The Professionals

I am constantly in awe of how this once great civilization has decayed into perfectionists in half-assedness.  Truly amazing.

In recent weeks, Winston has been having problems with his heart again.  It is not good news and the end result is inevitable.  I try to enjoy our time together every day that we are both still here.  I love him immensely, what more can I say.  I want him to be as healthy as possible, and if his health is failing, I want him to be as comfortable as possible.

We visited a vet who had come highly recommended.  She seemed nice enough, and very accommodating.  Standing in her office as she viewed Winston’s x-rays, I was a bit confused when she said she would send Winston’s tests to the heart specialist…in Argentina.  “In Argentina?” I asked, yes, in Argentina.  With this type of system, I knew immediately I would never get a quick answer regarding Winston.  I went with it though, and trusted those with degrees in medicine.

The following night, Winston appeared to be getting worse, and he lay on the couch with a heartbeat as fast as the bullet train and breathing to match.  We called the doctor to ask her what may be happening.  She simply replied that she still had not heard back from Argentina, and perhaps Winston was having a reaction to the new medicine.  I did not need my dog dying on the couch in front of me because a guy in Argentina had not replied to a woman in small town Mexico.  Luckily, Tonya had the idea to call his doctor in Mexico City and ask him what we should do.  Thankfully, he took time out to talk her through what we should do.  Another day passed and still no word from our new vet or the guy in Argentina.  Finally, the phone rings and the vet calls to tell us she heard back, and would send us the results.  Tonya told her what had happened and how since she could not answer us, we went to a doctor who could.  With no malicious intent, this simple seeking of help caused a riff with our new vet, and it appears to have been short lived.

We went back to the public to ask who we should use as a vet.  We get another tip, and follow it up.  This guy seems really nice, and tells us of a heart specialist who visits another nearby town once a week.  The neighboring town is much closer than Mexico City, so we decide to follow the lead.  Tonya calls the specialist and he takes his time to discuss Winston’s situation.  He sets aside time to see him on his next visit.

On the given day, we drive to the neighboring town and meet the specialist.  He seems very nice and professional.  He is standing at an examining table with the resident vet.  They ask questions, look at Winston and ask for any previous results, which I hand over on a USB stick.  They both move to a computer and view the results, talking back and forth with their opinions and observations.

The specialist comes to us as tells us he will do an ultrasound to view Winston’s heart.  As he talks over the current situation, he asks about the doctor we had previously seen.  When we tell him of the situation, he says he knows of the doctor in Argentina, and he is a God-like figure to those in the same field here in Mexico.  Had we only known we were dealing with such a figure…

The specialist pulls out a manual and asks how much Winston weighs.  Tonya and I look at one another and shrug our shoulders.  I tell the doctor I think he weighs 13 something kilos, “Does that sound right?” I ask.  He says he sounds about right.  He insists on knowing the exact weight, because the diagnosis and medication and following procedures would need to be exact-and it is all based on weight.  He asks the other vet to weigh Winston, and he disappears downstairs.  He comes back a few minutes later with an old bathroom scale.  He sets it down next to me and proceeds to stand on it.  He says his weight to all of us standing there, and then reaffirms his findings to say that the scale is accurate.  He motions for Winston.  I pick Winston up from the table, and begin to try and put him on the slightly rusty bathroom scale.  The vet motions not to try.  He touches my arm and pulls me toward the scale.  The specialist speaks up, “You get on the scale, not Winston”

I hand Winston to Tonya and look at the scale.  It is not zeroed out.  If all of this is to be exact, why am I getting on a scale that is not correctly set?  I stand on the scale and the vet looks at the weight.  He says it aloud to the specialist.  He then tells Tonya to hand Winston to me.  I am now standing on the scale with Winston in my arms.  Unbelievably, this is how they get to an exact weight in order to make life saving decisions in situations like this.  The vet tells the specialist the difference in weight.  I was right!  It was right at 13 kilos!

The specialist then asks for Winston to be hoisted back up on the table and that he will now do the ultrasound.  He tells the other vet to shave off some of Winston’s hair.  The vet opens a drawer and pulls out a pair of electric shears, like a dad about to give his son a homemade haircut.  He plugs it in, taps them on the counter and turns it on.  He touches it to his palm to make sure the blades are working.  Knowing that everything is functioning, he asks where he should trim.  The specialist tells him and he leans over Winston and starts the trimming.  Every so often Winston flinches, but the vet keeps at it.  It is not until after the ultrasound I see a whole series of gashes and cuts along Winston’s side.  The shears work, but are incredibly dull…or the vet is ham fisted with electric trimmers.

The specialist now says he is ready for Winston.  He says something to the vet, and as soon as he puts the shears away, he pulls out a large bag of dog food and plops it on the examining table.  He grabs a dirty pink towel and lays it out nicely over the large bag of dog food.  “Winston will love this, he is going to be so comfortable…like at a spa” the specialist says as he drives his fist into the bag to shape the bag for his purpose.  He looks up at me and with both hands pats the newly formed bag of dog food draped in the pink towel, “OK, let’s go!”

It takes a while to do the ultrasound, first Winston on one side, then the other.  When he finishes, he raises his hands and says, “OK, we are finished now”.  The other vet turns the lights on and the specialist is digging in his bag. “I am going to burn these images to a disc now”, he says and pulls out a blue CD writer, with scotch tape all over the top.  As the disc is whirring away on the table, he explains what he has seen and what to do next.  “Now, we will take x-rays of Winston”.  I dread this almost as much as Winston.  He hates getting put on his side under the strange machine with men in lead jackets holding him down.  It is like ‘Marathon Man’ all over again.  When the vet and his assistant have prepped the room, he comes out and asks for Winston.  I take Winston and lead him into the room, feeling like a guilty parent of selling out my kid to some heinous event.  The vet takes Winston in and we continue talking with the specialist.

The specialist informs us that we are doing all that we can given the situation, but thinks Winston needs a different diagnosis.  “It is not really anything too different, but just for technical reasons we should change it” he reaffirms.    Winston comes walking out and all seems OK.  Seeing Winston, the specialist realizes that now all the necessary steps are completed.  He sits and discusses the possibility of some new medication and asks some more questions about Winston’s recent behavior.  The vet pokes his head around the corner and gives the specialist a sign that the x-rays are ready for viewing.  Tonya and I sit on a small dirty couch, and watch them view the newly shot images.  They are not touching them, and they are holding them on the corners with a pair of tongs.  One of x-rays slips out of the tongs and onto the floor.  Obviously, they are not dry enough.  They look around for somewhere to hang the x-ray to dry a bit more.  They come back to the examining table and look around the room.  The vet sees something.  He walks to the corner of the room.  He takes the x-ray and attaches it to a fan which has been hung upside down from the ceiling, in the corner.  Ingenious.

I can’t believe it.  These are the professionals.  I feel like I am in good hands.