The Laugh a Minute Clinic
by
Gregg T. Greiner
Copyright 2010 by Gregg T. Greiner DVM
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The Laugh a Minute Clinic
Copyright 2010 by Gregg T. Greiner DVM
All rights reserved
Published by Gregg Greiner Properties
Cover design by Janet Abramic
ISBN 987-0-9845065-0-7
Visit thelamc.com or gregggreiner.com
I never intended to write a book. The Laugh a Minute Clinic began as a series of anecdotes about fun things that I encountered during my career as a veterinarian. However, it quickly evolved into a humorous, but serious book with the underlying theme of how to succeed. First in college, then in vet school, then in a career and, finally in life.
It began as a small amorphous thought in the back of my brain and over a number of months grew into an almost physical entity that worked its way forward and began pounding on the inside of my forehead as it attempted to enter our world.
My first several attempts at putting it on paper were futile. Just before I started writing successfully I received an e-mail with a quote from GK Chesterton, “You should not write anything until you can no longer not write.” It was timely and providential. It gave me the push I needed to jump into the pool of authors. I feel very strongly that this is not my book. I simply put to paper what was put into my head. I hope that you reap the benefits of what He has sown.
Gregg T. Greiner DVM
Acknowledgements
There are so many who have contributed to the making of this book that I cannot begin to mention them all. I fear that I will omit someone or give more credit than is due to another. Therefore, I will not mention anyone by name. Please know that you all remain in my heart. Even the least of you played a role in the formation of my thoughts. Sometimes it was the smallest word of encouragement that kept me going. Sometimes it was a major gaffe that became a part of this book. I thank God daily for the wonderful people that have been sent to me, especially those who were sent when I needed them most. I thank you all for responding to my needs in ways that exceeded all of my expectations. I am a better person for knowing each of you.
About the Cover
When Photoshop software became widely available my second brother, Keith, developed a personalized calendar and gave it to me for Christmas. He included an elaborate story about my ‘secret mission’ in veterinary school. I was performing genetic experiments involving the insertion of human genes into animals and he had the pictures to prove it. For each month of the calendar he had a picture of me with my face added to whatever animal was in the original picture with me. This one was my favorite. I was holding Jackie and Kelly’s last puppy, unaware of the future events that would cement our bond of friendship for eternity.
Dedication
Glen and Grace Greiner on their wedding day, Dec. 15, 1951
This book is dedicated to my father.
A man of few words, he meant
what he said.
His passing has left a deafening silence in my
soul.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 Hat, Scarf, Gloves and Mittens
Chapter 11 Testing. Testing. One. Two.
Chapter 12 Light at the Start of the Tunnel
Chapter 13 Organ Eyed Medicine
Chapter 19 Make a Career of it
Chapter 21 Open the Doors and See All the People
Where does one start when giving an audience a glimpse of his life? What message should be left in their minds and hearts? What lessons can be learned from my experiences that a wider audience would appreciate? These are the thoughts that enter my mind as I embark on this adventure. I can answer the first question directly. The others may remain unanswered except in retrospect by each member of my audience. I hope that each of you relates to my story in a unique fashion as I have always tried to relate to every patient and client as unique individuals.
I am filled with anticipation as this comes together because I have no clear idea of the size of my audience (more than ten, I hope) or the reactions you will each experience as I expose a portion of my life, mind and soul to you. I hope that I can remain on task as this book progresses because my mind does tend to wander. Fortunately, it is too weak to go very far.
That, by the way, is how my mind tends to wander. Odd thoughts pop up without warning. Some are profound. Most are just random access words often in the form of puns. The pun center in my brain probably occupies two thirds of my frontal lobe. Apparently, there is a large chute resembling a water slide which then shoots those puns right out of my mouth without warning, usually without the water, and often at the most inopportune moments. In order to control the direction of this project I have limited some of these random rest stops on the highway of life to the ends of the chapters in this book. Otherwise, we may never get to where we are going.
My journey into veterinary medicine began before I knew it. I came to that realization after 20 years in practice. I was speaking to a group of third grade students as part of a career day program. One of them asked me when I decided to become a vet. I gave them my usual spiel that deciding upon a career path involves many factors including life experience, educational success, personal strengths and weaknesses and your level of motivation and your willingness to work.
As I kept talking and looking for the real answer I found that I had none. Picking a major in college certainly puts a stamp on it, but when did I decide to become a vet? As I often do in moments of doubt, I went to my personal guru, Mom.
I asked her when she had the first clear signs that I wanted to become a vet. Her answer: “When you were 4 or 5...that’s all you ever wanted to be. Every once in awhile a fire truck would pass by and you’d want to be a fireman or you would see a baseball game and want to become a ball player for a time. But, the next week you’d be right back to being a vet.”
So that was it! I was born to be a vet. Fortunately, I was also born into a very supportive family that gave me a good work ethic and the determination to fulfill my dreams. I admire people that succeed in life without a good support network. I had enough trouble succeeding even with a lot of support on the home front.
My family has always played a vital role in my life so that is where I have elected to start my story. I did promise not to divulge any family secrets, but certain members of my family have taught me valuable life lessons. Special mention has to be made of my dearest sibling and first dog, Mittens. She was the ninth child in our family and the one with whom I could communicate the best (unless slugging it out with your brothers counts as communicating. In that case we really got our messages across).
Proceeding somewhat chronologically from Mitts I will share some of my educational experiences; what it takes to get into veterinary school and how to succeed once you get there. I hope that this will benefit both prospective students and their parents who may be sharing the emotional and financial burdens associated with a long educational process. Much of what you will read will pertain to getting any college level education, so please don’t think you should skip that portion of the book just because you are attending another part of campus.
Next, I will share some of my early work experiences with you. Again, I hope that much of this has universal appeal since my position as a new graduate seeking employment was not unique. After many years of no appreciable income, it was exciting to put school behind me; and yet, it was sad that my insulating cocoon was being removed never to return. Butterflies can spread their wings, but at appreciable risk. I was very fortunate to be in the small minority who immediately landed in nectar and stayed there. If you can’t find clover, follow the bees. Just be sure they aren’t really yellow jackets.
The rest of this onus, er opus, will be a somewhat random selection of events that occurred throughout my life as a practitioner in a busy small animal general medical and surgical referral practice in the western suburbs of Chicago. I have tried to address some of the myriad changes which have occurred in veterinary medicine over the past twenty five years. Most have been positive, but I haven’t spared you from some of the negative.
My professors did a terrific job of preparing me for practice, but they couldn’t begin to make me appreciate the level of commitment and attachment that I would develop towards my patients and clients. I was very reluctant to start this project as I feared it would detract from my service to them. It wouldn’t have happened at all except as a tribute to my clients, my patients, my associates, my staff and my family. I pray that I may continue to deserve their respect and trust as I proceed with my professional and personal life. They have always been an inspiration to me; may they be the same to you. If their stories change the direction of your life, may it always be in the right direction even if it isn’t towards a career in veterinary medicine. It is a long and difficult road to become a vet. It requires a lot of sacrifice to make it through school and to be successful in practice, but the destination is well worth the effort of making the trip. If you are called, answer. And try to enjoy the journey every step of the way.
Mittens, the mountain dog, and me on the roof of Dad’s house January, 1974.
Chapter 1
Hat, Scarf, Gloves and Mittens
It was difficult being an animal lover while growing up in a large family. Space was always at a premium. Money never seemed to be tight, but that was an illusion created by Mom and Dad. They never discussed finances in front of us children unless it directly impacted one of us. If there was a particularly inviting toy or a piece of sporting gear that caught your eye, then it was up to you to earn it. As a result, entry into the work force was as early as you developed a desire to accumulate ‘wealth’ in the form of ‘stuff’. Getting an allowance in exchange for doing chores and hawking golf balls at the nearby golf course became inadequate for my needs by the time I was 15 years old. I didn’t need a lot of stuff, but I knew college wouldn’t be far off and I wanted to pay my own way as much as possible.
I am the oldest boy in a family of eight children so I was always a bit more serious about life than my peers who came from smaller clutches. I must temper that apparently lofty position by admitting that I have three older sisters with whom I competed for attention. That lasted a few short years because my first brother, Geoffrey, came along two years after me. He became my main comPAINion as we were soon beating on each other as only loving brothers can do. Keith arrived next, then another girl, Lynn, and finally, David. The firstborn of the family, Gail, kept her siblings on a pretty short leash. When Mom left her in charge Gail ruled the house. It was not a benevolent monarchy. Her main strategy for dealing with the pack was force. It worked. We toed the line for fear of facing the consequences. Marsha was next. She was always calm and kept the peace by reasoning with us. She let us help her bake cookies when we were good. By the way, what is the point of baking that delicious cookie dough anyway? The littlest of the big sisters is Janice. She was never really called upon to be in charge until her late teens. By then ‘the boys’ weren’t the challenge that we once were. Her looks of exasperation usually made us feel guilty. Tears were sure to work.
As you might imagine, another motivating force to start working outside the house was a certain sense of self preservation. Sanity seems much more precious when you’re on the brink of losing it. Yes, my mother needed us to get out of the house. Therefore, she helped me stretch the truth about my age as I applied for a job at a burger joint. Marsha was already working there so I would be able to ride with her. Since she was such a good worker they took a chance on me. That first paycheck was a thing of beauty...$74.00! I signed the back of it and gave the check to Mom. She cashed it in for me at the Lincoln Savings and Loan. After taking out rent and the money I had borrowed from her, she gave $40 back to me. That was a bit of a surprise. I thought that she would keep it all in order to manage the money for me. That would have taught me nothing. It was up to me to guard my treasure. I couldn’t just leave it lying around as a temptation to my brothers. Therefore, I opened my first savings account.
Shortly after starting my busy new work schedule another opportunity would enter my life and change it permanently. Mom sent Marsha and Janice to the grocery store for some emergency supplies. That usually meant milk and pasta. That day it was milk and bread. You could bet on it being milk and something. Today’s shopping cart would include a bit of a surprise.
Motto’s supermarket was just a mile from our house. Janice would eventually meet her future husband while working there. Our family was on a first name basis with everyone in the store as Dad impressed them every week with his cart full of supplies. The special of the day, however, was found in front of the store. There outside was a little girl with a box of puppies. She was miserably sad because her mother told her to give her puppies away. The story varies as to how the selection process took place, but the little black one with white feet and a small patch of white on her chest was the clear winner. My sisters weren’t exactly sure if it was a male or female at the time. They didn’t ask many questions and the puppy probably picked them, truth be told. (Note to all puppies reading this; be cute and aggressively friendly. That will give you the best odds of getting a good home and that is the equivalent of winning the doggie Lotto)
While presenting their surprise to Mom (they knew Dad wasn’t home yet...this definitely plucked their courage) they made sure that us youngsters were present in order to get the full effect of the oohing and aahing. We were ready to add any necessary sound effects to promote our cause. Whining is definitely the most effective means, particularly after whole-hearted oohing and aahing. Mom pulled her usual stalling technique by announcing that we would have to wait for father to come home (Dad would have left us with more optimism) so she could discuss it with him.
Well, you’ve never seen chores get done so quickly. The entire house was cleaned up and all of our homework was done before Dad walked in. For the benefit of those reading this that can’t remember anything prior to 1970 I should tell you that Dad walked in the door at 5:10 every night. This was the custom of most dads in the good ole days. He dutifully greeted us each day, went through the mail and read the Chicago Sun-Times as he enjoyed his dinner. He then took a short nap before playing with us kids and dealing with the issues of the day. There was only one issue that day. I was a bit concerned that we may have blown it by playing our hand before dinner. But, how can you keep from bursting with the news of a new pup in the house?
We made all of the usual promises. “We’ll feed her; we’ll clean up after her; we’ll train her to tap dance if we have to. She is so small she won’t even shed!” Dad had a little gleam in his eye as he held our little treasure and said, “Let me talk this over with your mother.” Oh, no! When the two of them communicated about anything you could bet that they were going to make a practical decision that made perfect sense and could withstand a nuclear blast of emotional pleading. It was time to start bargaining.
Since my allowance was likely going to end and was small in comparison to that big $74.00 payday, it could go towards feeding the dog. I failed to mention the first half of that sentence during the negotiations; I did my best to look pitiful. My brothers showed willingness, however short lived and insincere, to do their chores and homework without complaining. We would skip college and become professional athletes if that’s what it took to keep this poor unwanted pooch. We were completely surprised and ecstatic when Mom simply announced that we would need a box for a bed if the pup was going to spend the night. Gosh, the humiliation of begging hadn’t even begun in earnest.
The next thing Mom did was to lay out the conditions for our continued good fortune. The future of the puppy would depend on our behavior more than hers. “After all, she is just a pup and she needs to be taught the rules since she doesn’t know them yet.” Any accidents were the fault of us kids. Anything she chewed was our fault. Being on the good furniture was our fault. If she passed gas it would be our fault. Actually, we had that one covered by blaming it on Geoff.
The first order of business was to name our newest family member. After all, you can find a new home for a dog, but it is much more difficult to give away a family member. I know because I made several attempts with my brothers. We set to the task, our heads spinning with ideas. Each of us wanted to be the one to come up with the perfect name. The pup didn’t look like a Mabel or Annie. Spot seemed rather trite as we had all read See Spot Run in our primers. I wanted a famous name from literature. I was afraid to mention Beelzebub as she might live up to it. The name finally emanated from the mouth of a babe (she still is), my only little sister, Lynn. The pups little white feet fascinated her. She looked at them and kept saying, “Mittens, she has mittens.” It stuck. Mittens it was. Everyone liked it. I was a bit disappointed, but the fact that I finally had a dog made up for any shortcomings in the name.
Mittens was her formal name, but she will always be Mitts to me. None of us ever called her Mitsy except for my old Aunt Sis. Her advanced age and gentle demeanor brought her privileges not enjoyed by most of the family. We never corrected her. A sure sign that Mitts was definitely in with Mom was that the only time Mom used her full name, “Mittens!”, was when the dog was in trouble. Just like me when I heard “Gregg Thomas!”, Mitts knew she was in for it when Mom used more than one syllable and an exclamation point.
The first night passed uneventfully as the poor thing was simply exhausted from all of the handling and chaos she had endured. The next night she wasn’t nearly as content to be away from her littermates and she let the entire house know about it in no uncertain terms. She wailed pitifully and relentlessly. Not wanting her to nix our deal by keeping Dad awake, I crept downstairs to the basement and carried her box up to the rec room. I placed it next to the couch and settled in with a pillow and blanket. Whenever I removed my hand from the box she would become restless and start whimpering. I eventually drifted into sleep face down with my hand still hanging over the side of the couch touching Mitts.
She slept through the night very nicely, but the next morning I couldn’t feel my hand and my fingers were swollen (dependent edema I was to learn much later). I shook it off as quickly as possible and put the box back in the basement. I felt relieved that my parents weren’t up yet. I took Mitts outside where she went to the bathroom almost immediately. I brought her back in to the kitchen just as Mom was coming down from her bedroom. Of course, I immediately boasted that Mitts had been a good girl all night and that her box was dry. Mitts helped advance her cause by giving Mom about 30 licks on her toes; right on cue!
The following night was a bit more challenging. The old hand in the box trick wasn’t good enough. She wanted real company this time. Ten minutes passed with no break in the whining. It seemed like an hour. I finally relented and took her under the blanket. I figured that she would be like a baby. I could let her fall asleep and then move her back into the box. She curled up in a little ball and nestled against my stomach. As I started to pet her she wagged the end of her tail just a bit, took a deep breath and let out a contented sigh. I did the same and awakened 8 hours later with Mom sitting next to me on the couch. Busted! And yet, amazingly, not! Mom seemed very understanding about my concerns and she decided that perhaps Mitts should be allowed to sleep with the rest of the family so long as she behaved.
No dog was ever housebroken so quickly. Mittens had more attention than she knew what to do with. She was passed from one loving set of hands to the next. She was lucky to hit the floor let alone have an accident on it. We often joked that she thought her name was ‘Put-the-dog-down’ because every time Mom saw her that’s what she said. We would later determine that Mitts was actually training us. All she had to do was look cute and someone would run to do her bidding.
Mitts learned tricks about as fast as we could come up with them. She fit in well with our family because she loved to learn new things just like us kids. She paid attention to each of us. She would look into our eyes as we spoke to her as if every word was important. I sometimes felt that she was trying to read my mind; it’s pretty slow reading so I think she got bored with it quickly. She had complete trust in us and she wanted to be part of the action at all times. Whatever we were doing, she was ‘in’.
We often carried her up into our tree fort when she was little. When she was about one year of age I taught Mitts how to climb ladders. That led to her ability to climb our willow tree and get into the tree house once you boosted her up to the first branch. We would always be there to catch her if the need arose, but she never missed a step on the sturdy branches. She loved to survey her domain from the heights. She rarely barked or paced up there. She simply enjoyed the company and the scenery.
Getting down was another matter. She wouldn’t negotiate even the first step down nor would she even consider trying it. We had to hand her down from one set of hands to the next. Once you had a secure footing you would get Mitts; then the hander-offer would climb down, get a secure foothold and the process would be repeated. Mitts would practically go limp as she patiently waited to reach terra firma. I think she knew we would rather fall ourselves than drop her. Mom knew that, too. She would shake her head as she averted her eyes from the impending disaster that miraculously never happened. I suspect our guardian angels did the same.
Years later, I went into our attached garage to get my baseball equipment. I heard a faint whimper, but shrugged it off as my imagination as there was nothing breathing in the garage but me. I turned to leave and heard it again. I looked up at the ladder leading into the attic and was startled by a pair of eyes looking down at me! At first, I thought it was a raccoon. But, as soon as ours eyes met, Mitts started barking at me. Her message was loud and clear, “It’s hot up here and I can’t get down. Hurry up!” I did. Apparently, she thought that the ladder had been placed there for her entertainment.
The neighbors were all fond of our new dog. Most of them were families with several children although none were as large as ours (except for the Hendersons on the next block...they had eleven kids. We couldn’t understand why Mom and Dad didn’t try to catch up with them). Everyone liked dogs and now they could basically have one without any of the responsibilities that came with it. As a result, when things got a bit slow around our place Mitts would go visiting.
We lived just outside of town. The lots were half an acre each. The houses behind ours faced a golf course. Oops, a country club; they were a bit snooty about that at times. Those houses were much bigger and yet contained almost no children. The lots to our sides weren’t all occupied...a couple of them were mowed in order to give us play areas and others were unkempt fields. Across the street was an abandoned farmer’s field with a small forest of maple trees that had taken up residence. Beyond that was a mile of forest preserve. The big houses behind us were off limits to us and Mitts, but the rest of it was fair play. Mitts became the star of the neighborhood. She would actually get invitations for dinner. The Fitzsimmons would call from three lots over and ask if Mittens had eaten dinner yet. If not, she would be let out the back door. Mrs. Fitz would give a holler and off Mitts went.
I don’t want to give the impression that Mitts the Mooch didn’t earn an honest living. She worked hard for her treats. Her tricks were many, varied and well polished. She did the usual things like sit, stay, shake, the other paw, down, roll over and sit-pretty. However, she also added to the effects by having the stage presence of a Shakespearian actress. When you wanted her to play dead you simply had to point a finger at her and say, ‘bang!’ She would go into a down position and then tilt her head to the side and slowly fall over onto her side as she scanned the room for the upcoming treat. She wouldn’t completely die until she heard a second shot, ‘bang!’ Then she would go limp and stay limp until she heard the OK.
My brothers and I taught Mitts how to say her prayers. I don’t believe she memorized the Our Father, but she did assume proper prayer posture. She would put her feet up on your knee and then bow her head and touch her nose between her paws. Her eyes would never leave the biscuit. If you suggested that she should ‘pray harder’ she would then bury her head between her paws and stay there until the OK was sounded by someone saying, “Amen”. If she could, in fact, pray I think it would have been that Geoffrey would lose his appetite so that she could get more leftovers, especially on liver nights.
My personal favorite was when Mitts smiled. She came by it naturally. When greeting someone new or when she was being apologetic for doing some bit of naughtiness, Mitts would lower her head and show her teeth. I would later learn that this is a very submissive behavior. Many people thought she was growling or snarling when she was actually trying to say, “You’re not going to kill me, are you?” Taking advantage of this tendency, I would lift her lips and ask Mitts to smile. Well, she learned that one in half an hour! It became an instant hit and it was one of her best tricks. If smiling didn’t get your attention, she would follow it with a big sneeze. I never did figure out the meaning of that one.
When she wanted attention Mitts would go through her routines. She would start with speaking, “bark, bark, bark, bark, bark”. When that didn’t work then it was time to shake. She would give paw and give paw and give paw. Then, it was on to smiling. Sometimes she would try other things like playing half dead. (You could see her lifting her head and peeking.) If she was determined to get some attention her tactic was to steal something and then parade it in front of you. At that point, you had better pay attention or your personal item was about to become a chew toy. She usually grabbed a tennis shoe, but anything with your scent on it would do.
Whatever we were doing, Mitts was in. You couldn’t rattle the car keys without her running at you with a crazed look on her face: “A CAR RIDE! A RIDE IN THE CAR! RIDING IN THE CAR! I’LL DRIVE IF YOU WANT.” You had to literally sneak out of the house. I’m certain that Mom used Mitts to help keep tabs on our comings and goings, especially when we were teenagers.
In the fall of the year, Dad would help us plug the drain for the empty lots two doors north and east from us. They would flood and freeze into an ice skating rink by mid winter. We grew up playing ice hockey in the winter and field hockey in the summer, Mittens was no exception. One of her favorite games was to grab onto your hockey glove so that you could skate backwards and pull her. She would skeech along the ice on all four feet. When her feet got cold she would pick one person and start barking at him while looking him right in the eyes. She wanted the hat off your head to warm her feet! We would take turns putting our hats on the bench that Dad had built for us. She would jump up, put all four feet on the hat for a few minutes and then go back out and try to grab somebody’s glove, puck or anything else that would result in a chase. When we went out in the winter weather Mom made sure of two things: dress warm and bring the dog with you. We were all sure to be tired by nightfall.
One summer day Mitts went missing. Not just visiting, missing. After calling all of her usual haunts, we came up empty. We spread out through the neighborhood in an organized fashion: “You guys go that way and we’ll go this way and if you find her come and get us!” We searched for over an hour. Our friend, Eddie, even brought out his walkie-talkies. (They were fun when you were in sight of each other. Other than that you could yell with more range than those darn things.)
An hour is nearly eternity for a kid. She was nowhere to be found. We even checked the busy street to look for her body as that seemed to be the only place on our little earth that we hadn’t checked. As we neared home, dejected though somewhat relieved at not finding her carcass, the walkie-talkie crackled to life. “We found her, we found her. Over.” (Even with momentous news such as this you have to maintain protocol.) “Where the heck is she? Over.” “You’ll have to come and see for yourselves! Over.”
Well, we ran that last half a block and found a small crowd gathered in the backyard. They were all looking up at the roof. And there she was. The queen was looking down on her subjects with a wag in her tail. She actually looked like a queen as the brick chimney behind her had the appearance of a throne. Of course, she was actually there for the shade as it was hot up there. She was no dummy.
We had no idea how she had gotten up on that roof. There was no visible means of climbing. No windows granted access to the roof. No climbable branches came close to it (believe me, with us boys around Dad kept the trees trimmed). She couldn’t have flown up there since Mom wouldn’t let us build that airplane like we wanted to. What the heck! Scratching our heads, we hauled out the ladder from the garage and got her down.
Later that day we learned the truth. Dad had been cleaning the gutters when he received a call from the oil refinery where he worked. While he was on the phone, Mitts decided to see what he had been working on. Up the ladder and onto the roof she went. Since he had to leave for the office, Dad took down the ladder and put it away, not realizing the impending anguish he had unleashed. In fairness to Dad, it was a very safe bet that one of our balls would have landed on the roof in need of repeated retrieval if he had left that ladder up. With kids around you take nothing for granted.
* * *
A client brought his two year old male Labrador retriever in for his annual wellness visit. I commented on the exceptional condition of the dog. As he was explaining that the dog had been swimming at the family lake house that summer his young son interrupted exclaiming, “Yeah, and he goes all the way under water. And I know he almost even caught a fish!”
“What kind of fish was it?” I queried.
He was straining his little brain to come up with an answer. I suggested one: “I’ll bet it was a catfish. Dogs love to chase cats.”
That was it. It made perfect sense to him. Dad thanked me for clearing that up for his son. His mother was certain to hear of it. I cemented our friendship with a piece of candy for the boy and a biscuit for his brave dog.
* * *
Donna, a longtime client, named her new puppy Barley. It was because he was Barley qualified to be a dog, not because he was a wheaten terrier.
* * *
During the first wellness examination of an eight week old border collie its owner asked three different times if I thought it was indeed a purebred dog. I replied that he was a fine example of his breed and asked if she had some concerns about the dog’s heritage. “No,” she replied, “but I walked him around the perimeter of the yard three times and he still wants to leave it!”
Showing no fear, Mittens climbs the ladder to join me
on the
roof. Notice the casual position I have taken.
I had no qualms
about her being on a ladder.
Chapter 2
Seizure Salad...petit mal with a side
of Valium
So there I was: a boy and his dog. Life was good; a little school, a little work and a lot of fun with my new best friend. Then one day it happened. The disease that Mitts would carry with her for most of her life came down like a lightning bolt.
We were playing in the backyard when Mitts quit for no apparent reason. She was acting a bit strange, disoriented. It was as if she was seeing or hearing something that I couldn’t. I called for Mom. She came out instantly as she heard the distress in my voice. She didn’t have to ask what was wrong. Mitts was now wobbling and falling over as she tried to walk towards Mom. “What’s wrong, Mitts?”, Mom asked as she tried to pet her and give her some comfort.
Mitts couldn’t focus on anything. She continued to shake and stumble, but now she seemed to have some purpose. She seemed intent to get to the grass. She pulled away from Mom and swayed like a wind chime as she walked past me about 10 feet. Then she started vomiting. The only thought I had was that she must have eaten something in the garden and gotten food poisoning, or worse. Perhaps Dad sprayed some chemical in the garden! (DDT in the environment was in the news at this time and we had recently talked about chemical pollution in school.) I wasn’t going to let her go without a fight! I ran into the house and came back in a flash with an old blanket. I threw it over Mitts and told Mom, “Get us to the vet!”
I’m sure Mom was doing her best to put a positive spin on Mitts’ condition as we sped towards the vet. Perhaps she said nothing. I don’t remember hearing anything. I just remember praying and asking Mitts to hang on because we were going for help. I hoped I wasn’t suffocating her, but I was afraid to loosen my grip. I wondered if it was her tremors or mine that I felt.
When we got to Dr. Hagenburg’s office, it must have been immediately apparent that we had a problem because the nurse took us straight to an exam room. She left and a moment later the vet came in. I told him exactly what happened in a very controlled manner and finished with, “I think she has food poisoning and that she may be dying.”
As I finished speaking I unwrapped the blanket from around Mitts. She promptly stood up and started wagging her tail and licking my face! Puke breath! What a wonderful surprise! I couldn’t have been happier. I held her at arm’s length and stammered, “You, you were dying! Bad dog!”
Dr. Hagenburg had the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. He proceeded to tell me all about epilepsy in dogs. He suggested that we return for a fasting blood sample to make sure that there wasn’t an underlying cause for the seizure and that we keep track of her seizures to determine their frequency and severity because that would determine the course of treatment. He ended by saying, “Congratulations, you have an attack dog.” That became a running joke in my family. If I yelled, “Attack”, Mitts would have one. Fortunately, the epilepsy didn’t affect her longevity and the joke ran for many years.
Dr. H, as he would become known, seemed like such a nice man. I pestered him for three years before he finally hired me to clean cages. I owe him a tremendous debt of gratitude not only for being a good vet, but also for being a wonderful person.
I must also admit that I didn’t put all of my eggs in one basket. I called every vet in the phone book every six months for those three years. Many of them wanted me to volunteer my time to come in and get a feel for what goes on in a vet clinic. I knew that I couldn’t afford to do that as I needed to save money for my education. I sincerely hoped that it would be more than four years of college.
During that time I switched jobs. I felt I had mastered everything at the burger joint. The job was becoming dull routine and the pay wasn’t what I had hoped to work into. I still loved to eat those burgers, but an opportunity arose to work at a mailing service. One of my counselors met me in the hall and said that the family of a fellow student was looking for someone reliable to work in their business. I went on an interview and was hired on the spot. For any youngsters reading this, the lesson to be learned is that you will develop a reputation based on your behavior. It will be a good one or a bad one, and believe me, it is better to have people help you up the ladder to success than to have them stepping on your fingers. Guard your reputation by living up to your responsibilities.
The Imhoff mailing service was a small family operation. During the two and a half years that I was employed there, it was purchased by a larger company. My hard work again paid off as I was not only asked to continue working with the new company, but I was given more responsibilities and a raise. It was mostly factory work. The inserting machines were my favorite. They were very complex with gears and vacuum lines and levers and suction cups. I could hear a leak in a vacuum line from 10 paces after awhile. I would volunteer for anything as most of the jobs were very repetitious once you mastered a few of the quirks that each machine seemed to have.
The new owners were brothers. They were both married, but neither had children. They were very forthcoming with fatherly advice to us young employees. The finest pearl of wisdom from them was this:
“There are only two kinds of people in this world: ones who make interest and ones who pay it. You know which one you want to be! There are certain things you will need to go into debt for; your education, a car, a house. Those are necessities and that’s OK. Never go into debt for your lifestyle. My wife and I could barely afford our house payment when we were first married. We had just started the business and we were lucky to have enough for a down payment on a modest house. We ate off of a cardboard box for a month. Then we got a card table. Finally, after 3 years, we were able to afford a dining room set for which we paid cash. I look back on those years with great fondness. Working towards common goals drew my wife and I very close to each other. We still remain close and we could still go back to eating off of a cardboard box if we needed to.” Wow! Live your life like that and you can’t go far wrong.
They treated me with great kindness and in return got a full day’s effort for a fair wage. I was allowed very flexible hours as I had started my undergraduate studies by then. On every school break I was allowed to work as many hours as I wanted. During one such break, I worked from 7:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m., six days a week for four weeks. The money was great and I was too tired to spend it! However, the handwriting was on the wall.
There wasn’t a job there that I couldn’t handle. Some of the employees had been there for thirty years and couldn’t do more than a handful of duties. If they were five minutes late for a break, they were ready to explode. They came to work not a minute early and left not a minute late. I thought to myself, “If I ever quit school and come back to this, somebody please shoot me. Otherwise, I’m likely to do it myself someday.”
During my stint at the mailing service I discovered that my neighbor was a good friend of the owner of a veterinary hospital near our home. They were both small aircraft pilots. They owned property near each other in Texas and would vacation there with their families. When the girl next door started helping out with kennel work I became interested in checking it out even though I knew that they weren’t hiring any more help.
Dr. Boosler was rather intimidating. He was kept busy with clients and didn’t have much time to spend with me. I didn’t get to know him very well, partly because I was more interested in the animals than I was in him. In spite of their numbers the place was clean. Noisy, but clean. I was told in no uncertain terms not to get in the way or touch any animals; we did have liability even back then. Never being one to watch others work, I pitched in where I could; mostly, on empty cages. They were empty of animals that is. They had managed to leave behind some presents for the kennel staff. Made them themselves by the looks of them.
As fate would have it, there was an emergency that day. A dog came in with an infection in the uterus. She would need surgery immediately. I didn’t get to see much of the actual surgery as the doctor’s back was to the window at which I was camped. The atmosphere seemed strangely unhurried, but a sense of urgency was definitely there. I was doing my best to be invisible. I didn’t want to cause a catastrophe. I wasn’t nervous, but I was very tense as I did my best to see what was happening. Suddenly, the door of the surgery room was opened and in came the other vet, Dr. Royce. I thought that Dr. Boosler must have had his hands full and needed an assistant. Suddenly everyone started laughing and Dr. Royce left the room as quickly as he had come in. On closer inspection I noticed that he had found a baby’s bib left behind by a client in the waiting room and that he was wearing it as a surgical mask!
That was my first exposure to veterinary surgery. It made a great impression on me. I realized that even in moments of stress you sometimes needed to laugh. You can be very serious and still have fun. The secret is in being confident and competent. As it turns out, pyometra (pus in the uterus) is very common in unspayed dogs. The surgery is basically a hysterectomy (spay) and Dr. Boosler probably had several hundred under his belt at that point in his career. He certainly could take a moment to laugh. So should we all.
Energized by this experience, I made what would turn out to be my final round of calls. Perhaps it was a sense of urgency or more maturity on my part, but this time I met with success. In fact, I received two job offers on the same day! Both clinics were near my house, but Doctor Hagenburg’s office was directly on my way to school and he just seemed nicer. It turned out that he was.
A few years later I would discover that the other vet was dishonest as well as incompetent. Being located nearby, we saw many of his mistakes as his clients sought a second opinion for their sick pets. Even as the wheels of justice slowly bore down on him, Dr. X (I won’t use his name) never changed. He lost his license in Illinois, but not before suing our local association for defamation and winning an unfair amount of money. He was found practicing in Wisconsin a few years later. Another long process revoked that license.
Finally, an employee of the Illinois Department of Professional Regulation found him practicing back in Illinois without a license. The find was accidental. While he was vacationing with his family and their dog, the professional reg employee took the dog to a local veterinary hospital for emergency care. There, to his surprise, was Dr. X practicing.. However, the case against Dr. X wouldn’t be pursued as he passed away shortly after he was discovered. It gripes me to know he wasn’t made to pay for his crimes. This would later become a motivation for me to become active in organized veterinary medicine. Fortunately, one of the benefits of the information age is that this type of thing is unlikely to recur. States now share information, including disciplinary actions taken against professionals.
* * *
As I was shoveling the snow from my neighbor’s driveway another neighbor, 6 years old, came over to supervise. She asked why I was doing the shoveling instead of Mr. McGrath. I told her that he was having some heart problems so I thought I would try to help him out a bit. She replied, “That’s OK if he has a heart attack. I can baby sit his dog.”
* * *
A client was complaining loudly at the front desk. The waiting room was filled with people. He was insisting that we charged one dollar more for a heartworm test than the clinic by his house and, therefore, he should get an entire year’s supply of heartworm pills for free (about a $50 value at the time).
At first, all I could muster was a weak, “Excuse me?” He went bravely on. “You call them. You will see. You charge one dollar more!” He was very animated and he was certain that he was correct.
“First of all,” I responded, “it is illegal for me to shop around to see what other clinics charge. That is price fixing. Second, this would be like me going to a grocery store and insisting that they charge two cents more for a can of corn than the store down the street and, therefore, I should get my steak for free.”
“Yes! Yes! This is so!” Ah, I was finally getting it.
I apologized for not being able to accommodate his desires and gave him a copy of his pet’s medical records. I offered a list of referrals to other clinics if he would like to try his luck with them. I ushered him out the door and made sure that it closed securely behind him. I turned around to a standing ovation from the rest of the clients.
Most students should have some idea of the type of career path they seek. Whether they follow their heart or not depends on a lot of factors. I grew up in the age of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. I was fortunate that none of those things became much of an influence on my life. I was surrounded by activities and parties; but, I didn’t allow them to become a thing to live for. I had a vision of where I wanted to go. However, I wasn’t exactly sure that I would ever get there. There seemed to be a lot of obstacles in my way.
The first was high school. Since I lived in unincorporated Cook County, nestled between two towns, I had a choice of two schools. I could have attended Tinley High School, which was having a problem with drugs and race riots for several years running. The other option, Oak Forest High School, was brand new with only one class ahead of me. Also, I would have to take a bus to Tinley or I could walk to Oak Forest. Not much of a decision there. I became an Oak Forest Bengal.
Continuing my good study habits there was easy. My parents always rewarded good grades with high praise and money. They punished bad grades by...by...hmm…. I never wanted to face the consequences so I’m not really sure, but I’m certain it would have been appropriately awful; probably no sports. That threat always worked.
As I neared the end of my junior year, I had the obligatory visit with the guidance counselor. I had several previous visits as required in order to register for classes each year, but this one was different. I seemed to be taken more seriously as if somehow I was more of an adult. We were talking about colleges and careers and being realistic with goals and achieving those goals in a stepwise manner. As we progressed in our conversation I sensed that I was being pushed away from my goals. She felt that a career in mathematics would suit me best.
I actually ran out of math classes in high school. They didn’t offer calculus at that time so I was forced to turn to Math Club if I wanted to stay involved with the subject during my senior year. That seemed to be the goal of our current discussion; keeping Gregg busy in math. I had other ideas, such as a shortened school day senior year so that I could work. I suppose my counselor was truly sincere. After all, I did score in the 99th percentile in math. I just couldn’t see what kind of a job that meant. It wouldn’t involve animals, that’s for sure!
As I began to look into colleges, I was beset on all sides by people trying to give me advice. Most of it was negative on my dreams and positive on theirs. All of the college counselors focused on my math skills and wanted me to pursue a math major. “After all, look at your math scores. You’re a natural.” None of them seemed to know what types of jobs were attainable with said math major. The next step after attaining that degree was graduate school. Then you would specialize into a career, probably teaching. That seemed a million years and a million miles away from where I wanted to be.
My parents weren’t sure what kind of advice to give me. Mom had never set foot on a college campus. Dad had two years of junior college and lots of night school. Neither of them wanted to discourage me from getting into vet school, but they both knew the odds of getting accepted were only about one in twenty. Dad was Mr. Practical. He insisted on an alternate plan if I didn’t get into vet school. Since he worked at an oil refinery he strongly suggested that I get at least a minor in chemistry. I could always finish that major and go on to chemical engineering. I wanted to major in biology since that was the best track to take to get into vet school, with the possible exception of majoring in animal science at the University of Illinois. I ruled that out because of my age. I was only 17 when I started college and I felt that I wasn’t ready to move to the big ‘U’, where I would be one of the faceless, nameless masses. I wanted something smaller and closer to home where that I could get personal attention if I needed it.
During this period of decision making my guidance counselor did give me one wonderful piece of advice. She suggested that I take the CLEP test; the College Level Examination Program. It was a program designed to identify college prospects. You could use it to find your weaknesses and to try to focus on improving them before starting college.
I have always been a B student in English. In fact, I am amazed that I am sitting at my desk writing this book. The reason I ran out of math classes in high school is that I transferred from parochial school to public school in seventh grade. My test scores put me into advanced math classes and literature classes. The last grammar and structure class I took was back in Catholic school. I thought I should take that CLEP test to see what I needed to work on before I went into College Writing. So I did; and I am glad of it!
My scores weren’t stellar; but the admissions office at Lewis University felt that I had done well enough to comp out of two semesters of College Writing. All I had to do was pay for the credits. They would be granted with no grade towards my GPA (grade point average). Your GPA is everything when you’re an undergraduate student with intentions of staying in school beyond a baccalaureate. That was the solution to all of my problems! I would start my freshman year as a math, biology and chemistry major. I had to sneak in some humanities to satisfy the registrar. However, I wouldn’t take any class that required writing anything resembling a major paper. That way, I didn’t have to worry about a bunch of busywork that might drag down the GPA!