Thank goodness not for my cats–we were just there because we’re still fighting the battle of the fleas and losing with stupid over-the-counter remedies (my advice–don’t use them, just go to the vet the minute you see one of those minions of all that is evil attacking your precious puppies and kitties).
The tragedy occurred (or unfolded) as I exited the examine room to sign permission slips for the vet to bathe our babies (the cats).
In this small, open vet’s lobby was a man on a cellphone speaking in abrupt sentences and a large, barefoot woman crying violently. The vet’s assistant is holding in a towel in her arms a terrier puppy. A dead or dying terrier puppy. Instantly my eyes welled with tears and I back peddled slightly to allow the assistances to worry about the emergency at hand. I could hear the man spilling the story out to whomever was on the other end of that cellphone call.
He’s interrupted briefly by the overwrought woman saying, “Come on–come on, we gotta get outta here–I can’t–The vet’s going to take care…oh my baby.” At which point she rushed back to the vet’s assistant and looked into the puppy’s face and cooed quietly the way we all do at our babies–presumably saying goodbye to him.
I turned away and towards the examine room hall door to try and give them some privacy (where do you go when there’s no where to go). A moment later she bolted out the door with the dog’s collar in her hand still wailing, “Come on! I can’t…” One vet’s assistant walked out with the dog while the other, fanning her face trying not to let the tears flow, waited for me to approach the counter. (I wiped the tears from my face myself…poor woman! Poor puppy!)
While I signed the permission slips the 2nd assistant walked back in saying to the other assistant, “My god I almost lost it myself in front of that poor woman…”
I also noticed the door behind the reception desk was marked “The Necessary Room” – I don’t even want to think about it…
What an awful tragedy.<sniffle><pass some tissues please>
Sorry–I just had to share.
Sometimes I swear I feel like having a pet is just inviting sorrow into your life. How can you not wail when the veterinary assistants can’t even hold it together. That’s when you KNOW it’s bad. Poor little puppy!
When I was a kid, I had a friend across the street named Jessie.
I was over at Jessie’s house one day when Jessie’s older brother ran inside yelling, tears streaming down his face. His dad and mom both went out and came back in not 3 seconds later, screaming and bawling.
Jessie’s older brother let his friend borrow his Bronco that day, and his friend ran it out of gas down the street. Jessie’s brother went and got a gas can, put some more in, and drove it home. When he got home, he was understandibly pissed. When he got out, he went over to the passenger’s side, took some stuff out, turned around, and slammed the door.
I felt pretty uncomfortable what with his entire family freaking out, so I quietly said goodbye to Jessie and left to go home. As soon as I got outside, I saw why everyone was freaking out.
They had gotten a puppy (Yorkshire terrier, IIRC) a few weeks before, and the puppy loved to take rides in a car. This puppy was outside at the time that Jessie’s brother pulled up, and when he opened the passenger’s side door, the puppy tried to jump in. Unfortunately, Jessie’s brother didn’t notice this, and slammed the door.
The puppy was cut cleanly in half, laying beside the truck.
When I was a kid, we had a toy poodle who also loved to ride in the car. She tried to jump into our van as my dad was closing the side door. Luckily all she got caught in the door was her paw – basically she broke all the bones in her “hand” and was in a splint for a while. VERY luckily, apparently.
I have just strengthened my resolve never to let our crazy 7-month-old Phyllis out of her pen without attaching the leash first.
Well, at the time, Scruffy was somewhere between 14 and 16- we’re not sure. The pound where we got him insisted that he was only 6 months old, but based upon later vet visits we’re pretty sure that he was actually 2 years old when we got him (unsurprising- records on dog births are pretty vague, based on verbal assurance; and I wouldn’t be surprised at pounds pretending that their dogs were younger than they really are in order to better attract families looking for a puppy). Anyways; by the time he committed suicide, Scruffy was old, and suffering from the various ailments of age (liver problems, eyesight problems) and those specific to dachsund breeds (back problems, arthritis).
One day, my mother went out to do some shopping. Unbeknownst to her (or just not paid attention to), Scruffy slipped out the front door as she left. As my mother got into the car, Scruffy walked under the car and laid down right in front of one of the tires. Mom started the car, began to drive, and WHUMP!
Maybe it was just an accident; maybe it was just befuddlement of age. But Scruffy had never laid under one of our cars before, and he certainly had always made sure to keep away from the cars when one of us got in and/or started the engine. Perhaps he just didn’t hear the car start, or just felt like trying out a new place to lie down; but what he did was so out of character for him that I and my family feel that it had to be deliberate. Scruffy was old, tired, and often in pain; he just decided one day that it was time to end it.
Maybe I’m humanizing him too much; maybe I’m trying to shift some of the blame for an accident on him instead of my mother; but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.