In a few hours time, I will get to do something that is both a humbling experience and a great honor – to give a commencement address to a class of graduating veterinary students.  Today it is the Iowa State University Class of 2012.  Twenty-three years ago when I graduated veterinary school, I never for the life of me imagined that my career path would have led me to a podium in the middle of America to share a momentous and pivotal day in the lives of so many fine, young professionals.  Funny how things turn out.

Four years ago, when Tell Me Where It Hurts was published, this group of students were just starting their education.  I wonder if some of them read it to get a feel for what lay beyond the journey they were about to take.  Perhaps, today, I’ll find out.  As a colleague of mine said yesterday, “Your speech had best be funny.  I promised them you’d be funny.”  Well, we shall see, but I’m aiming for funny, poignant but most of all, my speech is about them and their achievement, and not me.

Here’s a link to an interview I gave to Boston’s NPR station, that aired a month or so ago.  radioboston.wbur.org/…/author-conversation-dr-nick-trout-on-ever-… I’ve not listened, but I remember the discussion.  Maybe I should.  Maybe I’ll hear something I should add to my speech.

April 23rd, 2012

Every so often I find myself in our hospital library, trying to rediscover the romantic, by-gone era of veterinary medicine.  Frequently my resource is our extensive and relatively ancient collection of a certain British journal, specifically The Veterinary Record, dating back to the 1940′s.  Here’s a letter to the editor that caught my eye.

Sir,- I have recently purchased a packet of worm capsules made by a firm of excellent repute.  The instructions for use include advice on administration.  Two or three morsels of meat should be thrown to the dog, and then a similar morsel in which the capsule has been wrapped.  It is said the dog will swallow both meat and capsule without further trouble.  I have frequently read similar advice in books on the care of dogs as well as in articles in the lay Press.

In the whole course of my long and sinful life I have never succeeded in tricking a dog in this manner.  I have now abandoned the attempt, as the dog has invariably detected the medicated morsel and rejected it, no matter how much “pre-baiting” has been used.  I would be interested to know if any readers with greater cynological experience than mine have been more successful.

Yours faithfully,

R. MACGREGOR (The Veterinary Record, May 7th, 1955)

I loved the line, ‘my long and sinful life’ and I confess to looking up ‘cynology’ –  the study of dogs.

April 19th 2012

I see it all the time  - kids grow up, go off to college and the parents are left to look after the dog or the cat which includes all the exercise, clean ups and, where I come in, veterinary care.  Your moody teenager returns home from college on breaks just in time to enjoy all the good stuff.

The other day, for the first time in a long time, I saw the reverse situation.  A young college student whose father had died and left her with his canine companion, a goofy but affectionate big Labrador with a knee problem.  When I saw the two of them together, they didn’t quite fit – commands and reassurances went ignored – but here was a young woman who stepped up, recognized and appreciated the connection that existed with this dog and was determined to do the right thing.

When it’s family, be it on two legs or four, everything changes and this daughter is still making her father proud.

Over five days, back in March, our family was forced to say goodbye to both our dogs. Given my line of work you’d think I might have been better prepared for the emotional turmoil but I discovered feelings and awareness that could only come with the end of a relationship that was personal to me.

Meg was my Marley dog, a goofy yellow Lab, a disaster on four legs, recounted in several stories in Ever By My Side.  She was not even nine and a half, running on a beach on Cape Cod on a Friday, put to sleep the following Thursday.  The decline in her appetite, the inability to finish her food was the tell that something was seriously amiss.  Blood tests revealed an abnormally high level of Calcium, chest x-rays confirmed that most of her lungs had been replaced my metastatic cancer.  Even with the inside scoop, a fast track to internists and oncologists, the consensus was the same – nothing could be done.  Perhaps the lack of interest in food in such an orally obsessed dog was my best guide – this dog was not able to enjoy the most precious and fundamental part of being a Lab – hoovering up her kibble.

Sophie, our Jack Russell, outlived her by a few days, but at seventeen the end had been coming for some time.  There was an element of dementia, inappetence, weight loss, underlying heart disease and, toward the end, incontinence.  Sad to say Sophie never seemed to realize Meg was gone.  She was always the alpha and we couldn’t bear to see her lose what remained of her dignity.

Sophie was easier to let go, perhaps because she had had such a long and fruitful life. I could look into her eyes and sense she was ready to move on.  Meg was tougher, the dog lost before her time.  She killed me during that last week, bringing her into work with me, for the first time in her life walking by my side, a perfect heel, attentive and polite rather than wrenching my shoulder out of its socket.  And that’s how it hits you, the small stuff – dropped crumbs that remain untouched on the floor, no one to greet you with a downward facing dog yoga move first thing in the morning.

In the past I’ve been critical of clients who said that after losing their dog they were unable to adopt a new one.  I’ve cited my father, a man who believes in the unique nature of each and every special canine in his life and how the joy of time lived with a dog far outweighs the pain of losing one.  But at this moment I’m not so sure.  My family will move forward, without doubt there will be many more dogs in our future, but for now I need to reflect, to savor the memories of a certain Lab and a certain JRT, and let my next generation of companion animals find me.