I feel sorry for veterinarians. It must be so difficult to be trained to save animals’ lives and then be told on a regular basis that owners can’t afford the treatment. Economic euthanasia, it’s called. Jerry still vividly recalls being at the specialty hospital with our Greyhound and watching a father have to tell his young son that they couldn’t afford to treat their dog. I would never judge anyone who’s made that decision, and I am grateful every day that I’ve never had to make it. But today, I hope that I was able to make a veterinarian’s day. I think maybe I did, a little bit anyway.
I had to take Twyla to the hospital this morning. When Jerry got up to feed the girls, he noticed that Twyla’s breathing sounded wet, and occasionally she was having a little trouble drawing breath. He didn’t think she should wait to be seen at our regular vet, so I drove her to the ER. Luckily, the timing and the traffic gods were with us, and we didn’t get stopped in rush-hour traffic and no traffic cops saw me zoom through a green light going 60 instead of 50. They took us right in–I had called ahead–and within a few minutes the veterinarian was telling me that Twyla was in congestive heart failure.
“You should know that once they reach this stage, the prognosis isn’t very good,” she said. “Do you want to proceed with treatment?”
I probably had a stunned expression on my face. “Of course.”
Later, she was giving me the estimate for two to three days of hospitalization, in something of a resigned tone of voice. I’m sure the voice in her head was thinking, “Well, now she’ll change her mind.”
She barely got the numbers out before I said “Fine.”
Then she smiled big.
Now I’m smiling, for a while, anyway, because Twyla is doing better. We might be able to take her home tomorrow.
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