We recently adopted a blind cat. She had to have her eyes removed because of cat flu. She’s fine now and you don’t notice anything different in her behaviour. But we wanted to have her checked by our vet for her weight etc. This happened when we arrived, and the assistant took our details.

Assistant: “Okay, I wrote everything down. Is there anything else we should know beforehand?”

Me: “Yes, she doesn’t have eyes.”

Assistant: “So, she’s blind?”

CONTENT WARNING: Animal Abuse

While working reception in a veterinary clinic, we had one pet owner who was in to “alternative” medicine for her animals. The only vaccine she would allow was the legally required rabies vaccine. She preferred using (ineffective) essential oils rather than the flea and tick prevention we carried. We would simply make our recommendations for treatment and she would select the ones that fit her holistic healing ideals.

When her elderly cat came in with issues, our doctor suspected kidney failure (common in older cats) and suggested urinalysis and bloodwork which would give us more clarification. While comprehensive lab-work is a bit pricey, it gives invaluable information about an animal’s health. The owner said she would have to consider it and took her ailing kitty home.

We learned later that the owner questioned our doctor’s diagnosis and opted for a second opinion. And where did she go for this “expert opinion”? She scheduled her cat for multiple sessions with a pet psychic.

My local vet office recently decided to upgrade their computer system. They had signs everywhere in the clinic, on every single door, on every single desktop, basically, everywhere they could find to put them, announcing that they would be closed for one day while they transferred from written clinical notes to computerized ones.

We happened to be taking our new feral kitten in for her first check-up with our vet, and I jokingly asked the veterinarian:

Me: “Do you think you have enough signs?”

She laughed.

Veterinarian: “I did mention to the office manager that I thought it might be excessive.”

Me: “The problem is that one sign suffices for those who read them and you cannot make enough signs for those who ignore them.”

The next time we went in happened to be just before Christmas. I brought her a Christmas present, which was a wrought iron wine bottle holder with two bottles of wine, but since it was an office, I didn’t want to be carrying around alcohol in plain sight of other clients, so I put it in a paper bag and wrote a note on the outside.

Note: “I was going to tell you to take a drink for every customer who asked why are you weren’t open on Monday, but I didn’t want you guys to get alcohol poisoning.”

Being in veterinary medicine, it’s a bit of an occupational hazard that you end up with pets that are disabled or ill in some way. Such was the case with the receptionist’s cat. He came in as a well-loved barn cat with a diagnosis of FIV. Very similar to HIV in humans, it’s not the virus that gets you, but the opportunistic illnesses you’re vulnerable to. Life in a barn was off the table, and the receptionist had no other cats in her house, so off Kitty went to live a spoiled house cat life.

A few months down the line, the receptionist calls on the drive-in to tell the technician Kitty’s been sick and she’s bringing him in. The tech goes into whirlwind mode, setting up oxygen and getting the IV pump set up, and hits the parking lot running, swooping the cat carrier out of the receptionist’s hand.

About this time the vet arrives and says:

Vet: “Isn’t that Kitty? What’s going on?”

Tech: “I don’t know, [Receptionist] says he’s been seizing all night!”

In walks the receptionist, who says:

Receptionist: “No, I said he’s been sneezing all night.”

My dog and I are close; I will be the first to admit that I am a bit of a helicopter pet parent, and I am always on the lookout for potential issues (most notoriously, ear infections), but this one takes the cake.

I woke up at about 2 am because Morrison (the aforementioned dog) was making a weird noise. I attempted to wake her. No response. I attempted to lift her. She was dead weight and limp. So I did the only reasonable thing: reacted in a blind panic, convinced myself she was dead, and promptly performed resuscitation while screaming blue murder for my husband to wake up. He’s greeted by me sobbing uncontrollably, Morrison blinking in confusion as now I’m convinced she has just returned from the dead due to my quick thinking, and immediately calls the ER vet in the area to see if we can come in. They say yes, we move dog #2 (Cobain) into her kennel until we return, and we’re speeding down the road to the other side of town twenty-five minutes away.

On the drive, I woke up my mother, because I was hysterical and begging Morrison not to die, and my husband needed someone to talk me down. They finally get me in some kind of rational headspace, and we pull up to the ER vet.

Morrison has to go in alone (because social distancing), so I’m sitting in the car, still crying because obviously, my dog is dying, as my poor husband tries to field my hysterical predictions and respond to the Vet techs calling him for information.

Two hours (and only $50 later – they felt bad for me), we got a diagnosis: Morrison is a heavy sleeper and goes limp during deep sleep (like normal animals). There is literally nothing wrong with her, but how I didn’t give her a heart attack is beyond me.

And of course, the ER Vet had to call our normal vet to update her files, so now my vet brings it up every time I go in. Classic.