plenty in mine.
Taking hold of his halter, I led him up on the sidewalk and started back for the office, waving a grateful hand at the cars. My heart was pounding as though it wanted to jump out of my chest.
A shaken Gina met me halfway back. Her face was pale and she had a hard time thanking me. It wasn't lack of gratitude; she was having a hard time talking. She clipped the lead rope back on the halter and we both stared at it.
"I don't know how it came off," she said.
I wondered if her anxiety level over Tony was so high she'd simply forgotten to clip the rope on correctly in the first place, then decided it didn't much matter at this point.
Back in the parking lot, I helped her load the horse and watched her pull out while my heart slowed down. Then I went in the office to check my schedule.
The first thing on the list made me say, "Uh-oh" out loud. It was a horse I'd seen earlier that week, a twenty-six-year-old horse that belonged to a woman who'd owned him since she was sixteen and he was seven. She'd turned him out to pasture with some friends who didn't know much about horses, and the old horse had gotten to be skin and bones without their realizing it. When his owner had gone to see him she'd been aghast and brought him home, but shortly after that he'd gotten a respiratory disease. I'd been to see him and given her the appropriate antibiotics and instructions, but it didn't look good, and I'd told her so. Old horses had a tendency to get pneumonia under those circumstances, and if they were as run-down as this one they tended to die of it.
I went on out and got in the truck, checking to make sure I had the necessary drugs to put the horse down. Giving a horse the green needle, as it had been called in vet school, always filled me with a mix of sadness and anger, even when it was obviously the only thing to do. I hated to lose a patient; it was both a personal defeat and a reinforcement of the underlying futility of my profession. It was my job to preserve life, and I always battled fiercely to do so, but neither I nor anyone else could succeed in an ultimate sense.
Teresa Kelly was waiting for me out at her barn, and I could tell by one look at her face that the news wasn't good. It was obvious she'd been crying. She had bright red hair and a round, chubby face with lots of freckles and she looked terrible, her skin dead white, with the freckles standing out like sores, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. I felt a rush of sympathy for her. I knew that I was going to feel pretty bad when Blue's time was up, or Gunner's.
Teresa shook her head when I got out of the truck. "He's a lot worse, Gail. I probably should have called you a couple of days ago, but I kept hoping he'd get better. I know what you're going to say when you see him."
I looked at her and looked down, wishing I could find the right thing to say. This type of situation was hard, and unfortunately common in the veterinary trade. I felt a lot of empathy with people when they were grief-stricken over their animals, but I also knew I couldn't let my emotions run away with me. If I took every animal I lost too deeply to heart, the job would rapidly become so stressful I wouldn't be able to do it.
"Let's go have a look at him," I told Teresa gently.
She led me to a clean stall at the back of the old shed that served as a barn. The horse was there, lying on his chest in a bed of crisp shavings. I could hear the labored wheeze of his breathing from the door.
I checked him over carefully as a matter of routine, but I knew what was wrong with him. He was painfully thin, his spine standing up in a row of sharp ridges, his hipbones and ribs jutting out. The old brown eyes under their sunken hollows looked at me calmly. This horse had seen enough to take anything in his stride.
I stood up and saw Teresa was crying. Shit. This was going to be difficult. "I'm sorry, Teresa." I tried to say it as kindly as I could. "He's got pneumonia and he looks like
Taking hold of his halter, I led him up on the sidewalk and started back for the office, waving a grateful hand at the cars. My heart was pounding as though it wanted to jump out of my chest.
A shaken Gina met me halfway back. Her face was pale and she had a hard time thanking me. It wasn't lack of gratitude; she was having a hard time talking. She clipped the lead rope back on the halter and we both stared at it.
"I don't know how it came off," she said.
I wondered if her anxiety level over Tony was so high she'd simply forgotten to clip the rope on correctly in the first place, then decided it didn't much matter at this point.
Back in the parking lot, I helped her load the horse and watched her pull out while my heart slowed down. Then I went in the office to check my schedule.
The first thing on the list made me say, "Uh-oh" out loud. It was a horse I'd seen earlier that week, a twenty-six-year-old horse that belonged to a woman who'd owned him since she was sixteen and he was seven. She'd turned him out to pasture with some friends who didn't know much about horses, and the old horse had gotten to be skin and bones without their realizing it. When his owner had gone to see him she'd been aghast and brought him home, but shortly after that he'd gotten a respiratory disease. I'd been to see him and given her the appropriate antibiotics and instructions, but it didn't look good, and I'd told her so. Old horses had a tendency to get pneumonia under those circumstances, and if they were as run-down as this one they tended to die of it.
I went on out and got in the truck, checking to make sure I had the necessary drugs to put the horse down. Giving a horse the green needle, as it had been called in vet school, always filled me with a mix of sadness and anger, even when it was obviously the only thing to do. I hated to lose a patient; it was both a personal defeat and a reinforcement of the underlying futility of my profession. It was my job to preserve life, and I always battled fiercely to do so, but neither I nor anyone else could succeed in an ultimate sense.
Teresa Kelly was waiting for me out at her barn, and I could tell by one look at her face that the news wasn't good. It was obvious she'd been crying. She had bright red hair and a round, chubby face with lots of freckles and she looked terrible, her skin dead white, with the freckles standing out like sores, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. I felt a rush of sympathy for her. I knew that I was going to feel pretty bad when Blue's time was up, or Gunner's.
Teresa shook her head when I got out of the truck. "He's a lot worse, Gail. I probably should have called you a couple of days ago, but I kept hoping he'd get better. I know what you're going to say when you see him."
I looked at her and looked down, wishing I could find the right thing to say. This type of situation was hard, and unfortunately common in the veterinary trade. I felt a lot of empathy with people when they were grief-stricken over their animals, but I also knew I couldn't let my emotions run away with me. If I took every animal I lost too deeply to heart, the job would rapidly become so stressful I wouldn't be able to do it.
"Let's go have a look at him," I told Teresa gently.
She led me to a clean stall at the back of the old shed that served as a barn. The horse was there, lying on his chest in a bed of crisp shavings. I could hear the labored wheeze of his breathing from the door.
I checked him over carefully as a matter of routine, but I knew what was wrong with him. He was painfully thin, his spine standing up in a row of sharp ridges, his hipbones and ribs jutting out. The old brown eyes under their sunken hollows looked at me calmly. This horse had seen enough to take anything in his stride.
I stood up and saw Teresa was crying. Shit. This was going to be difficult. "I'm sorry, Teresa." I tried to say it as kindly as I could. "He's got pneumonia and he looks like
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