The Junkyard Dog

Early in my high school career I read the James Herriot blockbuster book All Creatures Great and Small which told his experiences as a young Yorkshire veterinarian during the first half of the 20^th century.  Like so many young people who read Dr. Herriot’s books, I was overcome with the desire to become an animal doctor.

Thus, when a friend recommended that I ask our local vet if I could work with him just for the experience, I went to visit the doc. 

The veterinarian welcomed the help.

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Every day after school I would drive out to doc’s office where I would answer the phone and help him with any work that came his way.  We mostly trimmed toenails, treated pets for worms, and fixed dogs and cats so there would be no reproduction in their futures.

It was all interesting and I learned a lot.  Most day-to-day stuff was just that…day-to-day, but a few cases still stand out in my mind. 

Like the junkyard dog.

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We were behind the front counter filling gelatin capsules with cattle wormer when two dirty, ragged men came to the door.  One carried a dog that was as dirty and ragged as its owners.

The men were a father and son team who worked together running a junkyard, where they spent the day salvaging usable parts from wrecked vehicles.  The men’s clothing looked like it had never been introduced to a washing machine, and had probably been worn daily since purchased.  Their arms, sinewy and muscular, were covered with the kind of dirty grease associated with busy mechanics.  Their faces had spots of grime all over, I assume anywhere that happened to itch during their workday.

Despite all the grease and grime, the two looked fairly healthy.  Max, the dog they’d brought in, did not.

The men followed doc into the first examining room and put their dog on the table.

The older man griped, “D—n useless dog is sick.”

I was not a vet but the poor dog’s problem was obvious, even to me.  He wasn’t skinny, but not fat either.  His stomach, though, was round and the skin appeared to be stretched tightly over it.

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The two men stood, watching and trying to look disinterested.  When doc asked questions or made a comment, the older of the two would grunt and nod or shake his head.

Doc took a sample of Max’s blood.  Next he listened to the patient’s heart, then put one hand on one side of the stomach and thumped on the other side.  We could all hear the thumps.  It sounded like a ripe watermelon.

The father cleared his throat and asked, “What is it?”

Doc explained, “That sound when I thumped his abdomen tells me his belly is tympanic.  It’s so full of fluid that it doesn’t leave his lungs enough room to breathe properly.”

Doc reached for a large gauge hypodermic needle and stuck it into the dog’s belly.  A stream of fluid squirted out in an arc until doc held a paper towel over it.  Other towels placed underneath were soon soaked with the vile liquid.

With the reduced pressure the dog was able to take deeper breaths and seemed to relax a little, although he still wasn’t getting enough air.

The older man repeated, “What is it?”

Doc knit his brow and took a breath.  “Max has heart worms.”

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Heart worms had only been recognized in our area for a few years at that time, but they were already firmly established.

The intermediate hosts for heartworms are mosquitoes.  That makes our area the perfect environment for them.  The former swamp that is Southeast Missouri is home to mosquitoes beyond numbers.

Once the mosquito host bites a dog he transfers heartworms to the unfortunate pooch. 

Doc had showed me a blood sample like the one he’d gotten from Max under a microscope.  It was so full of heartworm microfilaria that the little wigglers seemed to be bumping into each other.  Once they get that bad it means only the worst of bad news.

Doc grimaced again and said, “Releasing the pressure in Max’s abdomen made him feel a little better, but it will fill up again quickly and he’ll be miserable for the rest of his life…which won’t be long.”

The father cleared his throat a couple times and said, “What, uh…what do we do?”

“Max is just going to get more and more miserable.”  He lowered his gaze and said, “The most humane thing at this point is to let me give Max a shot.  He’ll drift peacefully off to sleep and never wake up.”

The older man hesitated, and said, “OK.”  He cleared his throat and tried to speak a couple times, but only managed to repeat, “OK.”

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Doc stretched a band around Max’s leg to raise a vein and slipped the needle in.  He depressed the plunger slowly and Max seemed to relax.  He managed one deep breath and exhaled…then was still.

The vet said, “I can dispose of the body if you want.”

The man shook his head, “Nah, we’ll uh…nah.”

The younger man gathered up Max’s limp body and hurried out the door as his father stopped at the desk to pay his bill.  The man shook his head slowly as he paid-up.

He cleared his throat again and tried to speak.  He coughed again and said, more softly this time, almost a whisper, “D—n useless dog.”   He turned toward the door but not before I saw the glint of moisture on his cheek.

I guess even d—n useless dogs can be loved.

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Addendum: If you live in an area where heart worms are found, see your vet about prevention.  It can be as simple as giving your pup a tasty chewable tablet once a month.

We lost two dogs to heartworms when they first came to our area.  Believe me, you don’t want to see your beloved pet go through the misery of a heart worm infestation.

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