Bruno's Blog – a complete animal at work

The old boy vaccinated a minature schnauzer the other day.

It was the last patient of the day and as they walked out of the door, everyone sighed with relief at the thought that all there remained to do was clean up, tidy up, cash up, wash the floors, check the medicines stock, send out the order for tomorrow morning’s delivery, put on the last wash, turn on the ansaphone, prepare the surgery list for tomorrow, print off the consent forms, check the kennels collection and delivery list, close the safe, lock the medicines cabinet, lock the windows, water the plants, turn off the computers (and their screens – we’re very green), empty the bins, put the clinical waste in the freezer, lock the office, change into cycling kit and… get out of the door pronto in order to WALK THE DOG.

Just before item 9 on the check list, the phone rang.

“I don’t think Pepper is very well since the injection.”

Ahah.

“She’s running round the flat frantically rubbing her face against the floor and scratching her back against all the furniture. Could it be something to do with the vaccine?”

“Hmm. Could be. Has she ever done this before?”

To cut a long and not particularly fascinating story short, this did appear to be a vaccine reaction which was duly managed with some anti histamines, and soon enough all appeared to be well again.

And I got to go for a walk across the park.

So what is a vaccine reaction? The old man was reading out a recent study carried out by the Banfield veterinary hospital group

“Do you know, Bruno, that in a survey of 838,015 dogs vacccinated, 16 out of every 10,000 dogs had an adverse reaction to the vaccine, of which 2 out of every 10,000 had an anaphyllactic reaction. That’s the one where you puff up, can’t breathe, your circulation collapses and you’re quite likely to die.”

I’ve also heard him say before that reactions to vaccines are sufficiently common for many vets not to bother reporting them.

But hang on a sec, the old dinosaur is due to give me another rabies shot in a few weeks. He read on:

“Reactions are more common in small dogs”

Ulp!

“and young dogs”

Eek!

Now the Goat (that’s Nick the homeopathic vet, for those of you not paying attention earlier) says that vaccination can be a cause of all sorts of problems in some animals and people.

Vaccination is all about presenting allergens to the body in order to provoke the immune system into a response. In order to stimulate vaccine protection we need an immune response, but sometimes the immune system seems to go into overdrive, with unwanted consequences.

We’ll talk more of this later, but look on the bright side: 9,984 out of every 10,000 dogs vaccinated have no reported ill effects…

And if you’re worried about vaccine reactions, you can have a blood test to see if you actually need another vaccine for Distemper, Hepatitis or Parvovirus. Now that seems like a better idea.

Ask your vet.

 

Now don’t get me wrong, and I think I can say without fear of contradiction that spelling is not one of my intellectual strong points, but I’ve always been a little bit confused about this complimentary medicine lark.

What’s it all about? How does it work?

Do the compliments start the moment the client or patient comes into the consulting room?

“Good morning Mrs Smith. I must say you’re looking very well today. You know that colour really suits you, and your hair, it looks fantastic. You have such wonderful children, you’ve done such a great job raising them.”

Where does it all end?

“In fact, on behalf of the rest of the human race, I’d just like to say that you are THE most wonderful person on the planet, we’d all like to have babies/pets/lives/businesses with you now and for the rest of eternity.”

Or as the old man’s American friend said to him (with a slightly pained look on his face)

“Well it’s certainly a great idea, I guess, but er, how are you ever going to make a living if it’s all complimentary? I mean, that means it’s all free, right?”

Vetscriptions’ special Complementary Medicine Advisor, the world renowned Mr Nick ‘The Goat’ Thompson MRCVS is teaching some courses on this whole subject next month through CPD solutions. Specially tailored for Veterinary Surgeons and Veterinary Nurses, he will be introducing them to the world of veterinary homeopathy, acupuncture, osteopathy and herbal medicine, aiming to show them ways they can start to integrate these modalities into their everyday practice for the benefit of us, the animal kingdom.

Now I get it. This stuff complements the mainstream. Helps to make it work. Steps in when the mainstream doesn’t seem to work. For many people – including the old man and his family – it’s a first line of treatment, no matter what the problem.

The old man bangs on about it a lot and there’s all sorts of tinctures, massaging and needles going on at the clinic. Funny thing is, the patients seem to love it, and even the ones that have done the rounds at other clinics first often seem to get better. Must be something in it.

And your hair does look good this morning, really.

 

 

I know I have.

I like raw chicken. And human food. Not much else. I mean, I can’t eat that dry garbage in the morning, I really can’t. I don’t think they quite had me in mind when they were fine tuning the recipe.

“Now Gerald shall we put a little more cardboard in this one?”

“Ooh, no, perish the thought. I think maybe some mechanically recovered hydrolysed beaks and boiled feathers should do the trick.”

“Lovely. I know, lets call it chicken flavour (smirk smirk) and put a picture of a Labrador on the pack. They won’t mind, I’m sure.”

So this is my disorder: if there’s no raw chicken for breakfast, I don’t eat. I run a lot on the way to work, snatching the odd mouthful of grass, then I yak up on the consulting room floor in front of someone who either will give in and feed me something edible OR SOMEONE who will feel guilty and go off and get some raw chicken AS HE SHOULD.

I did it today, right in front of a rep from one of the pharmaceutical companies – you know the ones who are trying to flog that weight loss stuff. ‘In every fit dog there’s a fat dog’ or something, right around the time she was trying to explain away the fact that about 20% of the dogs on this stuff vomit. One way to lose weight, I suppose.

So which am I? Anorexic? A bit. Bulimic? Don’t think so, although I did eat too much lamb in one go once and then threw it all up. Does it count if you eat it again?

Fade to dream sequence…

“Ah, bonjour M’sieur chef, what would you like to prepare for ze little Jacques Roussell zis morning?”

“You know, I zinc I will take a little morcelle of, let me see, err, maybe poulet – ‘ow you say, cheeken – and we will serve it – yes! – wizzout cooking eet at all!!”

“Aah, chef, you are so brilliant wiz your revolutionary ideas for ze cuisine for ze little dog. Let us take it to ‘im on ze golden platter as ‘ee deserves, seeing as what ‘ee is so important, clever, ‘andsome, intelligent, fascinating, talented, athletic, strong, a natural leader of dogs, saviour of the known universe…”

What do you mean little?

 

Got soaked on the way to work this morning. I could tell it was Monday because (apart from the fact that Sunday was yesterday, therefore, yes, er, figure it out, today was not Tuesday) the old man strapped on the ipod for the cycle ride in and instead of the sad old motivational tapes we usually have to put up with, I could hear the tinkle of the Rolling Stones above the roar of the traffic.

Rank escapism for the middle aged. Must be Monday.

I think he sees himself as some sort of latter-day rocker at that time of day, humming away to U2 and the Doobie Brothers before going all pious at work and forcing them all to listen to Bach and Mozart while they’re in theatre. Leah was complaining loudly and threatened to slit her wrists if he played another dirge, whilst he lost himself in the gruesome business of operating on something.

I don’t like the smell. She didn’t like the music. We’re a great team.

Then on the way home after a walk in the park, we were careering through the back streets of Chelsea when some people sauntered acros the road in front of us, blissfully unaware of the oncoming juggernaut a.k.a. vet on a bike with VIP dog in luxury rucksack carrying thing, looking nervously over his shoulder. Frantic pinging on his weedy little bell thing failed to get them out of the way, so he had to brake sharply, narrowly missing the wally on the phone. Mild mannered middle class twit (the old man, that is) cursed him loudly, casting vile Anglo-Saxon aspersions on the poor man’s procreational and manual skills. 

Given his somewhat fruity choice of language – a little excessive in tone, I thought, given the innocent nature of the poor pedestrian’s transgression – I suspect that the old man’s rank ipod escapism had got the better of him, leading him to believe that a) he was in fact well hard and b) the music was loud enough for no one else to hear what he called him.

Wrong on both counts, as usual. The rather genteel crowd outside the concert hall were horrified…

Sunday is a day off, right?

That means hanging around at home, getting up late, taking a walk in the park, watching a cowboy movie in the afternoon, reading the papers and generally not going to work…

Ok so this morning the boy gets up at 7.30 to log on and start playing World of Warcraft. This goes on for an hour or so.

The dinosaur emerges around 8, looking fuzzy at the edges and announces that we have to leave by 8.30. “OK” I go as I tuck into my club class chicken leg, although I saw him put the bag – empty – into the trash. This worries me for tomorrow morning.

The girl remains in bed. Replete, I go back upstairs and slip gently back into the arms of morphia, ready to accompany her as she voyages on her long weekend journey through the borders of sleep.

The old man and a reluctant boy go out and the woman goes off to do her charity calls. Phew. Peace and quiet.

When they come back to pick us up, it is to take part in Horsemans’ Sunday. At St Johns Church in Bayswater, they have a church service once a year for horses. After the main service, a hundred or so horses turn up in all their finery for second service in front of the church!

Everyone sings Jerusalem, the horses get rosettes and I get to strain at the leash for a while as a selection of dogs, snacks, people and other smells parade past me. Phwor – I fancy that Meg & Penny double whammy Jack Russell combo. Are they sisters?

The old man has a stand there as the local vet. If it serves a purpose it’s beyond me, but it’s quite funny seeing a vicar on horseback, but then I don’t  get out much.

Actually that’s not true, but I don’t get to go to church much.

Did I say sleep?

‘night.

Unless you’ve got crap teeth, in which case I’d keep your trap shut if I were you.

The old man’s been banging on about this being Pet Smile Month, but as you and I know it is not every dog that is able to smile properly, at the appropriate moment, with all the correct subtle nuances for maximum dramatic effect.

Oh yes, a perfectly executed rictus sardonicus is not to be sneezed at.

But I digress. Pet Smile Month is not about smiling at all, which makes it a pretty damn fool name for the month, but never mind. It’s all about DENTAL CARE.

Most pets do have crap teeth, we know that. Why do you think they call it dog breath? Why do you think we don’t kiss each other?

The vet dentists say that something like two thirds of pets over 3 years old have identifiable dental disease that funnily enough can be treated by, er, vet dentists, so watch out, lads, they’re onto us.

Brush your teeth, you filthy varmits. Eat your bones. Demand them. Stand up for your rights.

By the way, I seem to have been upgraded to Club Class at home recently. Chicken wings are just so yesterday in our household. We now dine on raw chicken drumsticks, which is a great improvement.

Two stars while it lasts.

Talking of teeth, Gertie the Peke came into the clinic today, and celebrated Pet Smile Month in her own special little way by sneezing and ejecting one of her less than pristine teeth straight onto the consulting room table.

Her owner went a slightly paler shade of pale as the old man opened her (Gertie’s) mouth to reveal a set of gnashers worthy of Gaudi’s cathedral in Barcelona. Calculus like concrete encrusted every tooth. Not a trace of ivory enamel to be seen anywhere.

Now Gertie maintains a somewhat delicate equilibrium, so even the old man now hesitates to discuss anaesthesia. But worried that the paint on the wall was starting to peel off, we donned Chemical and Biological Warfare suits against the fumes and chipped off some of the worst as Gertie’s remaining eye nearly popped out of her head in horror.

Pet Smile Month.

Pah!

Did you know about narcolepsy?

Now as any fule know, it’s a chronic sleep disorder characterised by excessive daytime sleepiness (sounds familiar – I’ve clearly got it) and sleep paralysis (since when did you last see me running around in my sleep? But now you mention it, the boy often sleepwalks, so he obviously hasn’t got it).

The other signs are hypnagogic hallucinations and cataplexy, the aetiology of which in both the receptor null mutation and loss of ligand production forms is associated with a deficit in hypocretin/orexin neurotransmission.

Have I lost you yet? The old man was actually reading some of this stuff in the veterinary press last night “because dobermanns, retrievers and dachshunds are prone to it”. Ooops I can feel myself nodding off again…

Canine narcolepsy rocks…or was it cataplexy?

Someone say CAT?

 Zzzzzz

I’m fine. No, really. I’m fine.

Listen, I stopped limping a few hours later. Crazy Stena took me for a walk in the afternoon and didn’t even notice. Truth be told, I actually forgot about it, otherwise I could have milked it for far more than I did. The response overall was quite good though, while it lasted.

The old man tried to check my blood pressure today, using a new toy he’s trying out. Couldn’t get it to work on me, of course. Mainly because I applied my patented Mind-Body-Central-Control System and stopped my heart beating during the entire procedure.

I did get a bit light headed but fired her up again once he’d taken the silly inflatable cuff thing off my arm, and all was well.

He’d have been better off taking his own blood pressure earlier on – he was stressing about checking a quiet little cat when Tsar the gormless Labrador was in the kennels and wouldn’t stop whittering and barking…

If anyone wants to try my patented Mind-Body-Central-Control System, by the way, I’m thinking of running some seminars later this year. Just let me know.

Beautiful morning, had a huge raw chicken wing for breakfast, everything going swimmingly. Off to the park, running around chasing the fresh air, lovely lovely lovely.

But now my right elbow really hurts and I can’t remember why.

The old man has poked and prodded my leg (although he wasn’t wearing his glasses, which made me wonder whether he was really paying attention) and decided – correctly, for a change - that it is my elbow. It is.

He gave me some slightly sickly gloop called medicine and I have retired to bed.

Think of me, email me, send me sympathy cards, show you care, because I hurt.

One of the things about the kids going back to school is that I revert back to going to work with the old man every day.

Now this is generally great (the other day there was some confusion about where I was – the old man had left me at home because he’d gone to work on the motorcycle but the woman thought I’d gone with him. Which I hadn’t. I was hiding under the bed upstairs. She goes out and sets the alarm which was fine until I heard a bird in the garden and went down to investigate….)

So it’s back to work each day. We go on his bicycle, him riding, me being carried in my special luxury dog-o-zine on his back. Until we reach the park at which point I am released and run around like crazy until we get bored and head off to the surgery.

The only thing is, sometimes I’m not that keen on the back pack thingy. I don’t know why exactly, but it’s just like that. I think I’m going to ask him for one of those DAP collars for my birthday (oh did I mention that I was 3 last week? You didn’t know? Hmm, he seems to have forgotten too, so wrapped up in his own birthday bash at the weekend).

Bloody virgos.

DAP. Dog Appeasement Pheromone. Bloody silly name, but it works a treat and that’s good enough for me. Smells like mum and makes me feel all relaxed and warm and cuddly. Great for travelling. Great for highly strung terriers.

Not that I am one.