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You know how it is when you're close enough to vacation to taste it, and everything at work suddenly seems absolutely intolerable? Like, the stupidest things that you deal with on a daily basis set you off because my god, you need a vacation and you need it now? Well, imagine that feeling and then apply it to the night I had last night. I unlocked the front door to find a dog sitting there waiting for me. Highly irregular, but not in itself a big deal. Until I realize this dog still has an IV line attached to its leg and the hospital is now literally a bloodbath. This dog has been free for probably close to an hour judging from the mess, and has taken the grand $10 tour of the facility. There is nary an inch of floor that has not been spattered, dripped or pooled upon. Every door is covered in bloody claw marks. I imagine crime scenes are less grisly. The fact that this dog is still standing is a Christmas miracle.
The same is true upstairs and downstairs. And I was concerned that I'd forgotten to bring something to read and I'd be bored all night. I've got three dogs total on fluids and within my first 2 hours of work, ALL have managed to pull out part of their line. Alllllllllllrighty then. Funnel collars for everyone!!! After battling briefly with tubing clotted with dried blood in two of the dogs, I finally think I've got the situation under control. I've barely begun the Herculean task of mopping when the fluid machines start alarming about every 12 seconds, one after another, for no apparent reason. Also right about now one of the dogs on fluids begins this loud, wheezing, whining, gasping/panting sound and shows no sign of stopping. Are you having a heart attack, dog, or are you just a huge fucking baby? Hard to tell. The machines are beeping, the dog is gasping, the plastic funnel collars are scraping against the walls of the cages, even the healthy dogs are barking insistently (haven't been able to walk them yet 2 hours into my shift), and I feel a critical something in my psyche almost audibly snap. I call Tery and have a very major breakdown. A breakdown of such alarming proportions that she immediately hits the road to come help me. She'd do the same for any of her employees, true, but it's so rarely that I'm reduced to a gibbering, screaming, weeping mess that it terrifies her when it happens.
She arrives bearing cupcakes and ice cold milk for me, because that's the kind of great boss she is. Even though I've finished most of the upstairs, she comments on the heavy stink of blood still in the air. Don't I know it....it's under my fingernails, smeared across my face, soaking into my clothing. She finishes the mopping while I finally sit down with my paperwork at 1 a.m. She folds the laundry while I watch exhaustedly. One of the dogs, after successfully removing his funnel collar not once but twice, yelps sharply and we discover he's pulled his entire catheter out. The bad news is it's beyond our skill to replace it. The good news is it's one less dog on fluids to worry about. We try giving him a little water and he immediately vomits. His puke smells exactly like shit, which I think is weird.
By the end of the night I can barely keep my eyes open and I feel like I've been trampeled by every kind of stampeding beast there is in Africa. I fall extremely gratefully into my bed. The next morning Tery gets a call from the hospital. The same dog got out again after I left, yet this time managed to not turn the place into an abbatoir. The vet tech instructs Tery on the proper way to secure the dog's cage. The same vet tech that had locked things up last night.
T-minus 18 hours until vacation, and at this point it feels like an eternity.
The same is true upstairs and downstairs. And I was concerned that I'd forgotten to bring something to read and I'd be bored all night. I've got three dogs total on fluids and within my first 2 hours of work, ALL have managed to pull out part of their line. Alllllllllllrighty then. Funnel collars for everyone!!! After battling briefly with tubing clotted with dried blood in two of the dogs, I finally think I've got the situation under control. I've barely begun the Herculean task of mopping when the fluid machines start alarming about every 12 seconds, one after another, for no apparent reason. Also right about now one of the dogs on fluids begins this loud, wheezing, whining, gasping/panting sound and shows no sign of stopping. Are you having a heart attack, dog, or are you just a huge fucking baby? Hard to tell. The machines are beeping, the dog is gasping, the plastic funnel collars are scraping against the walls of the cages, even the healthy dogs are barking insistently (haven't been able to walk them yet 2 hours into my shift), and I feel a critical something in my psyche almost audibly snap. I call Tery and have a very major breakdown. A breakdown of such alarming proportions that she immediately hits the road to come help me. She'd do the same for any of her employees, true, but it's so rarely that I'm reduced to a gibbering, screaming, weeping mess that it terrifies her when it happens.
She arrives bearing cupcakes and ice cold milk for me, because that's the kind of great boss she is. Even though I've finished most of the upstairs, she comments on the heavy stink of blood still in the air. Don't I know it....it's under my fingernails, smeared across my face, soaking into my clothing. She finishes the mopping while I finally sit down with my paperwork at 1 a.m. She folds the laundry while I watch exhaustedly. One of the dogs, after successfully removing his funnel collar not once but twice, yelps sharply and we discover he's pulled his entire catheter out. The bad news is it's beyond our skill to replace it. The good news is it's one less dog on fluids to worry about. We try giving him a little water and he immediately vomits. His puke smells exactly like shit, which I think is weird.
By the end of the night I can barely keep my eyes open and I feel like I've been trampeled by every kind of stampeding beast there is in Africa. I fall extremely gratefully into my bed. The next morning Tery gets a call from the hospital. The same dog got out again after I left, yet this time managed to not turn the place into an abbatoir. The vet tech instructs Tery on the proper way to secure the dog's cage. The same vet tech that had locked things up last night.
T-minus 18 hours until vacation, and at this point it feels like an eternity.
