It was a Saturday in Melbourne winter. I was working only half a day. I arrived a little late because of a delay on the road, so after examining a dog that had been waiting for me, I sat at the computer to enter the consultation details.
These days, whether we examine dogs and cats properly or not, we have to document everything. When I owned the clinic and worked there by myself, I kept the records mainly for my own reference. But when you work for someone else, you have to record everything in detail.
Through the window, I noticed a car pull up outside. I assumed someone was bringing in a pet. When the man entered, I glanced towards reception. He was wearing a face mask, so I did not recognise him. He collected a paper bag from Elisa, the new nurse at reception, and stood there talking to her for a while.
Finally, he asked, “Who is working today?”
When Elisa mentioned my name, he came over to the doorway of my consulting room and peered inside. I pulled down my mask.
“You look like a different person!” he said, laughing.
Then I recognised him. It was Yang.
I stood up and said, “This is my coronavirus beard.”
Yang was a Chinese man I had known for many years. He was about forty, with greying hair, a childlike face, and a slim build. He spoke English fluently. Whenever he came to the clinic, he would usually spend ten minutes chatting with me.
At that time, he worked as a driver, taking Chinese tourists around Victoria and showing them the sights. He would often tell me about interesting places worth visiting.
His dog, Dodo, suffered from Addison’s disease and had experienced an Addisonian crisis caused by an electrolyte imbalance. Every month, Yang came to the clinic to collect Dodo’s medication.
Nearly ten years earlier, around lunchtime one day, a petite Chinese woman in her thirties named Sue knocked on the clinic door. Kelly, my nurse at the time, opened it.
Sue came inside, but instead of sitting down, she placed the small Pomeranian she was carrying on the floor, still wrapped in a towel.
I went over to examine the dog.
“What’s his name?”
“Dodo.”
“How old is he?”
“Five.”
“What happened?”
“I went to work this morning. When I came home at lunchtime, Dodo was lying like this and couldn’t get up. Normally, he runs everywhere. Whenever he sees me, he comes running towards me. But today, he could only turn his head and look at me.”
Dodo’s dull eyes looked towards us. He wagged his tail slowly, but even that movement seemed weak. When I touched him, his body felt cold. His heartbeat was regular, but weak.
With so little information, how could I arrive at a diagnosis?
Could it have been a snakebite?
“Do you live near a park?” I asked.
During Melbourne summers, snakes are often active. A bite from a brown snake can affect the nervous system and leave a dog weak or unable to move.
“No. He stays inside the house. He only goes outside through a small dog door when he needs to urinate or defecate.”
I immediately lifted Dodo onto the examination table, started him on intravenous saline, and kept him at the clinic for several hours.
Within half an hour, he stood up and began wagging his tail.
I told Sue to bring him back the following day so that we could run blood tests.
But they did not return.
Since Dodo appeared to be well again, they had postponed the blood test.
Their reasoning was understandable: why spend money testing a dog that now seemed perfectly healthy?
But I felt certain that something was wrong. Sooner or later, I thought, they would be back.
The following morning, they returned with Dodo.
Although he could stand on all four legs, he did not wag his tail. He also couldn’t lift his feet properly to walk.
“Today we must do the blood test,” I said.
I collected a blood sample and put him back on intravenous saline. He stayed in the clinic all day. Fortunately, the laboratory results arrived that evening.
His blood sodium level was low.
The adrenal hormones that help regulate electrolytes such as sodium and potassium were deficient. With the sodium level dangerously low, his muscles were no longer functioning properly. In plain terms, we might say the body had “lost its salt strength.”
Fortunately, medication was available.
From then on, Dodo swallowed tablets every day, but apart from that, he lived a healthy life.
Every month, either Yang or his wife, Sue, came to collect Dodo’s medication from us.
Dodo lived on that treatment for many years.
—
Now, seeing Yang again after all that time, I asked, “What happened?”
“Dodo died on Sunday night,” he said. “I brought his body to the clinic on Monday for cremation. I came today to collect his ashes.”
He lifted the paper bag.
Then Elisa, my nurse, said, “Sue came yesterday and collected half of the ashes—her share.”
I looked at Yang.
“We’re divorced now,” he said.
I was surprised.
Over the years, I had seen divorced couples argue over who should keep a dog or cat. I had even seen disputes over pets end up in court. Most of those cases involved European Australians, but I had never seen two people divide a pet’s ashes between them.
“How long ago did you divorce?” I asked.
“Six years ago. But I looked after Dodo because Sue couldn’t keep a dog where she was living.”
“Are you married again?”
“Yes. I have a child now,” Yang replied.
“Dodo lived with this disease for nearly eight years. That itself is remarkable,” I said. “And both of you deserve credit. Despite your separation, you both continued to care for him.”
Yang opened the door and walked away carrying his half of Dodo’s ashes.
Even after he left, the image stayed with me.
I mentioned it to Elisa.
“Both of them looked after Dodo,” she said. “Sue came here many times to collect his medication too. So, I suppose they both have a share in him.”
I thought for a moment.
“In forty years of veterinary practice, this is the first time I have seen two people divide a pet’s ashes between them.”
Then I returned to my computer and sat down.
பின்னூட்டமொன்றை இடுக