Noelnadesan's Blog

Every year, around 1,500 people die in road accidents in Australia, prompting state governments to introduce various measures to reduce the road toll. Encouragingly, these efforts have brought the number of deaths down over the years, although road accidents continue to claim far too many lives.

Animals, too, are frequent victims of our roads. In rural areas, kangaroos, wallabies, foxes and other wildlife are commonly struck and killed, while in towns and cities, cats and dogs are often the victims. Because animal deaths on roads receive far less attention than human fatalities, there are no reliable statistics recording their numbers. In recent decades, widespread desexing of cats and dogs has reduced the number of stray and roaming animals, and this may also have reduced the number killed on roads.

As a veterinarian, I occasionally had to deal not only with injured animals but also with the bodies of animals killed in accidents. Sometimes our task was simply to make a badly damaged animal presentable enough for its grieving owner to say goodbye.

On one occasion, a dog killed in a road accident near my clinic was brought to us. Using the implanted microchip, we identified both the dog and its owner. Because the owner wanted to take his beloved pet home for burial, we decided to repair the body as best we could.

The injuries were horrific. The abdominal organs had spilled through large wounds, one eye had been displaced from its socket, and the heart was protruding through the left side of the chest, hanging by a thin strand of tissue.

My nurse, Amy, assisted me, although she kept her eyes tightly shut whenever she could.

I replaced the exposed organs and began suturing the wounds. At one point, I had to deal with the badly displaced heart. As I worked, Amy suddenly muttered, “Oops.”

I looked at her in surprise.

How could she have seen what I was doing when she appeared to have her eyes closed?

“Bury your feelings,” I told her. “We have a job to do.”

She said nothing more.

When I had finished, I asked her how the dog looked.

“Okay, from my side,” she replied.

We wrapped the body carefully in a white cloth, placed it inside a black plastic bag and sealed it. Soon afterwards, the owner arrived to take his beloved dog home for burial. We removed the body from the bag and handed it to him with as much dignity as we could.

What we had done was, in a crude sense, not entirely different from preparing a human body after death. In embalming, internal organs may be treated or removed, and the body is preserved and reconstructed so that the damage and changes caused by death are less visible to those who come to say goodbye. Our purpose with the dog was simpler: to allow its owner to remember the animal as he knew it, rather than as the road accident left it.

If death is the full stop at the end of life, illnesses are the commas we encounter along the way. We often speak of a “good death”—a peaceful ending without prolonged suffering or unnecessary complications. That idea has remained deeply rooted in my mind.

Human civilisation has made extraordinary advances in science, medicine and social justice. Yet I would consider civilisation to have reached its true height only when all sentient beings—human and animal alike—are able, as far as possible, to leave this world peacefully and gently. Such ideal remains distant while wars, violence and needless bloodshed continue.

Years ago, another dead dog lay before me on the surgery table.

Her name was Mishka.

I had known Mishka for many years. She belonged to the Thornton family and had been under my veterinary care for a long time. Her death affected not only the family but also the staff at our clinic. For Mr Thornton in particular, it left behind a burden of guilt that would haunt him for a long time.

Two years earlier, Mishka had developed a lump on the side of her chest. When I operated, I discovered that the growth was firmly attached to the underlying chest muscle. I removed the tumour, along with part of the affected muscle, and sent the tissue for pathological examination.

The result confirmed what I had feared.

Mishka had cancer.

I explained the diagnosis to the Thornton family and warned them that the tumour could return. Because I had needed to remove part of the muscle, Mishka experienced considerable postoperative pain and endured a difficult recovery.

Dogs remember unpleasant experiences. Mishka certainly remembered hers.

After that operation, she no longer came into the clinic happily. The moment she realised where she was, she protested and resisted. For her, our clinic had become associated with pain.

As we had feared, the tumour eventually returned in the same area. Fortunately, unlike many cancers, it had not spread to her vital organs. Apart from the local tumour, Mishka remained a healthy dog.

We decided to operate again.

After surgery, I made sure she received strong pain relief. That evening, Mr Thornton arrived to take her home. While he settled the bill and chatted with the nurses, I heard Amy ask him a simple question.

“Did you bring Mishka’s lead?”

Mr Thornton laughed.

“No need. Mishka will follow me.”

I came out of my room to say goodnight. There was complete confidence in his voice. Mishka had followed him faithfully for years. Why should that evening be any different?

We watched them leave the clinic together.

Just as Mr Thornton had said, Mishka followed obediently behind him.

I returned to my room.

A few moments later, Amy rushed in.

“Mishka has escaped!”

While Mr Thornton had been distracted—searching for his car keys and opening the car door—Mishka had suddenly run from the car park.

Mr Thornton panicked. He walked through the surrounding streets calling her name again and again. Amy and I joined the search. Soon Mrs Thornton arrived as well. I could hear her scolding her husband for having been careless.

The family prepared a LOST DOG poster and left a copy at the clinic. We tried to reassure them. Perhaps someone had found Mishka. Perhaps she would be returned in the morning.

We held on to that hope.

The following day, my other nurse, Kellie, told me that her brother had messaged her. He had seen a dog matching Mishka’s description lying beside a nearby main road after apparently being hit by a car.

We contacted him immediately and asked for the exact location, but his directions were vague.

Kellie and I drove along the road, searching both sides. We looked everywhere we could, but there was no sign of Mishka.

We returned to the clinic disappointed. Kellie was furious with her brother for not remembering exactly where he had seen the dog.

My thoughts became clouded with sadness. Only the previous day I had operated on Mishka. Mr Thornton had paid for the surgery and walked happily out of the clinic, believing that his faithful dog would follow him home.

Now she had disappeared.

I went out for lunch, while Kellie, refusing to give up, asked her mother to help locate the exact place where the dog had been seen.

While I was eating, my phone rang.

It was Kellie.

“We found Mishka. I’ve brought her back. Come to the clinic.”

I returned within half an hour.

Kellie was deeply distressed. She had never before had to retrieve the badly damaged body of a dog from the roadside, lift it into a car and bring it back to the clinic.

Mishka had been struck by a vehicle.

Her injuries were devastating. Her body had been torn open, and some of her internal organs were exposed.

For a moment, I did not want to believe that the dog lying before me was Mishka.

I turned the body over.

Then I saw my own surgical work from the previous day.

There was no longer any doubt.

It was Mishka.

Some of the sutures had opened following the impact, and the heart and other internal organs were protruding through the wounds.

I telephoned Mr Thornton.

“We found Mishka,” I told him. “I’m very sorry. She has been killed in a road accident. Her body is here at the clinic.”

There was silence.

Then he asked whether he could take her home.

I hesitated. I explained that the accident had left Mishka’s body badly damaged and that seeing her in such a condition might be distressing.

He said he would speak to his wife and call me back.

About half an hour later, the telephone rang again.

It was Mr Thornton.

Through heavy sobs, he told me that they wanted Mishka home.

Then he made one final request.

“Doctor, could you please make her look as good as you can?”

I knew what he was asking of me.

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

“Come back in an hour.”

Once again, Mishka was on my surgery table.

Only the previous evening, Mr Thornton had walked confidently out of the clinic without a lead and said, laughing:

“Mishka will follow me.”

And she had.

This time, Mishka was also accompanied by our sorrow.