Read Online Vet Tech Tales: The Early Years by Phoenix Sullivan - Free Book Online
Authors: Phoenix Sullivan
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on the male Golden. Can you get it for me, please?”
I winced. Reese was always polite enough. “Please” and “thank you” had always fallen easily from her lips. If only there had been any hint of sincerity behind them. But she struck me as a little too cold, a little too calculating. And the nearly two years I had spent away had not changed her a whit. Couple that with her habit of peering over the top of her reading glasses and making snap judgments regarding people, animals or situations, and it became clear why most anyone acquainted with her for any length of time went from being easy and open in her presence to being guarded and standoffish. Passive/aggressive behavior has a way of distancing those who catch on to it.
But it wasn’t merely the insincere “please” that made me wince. A proper scale for weighing larger animals was not in Norris’ budget. So instead of leading a big dog onto a low platform and simply getting the pooch to stay still in order to get an accurate weight, we had a pair of ordinary bathroom scales in each exam room. One of the assistants would step on the scale and weigh themself first, then pick up the dog and weigh dog and self together. A quick exercise in subtraction, and the result would be reported on the record for everyone’s future reading pleasure.
Forty and 50 pound pups posed little problem. Sixty and 70 pound animals topped my comfortable weight limit, and only if the animals were tractable. Trying to heft a struggling dog off the floor, find and step onto the tiny scale platform, then look over the bulk of the thrashing animal at the wildly fluctuating dial hoping for it to settle on a number for even a split second could strain anyone’s back. Occasionally, one of the vets would step in to help keep a struggling dog still. Or another assistant would be called in to help lift the dog. But the ultimate position for the dog was, by necessity, resting in the arms of one person perched atop the scale.
I eyed the Golden Retriever in question. Big-boned and well-fed, he would easily weigh in at 90 to 95 pounds. I figured I might have had 10 pounds on the dog. Certainly no more than that. Dr. Reese carried double my weight and more. Maybe she was too embarrassed to step on the scales herself. Maybe she was truly afraid of springing them with the additional weight of a heavy dog. At any rate, in all the time I worked at the clinic, I never once saw her step on the scale to weigh an animal. And part of me harbored the theory that whatever other motivations might have been lurking in her refusal to step on the scales, control was certainly foremost among them.
Where Dr. Norris took his pleasure in overt control, Reese delighted in passive control. “Can you come help me, please?” is the request I would get after Dr. Reese searched me out. In the early days, I hoped my help was needed to control a feisty dog or cat. Or, better yet, to help in some diagnostic procedure. Most of the time, I would enter the exam room and there would be an obese German Shepherd, a massive Mastiff, or a tall Wolfhound – something close to my weight and size – that needed to be weighed. And as often as not, the owner would be a sturdy male in the prime of life who took his workouts at the gym quite seriously.
Often the sturdy male would offer, “Oh here, let me do that,” as I moved toward scale and dog. And before I had a chance to reply, Reese would quickly point out, “No, that’s what Phoenix is here for.” Only on the rare occasion when it was clear an enormous dog would simply dwarf me, would Reese relent and allow me to step on the scales and let the owner help get the dog into my arms.
And every time, Reese smiled and laughed as I grit my teeth and heaved the dog up without complaint. This time was no different. Luckily, Jess proved to be polite and accommodating as most Goldens are, and the dial stopped briefly at 194 pounds before my grip on Jess gave and down he went,
I winced. Reese was always polite enough. “Please” and “thank you” had always fallen easily from her lips. If only there had been any hint of sincerity behind them. But she struck me as a little too cold, a little too calculating. And the nearly two years I had spent away had not changed her a whit. Couple that with her habit of peering over the top of her reading glasses and making snap judgments regarding people, animals or situations, and it became clear why most anyone acquainted with her for any length of time went from being easy and open in her presence to being guarded and standoffish. Passive/aggressive behavior has a way of distancing those who catch on to it.
But it wasn’t merely the insincere “please” that made me wince. A proper scale for weighing larger animals was not in Norris’ budget. So instead of leading a big dog onto a low platform and simply getting the pooch to stay still in order to get an accurate weight, we had a pair of ordinary bathroom scales in each exam room. One of the assistants would step on the scale and weigh themself first, then pick up the dog and weigh dog and self together. A quick exercise in subtraction, and the result would be reported on the record for everyone’s future reading pleasure.
Forty and 50 pound pups posed little problem. Sixty and 70 pound animals topped my comfortable weight limit, and only if the animals were tractable. Trying to heft a struggling dog off the floor, find and step onto the tiny scale platform, then look over the bulk of the thrashing animal at the wildly fluctuating dial hoping for it to settle on a number for even a split second could strain anyone’s back. Occasionally, one of the vets would step in to help keep a struggling dog still. Or another assistant would be called in to help lift the dog. But the ultimate position for the dog was, by necessity, resting in the arms of one person perched atop the scale.
I eyed the Golden Retriever in question. Big-boned and well-fed, he would easily weigh in at 90 to 95 pounds. I figured I might have had 10 pounds on the dog. Certainly no more than that. Dr. Reese carried double my weight and more. Maybe she was too embarrassed to step on the scales herself. Maybe she was truly afraid of springing them with the additional weight of a heavy dog. At any rate, in all the time I worked at the clinic, I never once saw her step on the scale to weigh an animal. And part of me harbored the theory that whatever other motivations might have been lurking in her refusal to step on the scales, control was certainly foremost among them.
Where Dr. Norris took his pleasure in overt control, Reese delighted in passive control. “Can you come help me, please?” is the request I would get after Dr. Reese searched me out. In the early days, I hoped my help was needed to control a feisty dog or cat. Or, better yet, to help in some diagnostic procedure. Most of the time, I would enter the exam room and there would be an obese German Shepherd, a massive Mastiff, or a tall Wolfhound – something close to my weight and size – that needed to be weighed. And as often as not, the owner would be a sturdy male in the prime of life who took his workouts at the gym quite seriously.
Often the sturdy male would offer, “Oh here, let me do that,” as I moved toward scale and dog. And before I had a chance to reply, Reese would quickly point out, “No, that’s what Phoenix is here for.” Only on the rare occasion when it was clear an enormous dog would simply dwarf me, would Reese relent and allow me to step on the scales and let the owner help get the dog into my arms.
And every time, Reese smiled and laughed as I grit my teeth and heaved the dog up without complaint. This time was no different. Luckily, Jess proved to be polite and accommodating as most Goldens are, and the dial stopped briefly at 194 pounds before my grip on Jess gave and down he went,
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