Opinion/Saralee Perel: A midnight race to the emergency veterinary hospital
It was 3:30 in the morning when my husband, Bob, and I drove home from the emergency clinic at Cape Cod Veterinary Specialists (CCVS) in Buzzards Bay last week. We had been there since 6:15 the night before.
What happened was this: early that evening my young cat, Jordie, suddenly began making deep guttural sounds. He held his mouth wide open as he struggled to get air. He was panting heavily ― his belly enlarging and deflating rapidly.
He could barely breathe.
He needed emergency care pronto.
We’ve had Jordie since he was a baby. When we first saw him, he was in a cage in our vet’s pre-operative room. The sign on his cage read: “No food or water,” because he was about to have his back leg amputated. Apparently, he had been abused. In fact, his owner simply left his bloody, torn-up body on the doorstep of a shelter.
Even knowing the challenges of a three-legged cat, Bob asked, “Has he been spoken for?” Our vet, the wonderful Larry Venezia, said the kitten had no home, to which Bob replied, “He does now.”
On the night we drove Jordie to the emergency hospital, he wailed. The more he cried, the worse his breathing became. What should have been a half-hour drive turned into two hours. I knew he’d die before we made it to the clinic.
“Please Jordie,” I whispered, “please keep living; please keep breathing.”
Jordie’s been on meds for chronic asthma, but I’ve never seen him anything even remotely like he was that night.
According to my GPS, we were just two minutes away. Have you ever tried finding this remote hospital? It’s off a tiny dirt road around a rotary. It is not marked with an exit sign. There are no lights to see by. We passed that exit more than five times and each time, the route put us back on the mid-Cape highway, where there was no way off for 14 excruciatingly long miles.
I prayed to God: “Please help us find our way.”
When I finally opened the hospital’s front door, I heard shouting between pet parents and the CCVS staff. Parents were furious about the long wait times. There was a huge sign that read something close to: “Using abusive language to our employees will not be tolerated.”
The staff, exhausted and frustrated, kept repeating the same things: “You’ll be asked to leave if you don’t control your temper. There’s just one vet taking care of this whole hospital. We’re doing the best we can.” I saw family pets struggling to stand, to walk, to breathe. Bleeding. Their parents sobbing and screaming.
We waited for nine hours before seeing a vet.
There’s a unique aura in the waiting room of a vet’s hospital, and I imagine in the waiting room of a children’s hospital. Parents become one. We have the same expressions of agonizing worry and dread, as well as the same “what-if?” thoughts. We talk like sisters and brothers. I took a walk with a fellow whose dog was in a car crash. I prayed with a woman holding a cross.
Every hour, I approached the front desk asking about Jordie’s status. Even I was shouted at: “We’re doing everything we can!”
“I know,” I said softly. “I just need to know if my cat is still alive.”
Around 3 a.m. we finally saw the vet. Dr. Elizabeth Austin was exceptional. She saved his life with an oxygen mask and medicines. She patiently answered a billion questions. When she showed us Jordie’s X-rays, she pointed out the thick, dense matter swamping most of his lungs ― lungs that should have been perfectly clear. She indicated that with this life-threatening asthma, he would “suffocate and die” without treatment.
In sickness and in health …
Ever since Jordie’s been back home, he’s been happier than I’ve seen him in years. I’ll tell you; this cat has never, ever snuggled. In fact, he’s a vile little monster. He’s always been gruff with me; he bites me repeatedly; he has awoken from a catnap only to leap high in the air then latch ― teeth first ― onto my face.
I have never heard Jordie purr.
Until that night.
And so, this Christmas there will be many presents under the tree (that Jordie will rip to pieces). But the best present of all will be this little three-legged once-abandoned black cat. In spite of his abusive upbringing, he wound up with a happy life and a family that loves him ― ferociousness and all.
I couldn’t be more grateful.
Award-winning columnist, Saralee Perel, lives in Marstons Mills. She can be reached at: sperel@saraleeperel.com or Facebook. Her column runs the first Friday of each month.
This article originally appeared on Cape Cod Times: At the veterinary hospital, stress and compassion in equal parts
