Recently, I learnt more about dogs than in a lifetime of cuddling them. I learnt about a hideous disease – Haemorrhagic Gastroenteritis – that hits healthy dogs like a hurricane, leaving devastation in its wake. I learnt about the pockets of kindness and talent that are scattered across our community in the form of animal emergency clinics.
It starts on a public holiday. We wake to find sloppy pools of evidence that our grey Schnauzer Winnie has had a bad night. But she’s chirpy as ever, still barking at passers-by, her nose wet, ears alert. No cause for alarm. Until we stumble on drips of blood right under my computer chair. Point made.
Time to panic!
Animal emergency clinics are the kinds of places you never think about until you need them.
And when you need them, they’re the only place you want to be. Yes, even on public holidays. Especially on public holidays when you can’t see a local vet for dust.
The clinic’s phone message advises callers that they work on a triage system (as on the battlefield). There’s no need to book as emergencies don’t have a timetable. All critters are assessed by a nurse, the most needy moving to the top of the tree to see the vet.
This is good. This is excruciating.
In the waiting area, Winnie refuses to sit or lie down. It never occurs to us that this might be due to pain as she gives not a whimper. She stands swaying in the same position for one hour, two hours, as if to say, “Let’s get outta here”. But it’s her eyes. She looks right into mine and my stomach drops.
On the wall, there’s a display of former patients. Like humans, an awful lot of dogs commit bizarre acts of self-sabotage, ending in a visit to Emergency or worse, doggie heaven.
Harry, a Maltese cross, raided an entire bag of fresh macadamias. He was rushed to Emergency for a stomach pump. When his owner was invited into the surgery to console her dog, 22 intact macadamias were spread out on the bench. (They were in such perfect condition they could have been repacked and sold at a discount.)
Finally, it’s our turn to see the vet. Dr. Lili no sooner utters the words, “I’m very concerned about your dog,” when something happens that will be seared into my brain forever. Winnie squats down and “poohs” a pool of blood on the floor. Next, she staggers towards the vet and spews a mustardy custard at her feet. It’s worse than a horror movie. Our darling dog is dying before my eyes.
The clinic’s phone message advises callers that they work on a triage system (as on the battlefield). There’s no need to book as emergencies don’t have a timetable. All critters are assessed by a nurse, the most needy moving to the top of the tree to see the vet.
This is good. This is excruciating.
In the waiting area, Winnie refuses to sit or lie down. It never occurs to us that this might be due to pain as she gives not a whimper. She stands swaying in the same position for one hour, two hours, as if to say, “Let’s get outta here”. But it’s her eyes. She looks right into mine and my stomach drops.
On the wall, there’s a display of former patients. Like humans, an awful lot of dogs commit bizarre acts of self-sabotage, ending in a visit to Emergency or worse, doggie heaven.
Harry, a Maltese cross, raided an entire bag of fresh macadamias. He was rushed to Emergency for a stomach pump. When his owner was invited into the surgery to console her dog, 22 intact macadamias were spread out on the bench. (They were in such perfect condition they could have been repacked and sold at a discount.)
Finally, it’s our turn to see the vet. Dr. Lili no sooner utters the words, “I’m very concerned about your dog,” when something happens that will be seared into my brain forever. Winnie squats down and “poohs” a pool of blood on the floor. Next, she staggers towards the vet and spews a mustardy custard at her feet. It’s worse than a horror movie. Our darling dog is dying before my eyes.
But Dr. Lili doesn’t flinch. “She has Acute Haemorrhagic Diarrhoea Syndrome or Haemorrhagic Gastroenteritis.
It’s quite common in small dogs like mini Schnauzers. It can be fatal but, with IV treatment, most recover in two or three days.”
I’ve never heard of this horrible thing that appears to have many causes. This thing that can lead your dog into shock, strip the lining of its guts, or end up a monstrous episode that the dog must ride out to survive.
Dr. Lili starts talking about costs, but I can’t get past the blood. “We charge $1,200-1,500 on a 12-hour basis. (Plus $300 extra for public holidays.) Winnie has a severe case. She may need to be in hospital for a week. There are other emergency clinics that are half the price – not-for-profits – you could go there.”
We don’t have dog insurance – when you have more than one it starts adding up and I’m already swamped by the other insurances in our life. I guess I’d always promised myself to look into it … one day.
Anyway, the only thing I’m thinking about this minute is keeping our dog alive. If she gets through three days, there’s a chance she’ll be back to normal. She’s almost 12 but as strong as an ox. Being our mother’s dog, originally, adds another layer. How do you put a price on the life of a love anyway? (Non-animal lovers, please stop reading if you find this crazy.)
In the next few days, we hover between hope and where to dig a hole for Winnie’s body.
We tell our black Schnauzer… what? That her mate’s not coming home? That she is, maybe? Indi’s working it out herself, but her tail is down, and our shoulders are slumped.
Anyway, the only thing I’m thinking about this minute is keeping our dog alive. If she gets through three days, there’s a chance she’ll be back to normal. She’s almost 12 but as strong as an ox. Being our mother’s dog, originally, adds another layer. How do you put a price on the life of a love anyway? (Non-animal lovers, please stop reading if you find this crazy.)
In the next few days, we hover between hope and where to dig a hole for Winnie’s body.
We tell our black Schnauzer… what? That her mate’s not coming home? That she is, maybe? Indi’s working it out herself, but her tail is down, and our shoulders are slumped.
Day 4 and the longed-for change. The bleeding has stopped. She’s eaten a spoonful of chicken. We marvel at the healing power of the body – to be so wretched one day, and so “good” three days later.
By Day 5, we’re back at the clinic for a short walk. She’s doing well despite the ECG press-stud stickers still glued to her paws. She stops at a tree for her usual rigorous sniffing. A few metres on and she stops to squat. We lean in for our own forensic investigation.
Miraculum miraculorum!
Thanks to the good people in animal emergency – our sweet dog has produced a stool. And the world is suddenly a better place.
About the Author
Jo Stubbings is a Melbourne-based writer whose work has appeared in newspapers and journals across Australia. When she isn't writing slice-of-life articles, opinion pieces, or book reviews, she volunteers at a local op shop—a place she considers a prime source of inspiration.
Jo is a passionate advocate for the creatures in her garden and, of course, her beloved Schnauzers.
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