Saturday Night, at the Vet

Love is ...

Panic when I step out into the backyard, wondering what’s taking Otto so long to come in from his bathroom break, only to find him collapsed in the dirt under the plum tree. A sun lover who enjoys nothing more than soaking in the rays—so very unlike me—he can usually be found stretched out on the grass by the goldfish pond. In his younger days, before arthrosis set in, he’d sleep on his back and wouldn’t even twitch as I applied sunscreen to his belly. Ambling into his golden years, he now favors sunbathing on his side, but still needs to be monitored as he’s become more prone to overheating. He never sleeps in the dirt. He doesn’t even like walking on it. To find him belly-flopped in the flowerbed, unable to get up even as I try to lift him to his feet, sends our household into a scramble. We manage to move him onto a blanket and carry him to the car. I sit in the back with Otto because I do not have a travel bench since he is a home bird, like me.

Love is …

Feeling guilty because I hadn’t checked in on him sooner as I’d been busy with the cats. Feeling guilty, wondering how long he’d lain out there in the dirt. He still has soil on the side of his muzzle. I brush at it with one hand as I call ahead to the clinic to let them know we’d be arriving in ten minutes.

Love is …

Sitting eight hours in the emergency waiting room on a Saturday night, wearing my least supportive old sports bra under the frayed cardigan I threw on over unflattering (but comfortable) sweatpants that I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing out to take out the trash.

Love is …

Fearing my last memory of Otto will be him on a cold metal trolley.

Love is …

My mom, who has never owned a pet of her own, and who makes it clear that every pet I get is my sole responsibility, staying outside in the car because she hates waiting rooms. Despite my suggestion that she goes home, she refuses. She doesn’t want me to be all alone should bad news come through. She waits outside—coming in thrice to check on me—for eight hours on a Saturday night.

Love is …

All the messages from family and friends. I don’t have my charger with me, and my phone ends up dying a little after midnight, but later I’ll get home and plug in and see that the messages never stopped. Stay strong, girl. Stay strong, Otto.

Love is …

A man and woman already in the waiting room when we arrive. Their boy, a Weimaraner, is also on a stretcher, deep chest heaving. The woman tearfully kneels next to him, trying to reconnect, but his eyes keep rolling. A decision is made and the Weimaraner is wheeled into cardiology. The man says he’s going to move the car. The woman is suddenly next to me on the bench and throws her arms around me. I don’t like being touched. I’m not even wearing a proper bra. And her face is snotty against the thin cotton of my cardigan. But I understand. We all deal differently. She pulls back, apologizing so earnestly I distract her by asking. This is their second vet visit in as many days. They lost their old girl, their boy’s sister, a month ago. She unburdens herself to me, an imperfect stranger, until her husband returns and suggests they get some coffee. He does it for her, not for me, but I am thankful because, if she’d asked, I don’t think I would have been able to recount aloud the sight of Otto in the dirt. I can’t stomach the thought of crying in front of strangers.

Love is …

A family, one unit, perfectly coordinated as they flock around a middle child, a young girl walking as fast as she can without jostling the cage. They must have left their home in a hurry because the mother’s headscarf hasn’t been properly pinned. The father explains that one of the cats got into the bedroom. The assistant reaches in, hand freshly gloved, and pulls out a blue parakeet. There is a puncture hole in the chest. She asks if the other bird was attacked as well. No, they say. They just don’t like to be separated. The whole cage, with both birds, goes through the double doors. The father says they checked the cat to make sure it hadn’t suffered any injuries. They do not blame the cat. They’re all family.

Love is …

A parade of alarm, distress and faith. As the minutes tick by and I resist the lure of my phone to prolong battery life, I can do nothing but sit and watch and wonder whether Saturday nights were always this busy. Some come and go relatively quickly—only an hour or two—and despite my own agonized wait I do not begrudge them. I want it for them. For both the owners, and the veterinary team working into the late hours of a Saturday night. I wanted to be a vet when I was younger, until I realized that I wouldn’t be able to save them all. That I would be confronted by sick or injured animals, and have to tell hopeful owners that there was little I could do for them or, even worse, gently encourage them that it would be kinder to humanely end their pet’s suffering—I did not have the stomach for it. Though I now wait on in uncertainty, every owner and pet who walks back out those front doors is a comfort.

Love is …

Reassurance. A vet technician calls me over and leads me to the mythical Back, beyond the Doors. They think Otto simply suffered a heat stroke. They’re prioritizing cooling him down. The room is large and filled with what I can only describe as square cribs. Otto’s greyed snout peeks through the bars. His tail wags with a bit more life when I tell him he’s the best boy, but when I assume this means we can go home soon the technician makes a face and says they’re still waiting on results and a call from a radiologist. But he doesn’t want to say anything more. Hugging Otto, I hope he doesn’t think I’m abandoning him for good when I leave without him. Avoiding the eyes in the waiting room, I got sit outside in the car with mom. “It’s not good.”

Love is …

The Weimaraner going home. From the front seats, we watch as the trio leave together. The husband is carrying the dog, but his head is up, amber eyes wondering and stubby tail wagging. I don’t know what miracle has been performed, or how much time has been bought, but the woman, beaming, looks twenty years younger than she did three hours ago.

Love is …

First-time cat parents, experiencing their first medical scare. I’ve only been back in the waiting room, on what’s now my bench, for a few minutes when a young couple barely out of their teens run in on a mission. They brought their new kitten home that afternoon. They thought they’d cat-proofed their apartment, only to be surprised at the jumping height of an excited kitten. A bookshelf was involved, somehow, and they ran in to find her under a pile of previously shelved accoutrements. No blood. No apparent broken bones. But they’re new to cats. The girl offers the bundle to the assistant and a little grey-and-black head pops out, trying to bat at a manicured finger.

Love is …

Upsetting. Half an hour later, the Weimaraner is back. Convulsions worsened. Another heart attack? We all look on, hearts breaking for his humans, as even the man wipes tears from his face, helpless as the technicians rush their boy through the doors. Next to me, the older woman who came in with her fox terrier, which she suspects is having a bad reaction to new medication, kisses the top of his head and I swallow more than once to contain myself. I just want to hold my boy. I’ll never know whether their boy ever got to go home.

Love is …

Bad news. I’ve finally been granted entry to an actual office. The vet sits me down, like I’m the one in trouble, and apologizes for the wait. The radiologist in Amsterdam had been preoccupied for hours, but he’s finally looked over the scans. Scans? Yes, we noticed some abnormalities in Otto’s bloodwork. X-ray of his cavity revealed a mass in his spleen. The radiologist agrees: no obvious signs of internal bleeding. Has he been pooping blood? No, not that I’ve seen. Well, we don’t think this is what caused him to collapse. (That was just heat stroke.) But it’s a good thing you brought him because spleen tumors are insidious. Left untreated, they eventually burst and the dog bleeds to death internally before the owner even realizes. I’m sorry, I know it’s upsetting news. But you might be one of the lucky ones. He should be alright for now. Just needs rest. Make sure to contact your vet first thing on Monday to schedule a surgery.

Love is …

Never enough. I’ve only had him for 12 years. Average age of a Staffie: 12 to 14 years. I want more. On average, he’s owed more. Just one more year, I pray, atheist-in-the-foxhole style.

Love is …

Priceless, at almost 900 euros, paid upfront. Thank god he’s insured.

Love is …

Reunifying. Like a wizened king, Otto is wheeled back out, eyes clear and tail positively thumping to see me. He can walk, but, as always, he refuses to step on unfamiliar floors, so the technician escorts us to the car. I walk out with so many unanswered questions and cliffhangers. The couple with the kitten. The birds. The fox terrier. The cat who bit the bird. But when I look back, I see unfamiliar faces clustered throughout the waiting area, all with small smiles directed at us. That genuine happiness for another pet parent’s relief because we all know the feeling.

Love is …

Mourning the Weimaraner, even though I don’t remember his name. Never got his owners’ names, but, whoever they are, wherever they are, I hope they only smile when they remember him on his best days.

Love is …

Having my first ever anxiety attack as I sleep downstairs on the couch that night, not wanting to let him out of my sight. My brain is telling me to take it one step at a time. That surgery is the options. But I cannot breathe and my chest is tight and oh god it’s finally all catching up with me.

Love is …

Acceptance. As I write this it’s been over 18 months since that Saturday night. Otto, greyer than ever, is snoring at my elbow on the couch, surgery scars barely noticeable on his grey belly. His splenectomy and subsequent biopsy revealed the tumor wasn’t malignant. Unfortunately, the two masses found in his kidney last October, though successfully removed, were. We may still have months left, but unlikely more than a year. He will be 14 years old this July. Average lifespan. Despite having been given more than I’d prayed for that night … It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. I’ll never be ‘ready’ to say goodbye. Just have to accept that and hope, one day, I’ll be at peace with it.

Love is …

Just holding them close while you still can, and never forgetting the feeling once they're gone.