Not hospice

This is an update for Hospice, a post from July.

After living with him for a couple weeks and seeing his high quality of life, we decided to look into treatment. Radioactive Iodine injection is really the only viable treatment, and it is a cure. The Iodine attacks any abnormal thyroid tissue but leaves everything else alone, so it's a relatively low-risk treatment. Depending on his other medical issues and the cost, we were pretty optimistic.

After calling the two clinics in the area, treatment was estimated to be $1200. Assuming there were no other issues, treatment could optimistically give him another 3 years or so. At this point, he was running around like crazy, constantly demanding play and food, though not necessarily in that order. I could just see his thyroid burning him up. A 15 year old cat is just not supposed to act like that.

When I requested lab work for treatment, I was told by the shelter vet that I would need to get any needed lab work on my own, at my own vet. They were unwilling to help, presumably because he had originally been deemed hospice (though he was officially changed to seeking rescue) and they were too busy to worry about his treatment. I could consult them later in the month when things slowed down.

I was already prepared to pay out-of-pocket for treatment, so getting the lab work wasn't a huge blow. I did request the aid of a volunteer non-profit to help fund-raise and then hopefully help find a rescue or permanent home.

He went to a local vet that is one of few in this area that do not declaw, which is amazing in itself, but she also does a lot of work with shelter pets. She was skeptical of the diagnosis, given his significant weight gain (6 to 10 lbs in less than one month). She also believed him to be about half the age estimated by the shelter.

When the lab work came in, the news was better than we could imagine. Not only did he have no evidence of hyperthyroid, but all signs pointed to him being perfectly healthy! In the meantime, the group raised $400 for him, so they can use that money for the next needy cat.

He's now adoptable and still in foster care. He loves playing with our 9 week old foster kittens. If interested in adopting, please comment.

Sophie

This is Sophie:

Sophie's father of 14 years took her to the shelter on Saturday because the family had moved and was only allowed to have one pet, and Sophie wasn't it. Maybe they liked the cat more, maybe the cat was younger and didn't have accidents, maybe they didn't like her bad breath or cloudy eyes. Maybe it was a very hard decision, and they decided that Sophie had already lived a long, full life. I don't know.

But I met Sophie on Saturday.

I told her father that there was no room in our back room, where old dogs wait to see the vet alongside bite dogs, court dogs, and dogs with other medical/social issues. There was no room in there, so Sophie would be euthanized. Through no fault of her own, just because there was nowhere to put her.

He said, "That's fine. My wife and I already discussed it and we're fine with it."

I've known Sophie for five seconds and I'm not fine with it.

I don't know what's going on in their lives. I'm sure there is some circumstance that would make leaving your 14 year old dog at the shelter to die okay. I just don't know what it is. Whatever the reason, I'm sorry for them. Whether it's economic hardship or just cold, dead hearts, I'm sorry for them.

I asked Sophie's dad if he tried contacting the rescue that he got her from. He said, "No, we don't live there anymore." I said, "Yes, but they may be able to arrange transport for you if you can just hold on to her for a couple more days. Many rescues would rather get their dog back than have their dog left at a shelter to be put down." "We can't do that."

Needless to say, I contacted the rescue. They said they want her back. Their records don't even go back that far, but they took it on faith. Had he called just a few days earlier, Sophie could already be looking for another home. But I'm sure there was a reason he didn't call. I'm sure there's a reason he waited until the last possible minute to take care of Sophie.

When this is all said and done, when Sophie is safely back where she started, I'll post where she went so everyone can thank them for following through for Sophie. Fourteen years later and the next state over. Hopefully they meant it and Sophie will be going soon.

I brought Sophie home. There's no space in that room but I couldn't let her go down for her owner's mistake. Not this time. I think she's worth it. I think she's worth a few days. I think she's worth the space. I think her life is worth living.

Here's what I've learned about Sophie:

• She's a chowhound. She'll do anything for food or treats, or anything she thinks is food or treats. She demands feeding promptly upon waking and first thing when I get home.
• She loves going for walks. She can barely see, so she has no idea where she's going, but she seems to be sure it'll be a good time.
• She misses her cat friend and keeps trying to make nice with my cat, who's not having it.
• She's been fine with our two dogs, despite her owner reporting to the contrary. She's a Fun Police, so she doesn't like it when it gets rowdy, but she's otherwise fine.
• She's had no accidents, despite her owner's report. Over time, I'm sure, given her age, she'll have accidents, but for the past 48 hours she's been perfect.
• She likes to play, but I'm not sure how.

She's happy to be alive.

Hospice

I did a selfish thing last week.

I saw a bright-eyed, biscuit-making old cat in Cat Quarantine and wanted to take him home. Not because I need another cat-- I don't. And not because he seemed particularly fond of me-- he didn't. I wanted to take him home because I didn't think he deserved to die. Yes, he was old. Yes, he was scrawny. Yes, he was half bald. But his eyes shone like fire and he ate like he was starved and he said he wasn't ready to die. Not yet.

So I asked to bring him home. Not to fix him up and make him better, but just to let him live. Let him decide when it was time to go. I raged with righteous indignation that this most important of decisions had been taken from him, and I asked to take him home. And they said yes, when they just as easily could have said no. And maybe they should have.

At the animal shelter, we play a numbers game. It's a constant struggle to decide who lives and who dies; who gets one more chance and who doesn't. Despite what some uninformed and unrealistic people may say, you can't, you shouldn't, save them all. You shouldn't take an old, dying animal and allow an adoptable animal to die instead.

But I did.

And I'd do it again.

Why did I choose to take him instead of a kitten that could have been cared for and then adopted? I could use the excuse that I already have a nursing queen with kittens and I don't want to risk exposing them to germs, but really-- I didn't want to take a kitten. I didn't want to take any other cat. Had I not taken him, that room would still be empty. I took him because I wanted to. And because I was allowed to.

I didn't do it for him, not really. I did it because I wanted to feel good about something. He makes sure I feel good every time I walk into his room. He greets me loudly, purrs and circles my feet. He follows me around, purring and making biscuits, waiting for his food. He got his nails cut, his toes counted (26.5!), and tonight he got a bath. He's gaining weight and I'm thinking of renaming him Mick Jagger, because he's old, scrawny, and a little gross, but still awesome and you want to hang out with him.

Don't get me wrong. He very likely is very ill, he's just not showing many symptoms yet. When he does, we'll deal with it. And when we can't deal with it (when he can't deal with it), we'll help him go. But for now, who could resist that face?

Don't lie to me.

"Why are you surrendering the rabbit?"


"He's shedding a lot, and I can't find a vet that will see rabbits."


"Would you like a list of vets that see rabbits? There are a few in this area."


"No. I can't afford it, anyway."


"..."

Banfield strikes again

Young woman came in yesterday with a dog that was adopted from here a week before. He was wearing a cone. She handed me the sheet we give out for pet insurance and a quote from Banfield, showing antibiotics and pain medicine, totaling about $50. She told me that someone at Banfield told her to come to us and ask us to call them. I asked her what was going on, and she said that she had taken the dog in for a free exam, and they told her that his neuter incision was infected and he need antibiotics and pain medicine.

For some reason, I was skeptical.

I'm not supposed to, but I asked her if I could take a look at the dog. She said, "Of course," so I came around the counter and took a look at his surgery incision. It looked like a perfectly normal, deflated sack. There was no swelling, no redness; the incision wasn't even visible any longer. It was, for all intents and purposes, healed.

I looked at her and said, "You need a new vet. I'm going to call Banfield and see if they can explain this, but I'm telling you right now, find a new vet. This dog's incision site looks great."

So I called Banfield and spoke to the woman who had told the pet owner to come back to the shelter. She said that she had told the owner to see if we would pay for anything, since the insurance would only pay back some of the fees once paid, it wouldn't pay outright. I told her, "Absolutely not." and asked who had told this woman that her dog's incision site was infected. The Banfield person got indignant, and said that she was sure the vet had looked at the dog and made the assessment. I assured her that the surgery site was no infected, thanked her, and hung up.

I reiterated to the owner that she needed to find a new vet. I gave her the list of recommended vets (from volunteers and adopters, not from the shelter), and told her to make a regular appointment during the week.

It really pisses me off to see someone taken advantage of. We have so many awful pet owners who just don't give a crap, and to see someone trying so hard getting swindled is infuriating.

Once again, don't go to Banfield. Ever.

Tired.

I had a rough day. I've had rough days before, and I've written about a few of them here, but today was, by far, the most draining and painful day since I started working at the animal shelter. Before I go into detail, I've been trying to figure out why today, of all days, has been so awful. We've had hoarding cases where animals were so neglected and sick that they had to be euthanized. We've had litters of kittens die, from illness, deformity, inbreeding, neglect. We've had dogs come in as skeletons, with their skin open and raw with infection.

Today, none of that happened. Today, people happened. Not the worst people in the world. Some of them actually seemed quite nice. Nice people who were just bad pet parents. Bad pet parents who had already made the awful decision to surrender their pet, and nothing I said was going to change their mind. They had already decided that their fixable problem was unfixable, even though I had many possible solutions.

Today was death by a thousand cuts. Not just today, but yesterday, and the days, weeks and months before that. I finally reached that point where I couldn't talk to anyone, I couldn't look at anyone. I felt like my head was going to explode. I had to get away. And when I had to "help" one more "customer", I couldn't hide my exhaustion. I couldn't hide the fact that I was at a breaking point, that my head was spinning. I could hear myself taking deep breaths to try and contain the madness, but it just wasn't working.

Every day is filled with a range of interactions, from pleasant ones with pleasant people, to extremely unpleasant ones with awful people. In between, you get some people who are just plain simple, and don't know what they're doing, and you get the people whose lives are falling apart and this is just one more blow. I'm used to dealing with people, idiots and douchebags alike. But I guess today I just reached my saturation point.

I honestly don't even remember my first awful interaction of the day. I had two cats surrendered for not using the litterbox. I remember the second one. Long story short, the owner refused to accept that stress or a medical condition may have caused the cat to not use the litterbox on occasion. The cat had been having accidents for about 6 months. That's about the time when they moved from Ohio. The younger of the two children was starting to walk. She had not been taken to the vet to see if she has a UTI. She had not been confined to a small space to get more comfortable and to work on her litterbox habits. She was surrendered to the shelter, after the owner doing absolutely nothing to fix the problem, while saying that he had done everything.

One cat is awaiting vet exam, one cat is on the adoption floor.

The coup de grâce was a dog. I've gotten more sensitive about older dogs as Honey has gotten older. She seems the same to me now as she was three years ago, when we first got her, but if I look real hard, I can see her muzzle getting grey. I understand that she is technically a senior now, even though she is relatively young for a senior. Older pets are always difficult, but it hits a little closer to home, the older she gets.

Anyway. Guy brings in a dog he got in 2010. He has his original paperwork, plus some vet records ranging from 2011-2013. He had the surrender form filled out, and under reason for surrender, he said "pees in the house." I say, "So, he pees in the house?" He said, "Yes, but that's not all." Please sir, enlighten me.

This dog has not been to a vet in three years. He has been drinking a lot of water and needs to pee frequently. When he's not allowed to go outside, he'll pee in the house. It's not that he's not housetrained. It's that he has to pee too frequently, his family won't let him outside when he tells them he has to go, so he pees inside. He even has the nerve to need to pee in the middle of the night. Who wants to get up in the middle of the night? I'm not even kidding, he said that to me. This asshole, standing in front of me, doesn't think to take his dog to the vet for drinking an insane amount of water and needing to pee as a result, actually tries to get me to relate to him. If my dog tells me she has to pee in the middle of the night, whose fault is it if she pees on my bed? It's my fault. I'm the human adult. You can bet your ass that if the owner was drinking that much water and having to pee more than 2-3 times a day (that's the acceptable number of times to use the bathroom, he informed me), he'd be at the doctor, trying to figure out why.

As a result of his constant urination, his yard is ruined. They simply can't do anythingwith their yard as long as the dog is there.

When he goes outside, into the yard, he sometimes tracks dirt ALL OVER THE HOUSE. I mean, can you believe it? He goes outside, and he runs around, and when he comes back in, his feet are dirty! THIS IS MADNESS!!! This dog has feet that touch the ground, and they get dirty, and the dirt comes into the house using his feet! I just don't understand why the dog doesn't take his shoes off at the front door, like a civilized person, or at the very least wipe his feet on the mat before he comes in.

And, in the summer, he sheds. Sometimes for months at a time. His fur just comes off! The weather gets warm, and his fur starts coming off, all over the house. It's crazy. (Yes, he said that. That it's crazy that the dog's fur comes off, every year, without fail.)

Now, I know what you're thinking. This guy is obviously a moron and has no idea what a dog is. He assured me that he had owned many dogs over the years (this is an older-middle-aged white guy), and this dog was just out of control. Oh, oh! Don't let me forget. He would occasionally bark at a truck going by the house. Not often, not at cars, not at every truck, but every now and then he would bark at a truck. This f*ing dog.

The longer he talked, the less I could control my face. My eyebrows went up, my jaw went down. I had to make a conscious effort to not look too shocked. To help the guy out next time, should he decide to adopt again, I made a note on his file, asking future staff members to help him find a dog that pees a reasonable amount, does not shed, does not track dirt into the house, does not bark, and whose urine does not kill grass.

UPDATE (4/4): Riley was found to have a horrible UTI. How long he suffered with that, I don't know. He's being treated now, but needs a rescue to continue his recovery. He also has arthritis, needs a dental cleaning and has a possible heart murmur.

Update (4/6): Riley went to rescue today! I also spoke with the vet, who said that Riley had a history of needing urinalyses (though the last visit was three years ago), which does not guarantee that the owner knew he was prone to UTIs, but it makes it extremely likely. Couldn't be more thrilled that this guy made it out.

After that, a woman surrendered a 13 year old pekingese because she had become incontinent. That meant she was spending more time in the crate, and she was miserable in the crate. She had arthritis, "skin sensitivity" and severe dental disease. Funny thing is, someone will take that dog. She's sweet, and she's cute, and she's a small breed. The other dog, half her age, will have a helluva time finding rescue, based on size alone. Given his back story, he may have better luck with sympathy points.

 UPDATE (4/4): The pekingese went to rescue today.

What gets me is not the audacity of each situation. It's that these things are not uncommon. These small injustices happen every day. Like Buster, like Jean-Pierre. They aren't abused, exactly. They're just... they're not given the love and consideration that they deserve. So many people refuse to take their pets to the vet. Refuse to bring them inside. Refuse to accept that mutilation can lead to behavioral issues. Refuse to see that animals feel stress, too, but they can't express it like we can. And these are the same people that claim to care about their pet. That they did everything they could. They are so delusional that they cannot see that they have done nothing. Living with a problem for months does not make you a good person. It makes you complacent. And giving up without even trying to fix the problem makes you worse. It makes you ignorant. It makes you lazy. It makes you bad. Ignorance is a choice, laziness is a choice. 99% of the time, surrendering your pet to the shelter is a choice.

I'm tired of bad.

And now, after more than an hour of writing and raving, I'm just tired. Goodnight.

Lessons in how not to take care of your pets

Recently, I've been having trouble with people. Specifically, I guess, pet owners.

We currently have two great pets in our home that are not ours. Not completely, anyway. We love them like ours and we, more or less, treat them like ours, but we know that the time will come when we will have to let go.

I guess the best way to illustrate my malaise is to tell their stories.

This is Buster:

Buster is about 6 and a half years old (the same age as Honey), 70 lbs, and mostly hound. I did his intake paperwork. The owner seemed genuinely upset, which is honestly refreshing when dealing with so much... apathy. She said she was moving, and wouldn't have a yard, so she couldn't take him with her.

You see, Buster was a "yard dog." Her words. Specifically, when I asked her why his back end looked so bad (severe alopecia, crusted and stinky), she shrugged and said, "He's a yard dog." When I asked if he had been to the vet, she said no, and gave me a look as if her previous statement made her current one obvious.

I've had dogs that prefer to be outside. They would come in and then, when ready, ask to go back out. Some dogs love being outside. In fact, some dogs live outside and have perfectly happy and healthy lives. 

Buster is NOT a yard dog. 

Buster loves blankets, loves belly rubs, loves chewing and loves playing fetch. He prefers to be right where his family is, not in the next room or out of eye sight. His new favorite thing is to snuggle on the couch and get his belly rubbed.

Putting a dog outside and not providing proper medical attention is cruel. Putting a dog outside that has probably been a beloved "house dog" for the first three years of his life is heartless. Pretending to be upset when returning the dog to the shelter because you refuse to bring him inside is stupid. I hate lying and I hate crocodile tears. You don't neglect a dog for three years and then pretend to care when you leave him to die.

The more time I spend with this dog, as weird as he may be, the more I hate his previous owner.



Before I move on to Gatsby, I'd like to set it up by sharing a story about another cat from Thursday. His name was Marbles, and he was a gorgeous orange and white cat. His owner knew one of our foster parents, and she contacted us with an urgent request for information about euthanasia. I spoke with her, so when her acquaintance came in moments later I was somewhat prepared.

Marbles was vomiting blood. We all knew that this would be a euthanasia request, but she asked be what the chances were that the vets would try to save him rather than euthanize him. I told her that it occasionally happened, but when a pet was vomiting blood, the situation was dire. To put that question to rest, I made a few phone calls and confirmed that our vets would not be able to save him in his current condition.

Marbles had urine crystals. He had been diagnosed a few years ago (he was currently seven years old) and his condition had been controlled by prescription diet. A few months ago, however, he started showing symptoms that the food wasn't working anymore. Symptoms include blood in urine, straining during urination, painful urination, and not using the litterbox.

She knew what was wrong for months and chose to not seek treatment until he was literally dying. Again, she seemed genuinely distressed, but it is hard to be sympathetic when every fiber of my being is screaming, "YOU KILLED YOUR CAT!!!" Had he been treated when he started showing symptoms again, he would have lived. Instead, a beautiful and otherwise healthy cat was put to death because a treatable condition was consciously left untreated.

I don't get it. My cat is squinting one eye and I am losing my mind. I know it's not an emergency, but I'm calling the vet tomorrow to see if I should do anything. I just don't get it.



That brings me to Gatsby. He was brought in by a guy who said that his wife didn't trust the cat around their new baby. Here's his story, as well as I can piece it together:

Gatsby, formerly known as Max, formerly known as Starlight, was adopted from the Washington DC Humane Society when he was about 5 months old. When he was surrendered to the shelter, he was 2 and a half years old. He was loosely diagnosed with urine crystals a few months ago, but a change in diet seemed to take care of the problem. Since the new baby had arrived, other members of the family were visiting and their accompanying dogs were upsetting Gatsby. In his stress, he lashed out at one of the visitors and became agitated even around the resident dogs. They started isolating him from the rest of the family, specifically the dogs and the baby. He was obviously unhappy and distressed, so his owners consulted their vet. Their vet prescribed fluoxetine (Prozac), and after one week on fluoxetine they surrendered him to the shelter.

If I didn't know any better, I would think that the owners had "tried everything." That's a common lie that we hear at the shelter from owners who have simply had enough. It is rare when a person will admit that they just can't deal with it anymore, just as it is rare when a person has truly tried everything. If I didn't know any better, I wouldn't be so angry.

It is normal for a cat to become stressed out around unruly dogs. It is normal for a cat that is having an adrenaline rush due to "fight or flight" to redirect aggression onto a person if that person tries to grab them while they are panicking. There is a difference between isolating a cat and giving it refuge. A cat needs to feel safe in its own home, not endangered and not excluded.

Furthermore, if you think a pet is acting aggressively, DO NOT GIVE IT PROZAC. We have spoken with vets and behaviorists about different scenarios where trying fluoxetine is appropriate, and in every case we have been told that aggression can actually be made worse by Prozac.

Also, if your pet is on Prozac, there is an adjustment period. It can take weeks for a pet to feel "better." Those first couple weeks can be especially bad (I speak from experience). The last thing you want to do is surrender your pet to the shelter after one week on fluoxetine.

That is exactly what they did. And when Gatsby was in the middle of a bad trip, in a weird place with weird people, they had to muzzle him to finish vaccinating him. When he came down, a few days later, he emerged as the loving, perfectly normal cat he is.

But he was already deemed Rescue Only, based on intake behavior and special diet. My coworker who did his intake asked for my help, and as a last-ditch effort, I called the Washington Humane Society. They said that yes, they would take him back, but they would not arrange transport. Our rescue coordinator consulted theirs, and it was agreed that they would take Gatsby back if he got up to DC.

So, here we are.

Gatsby is the biggest cat we've ever had. He loves belly rubs and he loves attention. He also loves to play, in a lazy kind of way.

Just like with Buster, the more time I spend with Gatsby, the more furious I become that his owner left him with us to die. He was informed that Gatsby would not be adoptable and would more than likely be euthanized, and he chose to walk away.

Gatsby is a wonderful, normal cat. He met our dogs, briefly, and had a very normal reaction. He was fine until the dogs started barking at him and one rushed at him, at which point he puffed up and looked for a safe exit. Instead of grabbing him and getting mauled, we allowed him to find his own way back to his safe room, where he immediately calmed down and rolled over for more belly rubs.

I fall in love with all of my fosters. Every single one. Even if they are difficult, even if they don't fit our home and we have to re-foster-home them, even if I know they're going to die. When they're strays, it's easier. But with owners come baggage, which I then take because animals don't carry baggage. They don't have thumbs. Usually I can just ignore it, but these last couple weeks have really tested my faith in humanity.

I do take solace in the fact that they're better off here and their future will hopefully be brighter, but sometimes you just gotta rant it out.