shot by means of a discarded nail, then pick up the rag, disinfect, and start all over again....I think about that, every time I give one of my goats a shot.

October 21, 2008, "Wolfie's Work"

In the house, I'm always stepping over one or the other of my dogs, for they love to position themselves in strategic places from which they can monitor the household activities. I am told that this is typical of German Shepherds, who are apt, on their own initiative, to take responsibility for all kinds of things.

I also spend time pondering the mysteries of their dog-to-dog relationship. Lexi is ten. She is a very girly bitch, too smart for her own good, and with an independent streak. She is also beset by age-related aches and stiffnesses. Wolfie, not quite two years old, big of head and black of fur, outweighs her by some 15 pounds, and loves her with all his heart.

Wolfie has learned most of what he knows from Lexi. He watches her constantly, sniffs where she sniffs, barks when she barks. When we are outside, and she ranges far afield, he positions himself between her and me, looking anxiously from one to the other, worrying that we'll get separated.

Most of the time, she pays him no mind, hardly looks at him, except to occasionally take a bone away from him (she, who hasn't chewed a bone since she was a pup). She will no more let him lie down close to her than she will let him lick her bowl.

Wolfie badgers her a lot, sometimes roughly, to play, but in their games he's the only one I've ever heard yelp. When she's had enough, she nips his leg, and that's the end of it. In every way, Lexi with her fine muzzle and her big eyes lords it over her galoot of a companion. Until recently I would have said that if they were to be separated, Lexi would hardly notice, whereas I would worry about Wolfie's sanity.

Lately, however, I've begun to wonder. I first noticed something odd when I took both dogs to the vet a few weeks ago. Since they were only going to get their bordetella immunizations, I took them into the examination room together. Now Lexi in her long life has had blood taken and thermometers stuck under her tail innumerable times, and as a result she is apprehensive about the vet's. She paces restlessly while we're waiting, and though she never growls, she does her best to elude the hands that are trying to give her a shot or take a blood sample. This time, with Wolfie in the room, it was different. There was no anxious pacing during the wait. There was no trying to get away when the immunization was administered.

But it was during nail-trimming that I realized that something was really going on. If there is one thing that Lexi hates even more than going to the vet's, it's having her nails trimmed. Not that I trim her nails. I file them. This is the unsatisfactory compromise that she and I have settled on since the day I nicked her toe ten years ago.

When it's nail-trimming time, I put her on a down/stay, give her a treat, grasp a paw and start filing. It takes forever. My own fingernails get messed up in the process, and Lexi, even with the aid of treats, does not cooperate. She wiggles, she pulls her paws away, she struggles, she whines. I alternately encourage, implore, command, center myself and breathe, administer more treats, and eventually give up and let her go.

Wolfie on the other hand gets his nails done with a regular dog nail clipper. When I tell him to, he plops down on his side, leans his head on my thigh, and heaves a great big sigh. I give him a treat, and in a couple of minutes the job is done.

I used to put Wolfie in his crate while I worked on Lexi's nails, worried that he would upset her by coming near her, go for the treats, or otherwise disrupt the precarious balance of the procedure. But we've put away the crate because Wolfie no longer needs it, so the last couple of times I decided to trust that he would stay out of the way while I filed Lexi's nails.

And here is the strange thing. Wolfie did not stay away. Instead he plopped himself down right next to Lexi, almost touching her, and put his nose down on his paws. I was steeling myself for major snaps and growls from Lexi when I realized that, instead, she was lying placidly on her back, her paw limp in my hand as I filed away, a look of utter relaxation on her face. Well, I thought, this will all change when I start to file her hind paws (always the more problematic), or when Wolfie gets antsy and starts moving around.

But nothing changed. Lexi let me work on her hind paws and Wolfie kept his nose millimeters from her fur, his body pressed against my leg. He was so relaxed that he could have been asleep, except that his eyes were open and alert. If I hadn't been afraid of interrupting the moment's magic, I would have hugged him, for seeing a job that needed doing, and stepping up to the plate.

Large dogs age quickly, and the day will eventually come when we will have to do Lexi the mercy of euthanasia. I have often wondered how I will plan it so that she will not feel stress or anxiety, for even more than about losing her, I am appalled by the thought that she might be afraid at the end. Now I know that, when that day comes, Wolfie will be there to ease the moment for his old friend, as well as for me.