Two Doors Down

A few mornings ago, my husky mix, Shanti, broke her lead while I was at work and went for a run around my country neighborhood. When I returned home at 11:30 a.m. that morning and saw the broken lead (she has the sweep of the yard and several trees with 60’ of lead), I immediately rushed inside to see if anyone had called. Indeed, yes—a new neighbor who lived just two doors down.

“I have your dog,” she began, “A white dog? She was running all over the place. Anyway, I’ve got her tied up next to the barn, but I’m going out of town around noon, and I don’t want to leave her tied up, so I don’t know what to do if I don’t hear from you. I guess I’ll call the dog warden.”

I hurriedly called the number she left. “I’m sorry,” said the computer generated voice, “but this party isn’t accepting calls from private numbers.” I can never remember the code to fix that, so I just jumped in the car and rushed over there (about 600 feet).

No car. No dog. No answer at the door—although HER dog came rushing to bark at the door, and a cat snaked its way around the porch.

Back home, I called the dog pound, euphemistically called “Wanderer’s Rest,” 20 minutes away. They weren’t open—open at noon. I left a message. I waited, anxiously. I called back at noon. Busy. I called again. Busy. Around 12:30, I finally got a human, and poured into my story, looking for my dog.

“Yes, she’s here,” I heard—and then a flurry of questions to make sure she’s REALLY my dog. I answered the questions, explained again, and pointed out, “She’s wearing an ID tag with my name, address, and phone, a rabies tag with the vet’s name and number, and a tag identifying her chip number—she’s got an ID chip,” I add, just remembering.

“Well, we scanned her twice,” explained the voice, adding blithely, “Maybe we’re not doing it right.” Yeah. Maybe.

“We just need proof of her rabies vaccination, license, and a fee for her boarding.” Huh?

“OK, just call the vet (I had the number) and the town clerk and they can verify that.” Oh no. They needed documents. I protested.

“The vet can fax the certificate,” mandated the voice. “Fine,” I answered, “But I’m not sure about the town clerk—she’s only there a few hours each week.”

“Well,” came the reply, “We’ll hold Shanti here until you can get that.” I struggled to control my temper and got their fax number.

Fortunately, the town clerk DID have hours starting at 1:00 (although she was 15 minutes late that afternoon, and then had 15 minutes worth of trouble logging into her software for the dog licensing information).

The meeting at Wanderer’s Rest was terse. The woman at the desk pulled out my paperwork—complete with name, address, phone, all completed by the dog warden, noting “Time of seizure—9:15. Chasing livestock. Unlicensed. Violation of leash law.”

So much for noon. Chasing livestock? They have one horse, and it wasn’t there, presumably boarded while they’re out of town. She was licensed. She was also trailing 18’ of vinyl coated airline cable lead. Official lies.

But we live TWO DOORS DOWN. Why not simply take her back and tie her up? It’s obvious where she got loose via the broken cable, she has trees for shade, she has water—what’s the problem? I’ve certainly done this for neighbor’s dogs—and even for the one neighbor who refuses to control his dog, a chocolate lab, I just taught the dog myself to sit, stay, etc. I could have called the dog warden several times, but why punish the dog? What would that prove?

Shanti had a cream colored stain on her snout. “Oh, we give all new dogs worming medicine,” volunteered the shelter worker, noticing my examination. They had also removed her collar and had to go fetch it. She wasn’t the same dog for a day and a half.

So let’s review. Everyone knew where the dog lived. Everyone knew she had been loose unintentionally. Everyone knew who owned her. Everyone knew she had a current rabies vaccine (in New York State, rabies tags change shape and color every year). Yet, the dog warden drove to my neighbor’s house, drove 20 minutes to the shelter, filled out paperwork, drove back. The shelter workers “processed” her, including administering unnecessary medication (remember, they had my vet’s number on her tags, and anyone at the vet’s office could readily identify this dog). Then there’s the wasted time expected of my vet, the town clerk—not to mention the work time I lost.

All over a dog everyone knew lived 600 feet away.

Writer

Cat's Eye

When my neighbors gave me one of their orange tiger kittens, I could only think of Cat, the poor feline temporarily abandoned by Audrey Hepburn in Blake Edward’s adaptation of Truman Capote’s “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” (until George Peppard comes to the rescue). Thinking also of Mickey Rooney’s role as Holly Golightly’s Japanese upstairs neighbor, I named my new addition “Neko,” Japanese for “cat.”

Neko was a wonderful cat (he died a few years ago), but he was prone to eye infections. Further, although he was generally sweet, he hated being treated, hated going to the vet, hated riding in the car on the way to the vet, and was large enough and strong enough to make his feelings clear.

The vet can’t simply prescribe eye ointment, since first the eye must be stained to rule out a scratch (in which case steroid ointments are contraindicated). So, the routine starts with stuffing said cat into a carrier, driving the 15 minutes to the vet with the cat yowling, probably vomiting, certainly drooling enough to rival any dog. An hour later, the vet hands over the medication, with helpful instructions.

“First, wrap the cat in a towel” to keep it still and preserve your flesh. Uh-huh. See, vets have a practical joker side. They’re in the office, laughing right now at all those poor souls striving to wrap a cat in a towel. Cats have no collarbone, allowing them to move in ways unthinkable to you and me. Further, they’re quick and stressed under the circumstances. You can’t call in a vet tech to help you. Towel indeed.

So, move on to more direct means. I like to sit cross-legged, wrapped carefully around the cat, trying to control it with one hand while manipulating the medication with the other. Does this method work well? No. But it’s all I have.

Once the cat is secured and calm—well, OK, relatively secured and calm—proceed with the directions on the ointment tube: hold open the cat’s eyelids with one hand and squeeze out a small line of ointment, dropping it into the cat’s eye. No, really. They’re apparently serious.

What they don’t say is “repeat multiple times.” First, “calmness” in a trapped cat lasts a few seconds at best. Yeah yeah yeah, calmly talk to your cat in a soothing voice, but your cat still knows it’s trapped, and doesn’t like it. Imagine.

Well, still, this IS your cat, and like me, probably, after repeated tries, you’ll successfully squeeze out a line of ointment as it slowly stretches from the tube to the surface of the eye.

Then, just as the ointment is about to touch the eye, the cat jerks away (at the last possible second).

Go back and repeat these steps multiple times. Monitor your blood pressure. [Incidentally, if small children are about, remove them from the scene, since you’re bound to spout profanity sooner or later, given the growing number of deep scratches from your cat’s claws.]

Eventually, just when you think the exercise pointless, a small amount of ointment will reach your cat’s eye. Yes, the cat will still jerk away, but at this point, you’ll think, “Close enough, damn it!” and proceed to massage the ointment over the eye by closing the eyelids. Continue this until your cat escapes again and you exclaim, “Fine. Go then.” Use the remaining ointment (which contains antibiotics) to treat your many wounds.

Repeat the next day. Sound like fun?

Seriously, I shared the idea for this post with one of my vets, Dr. Kolb, who, aside from a wonderful sense of humor (and asking me to send it), suggested I include the following. I think you’ll appreciate it, as did I.

While visiting a client with an equine patient, this eye ointment issue came up. “When I approach the horse with a tube,” Dr. Kolb’s client explained, “he freaks out and jumps away. So I just put some ointment on my finger and treat him that way—he’s used to me.” This set off a light bulb for Dr. Kolb, and he approved. I tried it with Neko. Success!

By the way, Dr. Kolb was wonderful during the last few difficult months of Neko’s life. Thank you Doctor.

Writer