The Gift of Pets: Stories Only a Vet Could Tell (20 page)

Between the rides of the midway and the barns housing the livestock, you pass the rigged games of chance that heavily tattooed and chain-smoking roadie hooligans man, calling to you through bullhorns. Every year, at least one of these games gives away as prizes young rabbits. They are usually physiologically stressed to the max and come with no prior health care and are loaded with parasites inside and out.

At these two times of the year, parents across the county succumb to the pressure placed on them by their rabbit-coveting kids without giving much thought to the care these animals might need. Without proper nutrition, housing, or the slightest nod to appropriate rabbit husbandry, these families trail their ne’er-do-well bunnies through the offices of the county vets for weeks after Easter and the fair.

Rabbits can make wonderful pets when given adequate attention and training. I have rabbit patients who know their names, come when called, use litter boxes, and interact with the family in much the same way that cats or dogs do. They can be playful and mischievous and have wonderful, engaging personalities. They are solicitous of their owners’ time and attention, following them around the house and lying down at their feet. They beg for food and treats, get spoiled and naughty, and wrestle with the family dog.

But rabbits as pets have some drawbacks, as well. Their life spans are so much shorter than a dog’s or a cat’s, averaging five or six years, that loving families experience the awful sting of loss much more quickly. They also hide their illnesses to a much greater degree than do dogs or cats. Since in the wild—and domestic rabbits are closer to the wild than most companion animals—a sick bunny is quickly picked off by predators, masking their illnesses is an important survival strategy for rabbits. But it makes treating them all the more difficult. A bunny that acts sick is a sick bunny indeed. In some cases, by the time they are showing symptoms, it is too late to intervene.

Add to this the fact that we don’t know as much about rabbit diseases as we do about the diseases of other species and that, since many rabbits are considered of little monetary value, families do not often choose to invest much in their care, and you can see why we vets treat few rabbits. And rabbits are not good patients. They are designed for one thing—hopping. This they do very well, but their spines are so weak and their thigh and back muscles are so strong that they are liable, with one mighty kick, to literally break their own backs. You would think they would know this about themselves and take strict precautions to prevent it. But during the heart-racing stress of a physical examination by strange white-coated people, they have been known to do exactly that—a fact which makes examining them exceedingly tense.

I have known a few rabbit enthusiasts over the years whose devotion to and love for their pets has been legendary, and who have allowed me to practice quite sophisticated rabbit medicine. At the very top of this short list is Sue Anne Montgomery. Sue Anne is an attractive woman in an earthy sort of way. She has long, straight, dark hair that settles around her shoulders and reaches to the middle of her back. She is thin and shapely, with a pleasant, sun-darkened face. She works as a food producer on a small plot of land supplying vegetables and fruit to the local produce market. She keeps a few head of beef cattle and some goats, which supply the milk from which she makes cheese. A couple of horses are also part of her menagerie and add to her long list of daily chores. This is hard work, and though you can see the effort in her strong and seasoned hands, she still somehow maintains an appealing feminine quality.

Sue Anne used another veterinarian to care for the health needs of her farm animals. But she had a passion for rabbits that elevated them well above the agricultural purposes for which she had begun keeping them. They were her pets. They lived in her house and shared her life in ways most often reserved for the family dog. For these family members, she wanted health care from a family doctor. She brought her bunnies to me.

I suppose I saw four or five of her pet bunnies over the years, but there was one rabbit that was Sue Anne’s absolute favorite. Meisha was a female Angora with long hair and a personality that set her apart. I saw her often, as she needed to have her incisor teeth clipped periodically. Rabbits have continuously growing teeth, which, if they do not meet precisely, will overgrow, making it impossible to chew or eat. A quick snip with a sharp clipper keeps them from causing problems, so Meisha came in every four to six weeks.

On one such trip, Sue Anne asked me to check out a little lump she had noticed on Meisha’s tummy. It was the size of a pea and nonpainful, but it had been getting larger over the two-week period she had been watching it. This history alarmed me. Rabbits have a relatively high rate of tumors, and I was concerned that this was a malignancy of the mammary tissue.

“Sue Anne,” I said, “I think you should leave Meisha with me today and let me remove that growth.”

“Oh, I think that’s probably an overreaction, don’t you? It’s just a little thing. Why don’t I just keep an eye on it?”

“We can, if that’s what you want, but I would recommend it be removed.”

“Do you think it’s something serious?” Sue Anne’s eyes rounded and concern rose on her face.

“I think it could be. I won’t know for sure without a biopsy, but I’m concerned about breast cancer.”

The words could not have had more of an impact on Sue Anne had I told her the bank was foreclosing on her mortgage. Immediately, her face clouded over and the precipitation began. She scooped Meisha up in her arms and buried her face in the long silky hair. They stayed that way for what seemed a long time before Sue Anne turned to me again, resolve now marking her face.

“Okay, get that thing off of there right away! I’m glad I brought her in.”

Anesthesia in rabbits is a tricky thing and is not to be trifled with. The species is so tenuous that the specter of putting one under the knife is something that gives me nightmares. But I knew that if I was right, Meisha’s best chance was for me to remove the growth as soon as possible. That afternoon I took her to surgery and removed the small nodule, making sure to remove a wide swath of normal tissue surrounding it so no tumor cells remained. I also spayed her, in the hope that removal of the ovarian hormones would decrease the likelihood of recurrence. Fortunately, Meisha came through surgery well and was released into the capable and loving care of Sue Anne that evening.

When the biopsy came back from the lab five days later, I was disappointed, although not surprised, to see that the growth had indeed been a malignant tumor of mammary origin. The tissue surrounding the growth had been free of cancer cells, so I hoped that removal had been curative. Time would tell. News of the results produced in Sue Anne the same terrified but resolved response. I gave her instructions to watch the area carefully for any sign of regrowth.

Three months later, Sue Anne and Meisha were back. The record said I was to check another growth. Sue Anne’s face showed the fear in her heart as soon as I entered the room.

“Another nodule?” I asked.

Sue Anne just nodded her head, avoiding my face with her frightened and emotion-filled eyes. I took Meisha from her lap and placed her on mine, cupping my hand under her belly and feeling along the mammary chain where the first growth had been. I could feel the surgery scar but did not feel a lump under it. When I went to the other side, however, my heart jumped. There, along a line of mammary tissue on the opposite side, I felt not one nodule but three.

“Oh, Meisha,” I said. “That’s not good.”

Any control Sue Anne had maintained until then evaporated in a torrent of emotion, which continued unabated for quite some time. I sat silently on my stool, patting her arm empathetically. I knew the immensity of the impact this was having on her. No words I could share would lessen it. Finally, Sue Anne turned a tear-streaked face to me and entreated in a pinched voice. “What do we do now?” she asked.

“There really isn’t much at our disposal,” I said sadly. “These tumors are not very responsive to chemotherapy in other species, and a rabbit does not handle chemo drugs well anyway. Removing the tumors would not help. Since these came back in a different location, I suspect others would just pop up somewhere else. Besides, she can’t undergo a whole lot more surgery. I think we only have one option. We’ll just keep her as comfortable as possible till the tumors get so large that we can’t control her pain. Then we’ll have to make an awful decision for her good.”

I sent Sue Anne home with pain medications and my deepest sympathies. I wasn’t sure how much time she still had with her friend, but I knew it would not be long. Unfortunately, my suspicions turned out to be correct. Within about a month, Sue Anne and Meisha were back for their final visit.

The room was somber when I walked into it that fateful day. Sue Anne sat on the corner bench in a pair of blue jeans, her legs curled up under her. Her head was down and her long hair fell like a curtain over her lap, where Meisha lay, her breath coming now in short gasps. Sue Anne didn’t speak when I entered the room, but her shoulders began to shake. Taking my cues from her, I sat down on the stool, scooted it close, and put a hand on her shoulder. After an extended silence broken only by Sue Anne’s sniffling and Meisha’s labored breathing, I spoke.

“It’s time, huh?”

Sue Anne just nodded her head, the tears continuing. She let her legs swing to the floor and handed Meisha to me. I took her and placed her on the exam table. Sue Anne rose and stood on the other side of the table, comforting the frightened bunny with quiet words and gentle touches. The difference from when I had last seen Meisha was remarkable. The tumors, which had been the size of peas then, now ranged in size from golf balls to baseballs, stretching the skin over them and making it difficult for Meisha to move. From her labored breathing, I knew that the tumors had either invaded her lungs or were now causing so much pain that she continuously grunted with discomfort. Either scenario was untenable. As Sue Anne knew, it was definitely time to ease the suffering Meisha was experiencing.

I drew the euthanasia solution into a syringe, anxiety flooding my mind. Rabbits have the tiniest of veins, a fact that makes it very difficult to administer intravenous medications. I did not want this procedure to be prolonged by futile efforts at hitting a vein. With Meisha now back in Sue Anne’s embrace, I shaved her ear so I could easily see the minuscule veins that ran along the periphery of the huge ear. They were no bigger than a thread as they snaked their blue way under the skin. It would be difficult to hit this vein in the best of circumstances, but with the swirling emotions of the day, I knew this task to be well nigh impossible.

With Meisha cuddled on the tabletop in Sue Anne’s trembling arms, I poised my needle over the vein. Carefully penetrating the thin skin with the needle, I held my breath as I advanced it into the tiny vessel. I was pleasantly surprised to see the solution flow from my syringe into the vein as I slowly pushed the plunger. I had hit the vein. As the fluid flowed into Meisha’s system, her breathing slowed and her little body relaxed in Sue Anne’s arms. It was a peaceful and dignified end to many years of devotion. I slipped the needle from the vein and placed my stethoscope over the rabbit’s slowing heart. Before long, I heard the steady rhythm stop. She was gone.

Sue Anne searched my face as I listened, her breath held in like the emotion I knew was roiling inside. I met her eyes and nodded solemnly. There was silence for a moment. Then from across the table there arose a slow and growing moan of anguish from a crushed heart. Her knees began to buckle and she began to sag down, as if she were bearing more weight than her strength would allow. Her eyes shifted up in their sockets, as if she was searching the ceiling for a rational response to the unanswerable question of why we must endure such loss. Meisha began to slip from her loosening grip.

It was at this point that things began to take a totally unexpected swing into the surreal. I raced around the table and took the deceased rabbit from her arms. Sue Anne’s consciousness was rapidly deserting her, and I knew that in just a moment or two, she would be an inert form on the floor if I didn’t help.

I directed her with my free hand back to the corner bench and helped her sink down onto it, all the time repeating her name loudly and as comfortingly as I could. I watched with horror as the color drained from her face and her lips formed voiceless words of sadness. The tears fell unchecked from her unseeing eyes.

I knelt on the floor in front of her with the bunny’s limp form cradled in the crook of my left arm. I bent over so I could look directly into Sue Anne’s face. Since she was huddled forward, I had to lower myself well below the level of her shoulders to look up at her. I could not get her to open her eyes and acknowledge me, even though I was patting her hand with some force. In her unresponsive state, I could not tell whether she was simply overcome with emotion or truly slipping from consciousness.

“Sue Anne,” I said, and then, louder, “Sue Anne. Can you hear me?”

Apparently, she could not, because about that time, she slumped forward, unresponsive now. Because I was still holding Meisha’s body in my left hand, I had no way to slow her fall except to catch her head on my shoulder and reflexively push her back against the wall with my torso, an action that resulted in my body’s being suddenly and uncomfortably close to hers. With my right hand, I reached around and began to rub her back comfortingly yet firmly, hoping with this contact to bring her back to a level of awareness.

As I vigorously rubbed her back, it struck me like a lightning bolt that I did not feel any bra straps. Sue Anne was not wearing a bra! Sue Anne was not wearing a bra? The compromising situation I found myself in suddenly hit me with a clarity that made me back away from the inert body, which was even now cradled on my shoulder in an intimate embrace. I jerked my hand up and back behind me. When I did, though, she slumped again toward the floor, and I had no choice but to move in toward her again. It was either that or let her sink, helpless, to the floor.