A Partnership Wavers

Spring of 2024 brought with it household chores that needed to be faced. A team of roofers arrived and began the demolition and installation of new shingles, gutters, and downspouts to my home of thirty years. I made it emphatically clear to all the management and workers that my yard had to be kept clean at the end of each day to avoid any debris that might endanger the cats, Brillo, guest dogs, or our wildlife residents.

About a week after completion, Brillo again stopped eating. He became lethargic. Once more I turned to Dr. Peter who gave us anti-nausea medication and an appetite stimulant. There did not seem to be anything wrong, but we both agreed it might be our old nemesis, pancreatitis, flaring again.

Despite the standard medical support Brillo did not rally. Once again I requested x-rays. I sat in Dr. Peter’s exam room waiting for the techs to return my little Schookumchoocher. Instead, Dr. Peter brought him. “Look at this,” he said as he handed Brillo to me and held up an x-ray image of Brillo’s abdomen.

Shocked, I immediately knew what I was seeing. Over the general gray variations of Brillo’s internal organs there was a blatant, distinct black form of a nail! He had swallowed a roofing nail.

“You must immediately take Brillo to the emergency room,” Dr. Peter said. “I’ve already called ahead and they’re waiting.”

I looked down at my boy in my arms. Solid, apparently healthy in every way, brown eyes shining, soft hair waving. Why had Brillo found a metal roofing nail more appetizing than all the expensive foods I offered him? I raced to the ER as the spring sun began to sink towards the mountains west of the hospital.

I had never been to this hospital, which was hidden behind a new apartment complex just ten minutes from Dr. Peter’s. When I carried Brillo through the doors the receptionist immediately knew who we were and announced our arrival on a loudspeaker to a large open room just past the front entry. Two technicians materialized in operating scrubs. “Follow us, please. We’re ready for Brillo.”

Instead of these gowned strangers taking my boy away from me, they waved me to follow. Sensing another hospital, Brillo wriggled in my arms and wanted to be put down. I gently placed him on the floor and he followed me into the big room. We both stared at the exam tables all in a row, each with their own bright lights above and assorted dollies and carts of equipment standing nearby. We passed stacked kennels, shining in their empty sterility but ready for patients with soft beds inside.

On the other side of the big room were three separate operating rooms, walled off, darkened and in the center of each was a metal table. Over the tables hung gigantic round light fixtures on steel arms that looked like sleeping dinosaurs. Each room also had dollies on top of which were wrapped bundles of surgical tools, waiting for the next disaster. Waiting for the next heartbreak.

An open operating area at the far end was already lit up and green clad medical staff stood waiting. . .for us?

We continued to walk the perimeter of the room, following our greeters, headed for the readied area. We were the only clients at the time. Selfishly, I was relieved to know there was no wait for attention. I felt a tug on Brillo’s leash and turned towards him. He had been following me but halted. Before I could react, I saw the object of his interest. There, crawling along the spotless floor was a large tortoise! Brillo sniffed noses with the hooked bill of an obviously non-plussed reptile. For a brief moment I rejoiced in seeing Brillo’s interest and curiosity piqued. It was the first flash of his inquisitiveness I had seen in several days, before he got sick. I laughed in relief.

“Oh my, is he a patient?” I asked the young woman who came from the adjoining hall.

“No, he’s mine. I bring him to work with me. I don’t like him to be alone during the long hours I’m away from home,” replied the technician. We both smiled at Brillo’s fascination and the tortoise’s interest in him. Brillo truly charmed anyone or anything.

I felt a rush of affection for my sick dog, that even with a potentially fatal condition he still experienced something new and responded to it. I remembered the herd of cattle Brillo tried to corral in Utah, the car trips we had taken to new locations filled with unique smells and sights, and the turnover of animals constantly occurring at our house. I thought of the incredible variety of experiences Brillo had had during his almost eighteen years of life—the shelter, Critter Camp, dementia units, television shows, promo activities for the rescues we worked with. Now we were here, in the epitome of veterinary medical advancement—truly an animal emergency room of the future.

Staying with the Boy

After quick preliminary tests of temperature, blood tests, physical exam, and introductions of a surgical team, we were escorted to the operating area.

“Would you like to stay with Brillo for his procedure?” a masked doctor asked me as another lifted him to the table top.

“Oh yes!” I exclaimed. “I’ve got medical background and promise I won’t pass out.” The eyes over the surgical masks squinted into invisible smiles.

“We’ve agreed Brillo’s age negates the possibility of opening his abdomen to remove the nail so we will be performing an endoscopy. Do you know what that is?” The team took their places around the table.

“Yes, I do.” I was guided to a place to stand nearby but out of the way.

“You can watch our progress on the computer screen overhead as we send the probe down his throat and into his stomach. Our hope is that we can find it quickly by pumping gas into his stomach to expand it. Then we can grab the nail and bring it back out the way we went in—through the esophagus.”

As the first surgeon explained the upcoming procedure a woman quietly took her place at the head of the table and placed a plastic cup over Brillo’s nose. She was the anesthetist and before any struggle, my little boy collapsed into a deep, sedated sleep.

She explained, “I’ll keep Brillo sedated during the procedure with the minimal medication. I’d prefer to avoid general anesthesia on a dog his age.” She then turned her attention to the monitors that tracked Brillo’s breathing, heartbeat, blood pressure, and temperature. Again, I explained his tendency to go hypothermic during anesthesia. Even as I spoke, another green-clad team member appeared with a cushioned contour bed Brillo’s size and laid it on the table next to him. Then she lifted the sleeping body and laid him on it on his back.

“This is a heated bed so we should be able to avoid that problem,” she said. It was just like the one that Dr. Matt used for Brillo’s cataract surgery. They finished draping him and each person set about their respective duties.

The co-leading surgeon began threading the endoscopic tube down Brillo’s throat. Following agreement that the tube was placed correctly, another surgeon slid a tiny wire with a minuscule claw at the end into the tube. I looked up at the monitor and saw the magnified claw emerge inside of Brillo’s stomach. Over the next two hours the team probed the folds of my dog’s innards looking for the nail. At one point they separated two overlapping clumps of gut and found a round disk.

“What is that?” I whispered. “That never showed up on the x-rays.”

“That is a plastic collar they use when they put in a nail on the roof. Plastic doesn’t show up on x-rays. It’s like a washer to a screw and secures the nail so it won’t slip out,” replied a surgeon. How did they know that?

After gently clasping the disk the operator of the claw withdrew it and out of Brillo’s mouth came an emerald green disk with a hole in the middle. “Good, no nail in this one. Now let’s find the one on the x-ray.” The claw was reinserted.

As time passed, the low murmurings of the surgical team continued as they searched for the buried nail that had brought us here. Other medical staff wandered over to observe. Other pets were brought in and treated on tables in the room. Each time a tearful owner came in with a sick or injured dog or cat, green clad medical teams materialized, converged on the pet, and did their work. People and pets came and went. Throughout the hours, my back ached, my feet went numb, and yet I could not leave my Brillo’s side.

Finally, the nail came into view on the monitor. I gasped, “There it is.” To myself? To them?

Teamwork

Silently, but for pointed conversation regarding retrieval, the team made repeated efforts to get to and then grab the nail that seemed to float out of reach with each effort. The claw was retracted and traded for a tiny lasso. No success. The lasso was replaced by and four-pronged grabber. The nail slipped away in stomach fluids. A new surgical team took over at shift change. Only the anesthetist remained, refusing relief. She wanted to stay and see Brillo and me through this ordeal. I loved her for her devotion to my boy.

After three hours an intermediate sized claw was successful. It was able to grab the nail but the point was facing upwards so that it tore tissue on its way out. The operator had to abandon her grip and attempt to maneuver the nail around so the duller head faced upwards. I became aware I was holding my breath. My head ached. My stomach growled. My feet were immovable bricks. My heart broke.

After another forty-five minutes, the surgeon was able to grasp the nail head and bring it to the connection between the stomach and the esophagus. She paused and took a deep breath. Slowly, gently, intensely, she retracted the tool. There was a communal sigh of relief when the claw and nail head appeared at the back of Brillo’s open throat. Tears stung my eyes.

“Oh my gosh,” one of the surgeons exclaimed. “Look at that!”

Not only had the nail been pulled out, but around it was a gooey green disk. The nail had a collar on it that did not show up on the x-ray or monitor. No wonder it had been so difficult to capture and maneuver into position for extraction.

The entire team wrapped the offending materials and gave them to me. “You might want to tell your roofer about this,” said one.

“Come sit over here. You can hold Brillo as he wakes up,” said the exhausted anesthetist. My boy was wrapped in a blanket as the teams cleared and cleaned the surgical area. I limped on my deadened feet to a bench where I stiffly sat down on hard composite material. I longed for my luxurious cushioned recliner at home. I supposed the composite was easier to clean and disinfect. My aching back cried out for lumbar support. My feet were so bloodless I could not feel my toes. My legs ached and burned. My vision was blurred by tears and an intense headache. Brillo slept in my lap and I knew he did not hear my rumbling stomach. But nothing was more important than the comfort of the boy sleeping in my arms.

I mumbled my extreme thanks to everyone and when the masks were removed I saw a remarkable bunch of dedicated and pleased young people. I thought back to my youth and how much I had wanted to be where they were now. I wanted to be a veterinarian surgical specialist in a day when not only were there no specialists, but few girls were allowed into veterinary school. Of this entire team, only two were men.

I sat, holding my little buddy. Exhaustion flooded me. The physical strain of standing for hours on a concrete floor combined with the even more draining emotional fatigue. At midnight I placed the sleeping Brillo in his bed in the front seat of the car. My new computer glasses fell out of my purse but I was too exhausted to notice. I heard the crunch under the front tire as I backed out of the parking space in the deserted lot.

Time to Say Goodbye

We had another couple of weeks of ups and downs, two more emergency trips for hydration and appetite stimulants. My kitchen became a canine restaurant in the attempt to find something Brillo was capable of eating. I never left his side. Eventually it became obvious Brillo was not thriving. His pancreatitis flared and refused to abate. I consulted with Dr. Peter, his colleagues, and every veterinarian who had ever cared for Brillo. All compassionately listened.

When I had run the gamut of every possible “maybe” I was forced to face the fact that Brillo was losing weight faster than I found ways to keep him fit.  He was in pain. He slipped away from me over the next weeks and no amount of medications or hydration did more than buy a few hours of comfort for him. For over sixteen years I had nurtured, protected, and cared for my little Schookumchoocher. I made every decision about his life, from his food, medical care, exercise regimen, and daily routines.

Now I had one final decision to make on his behalf.

On a beautiful April day I beckoned my friend, Dr. Erica, to our home. She came and released my boy from is long battle. Brillo died in my arms as so many before him had. He died outside in the sunshine as the flowers began to bloom and the trees sprouted emerald green leaves. He died at the beginning of the most beautiful time of year, in our yard, as I sang my love for him into the circling, caressing breeze.

My Little Big Man slept peacefully. He had been my wing man during almost sixteen years of animal rescue and deserved the rest only I could provide. He trusted me to make all the decisions regarding our relationship–including the decision that it was time to let him go. Our partnership was over but our connection would never be. He taught me, bossed me, and accepted me unconditionally. I would never be the same person that took on a foster dog with a broken back, pins in his leg, ratty hair knotted to the skin, and yet who remained trusting and affectionate. I planned to take all that he had instilled in me and continue our work alone.

Because, unfortunately, there always will be dejected dogs in need.