Mismatch

Among the more venerable internet memes are the photos of people who look like their pets. Or who allegedly look like their pets. Honestly, in most case it seems to come down to some similarity in hair/fur and being photographed when they happened to have (or, more probably, have been coached to have) comparable facial expressions. Put a little wig on a potato and you could just as easily come up with photos of people who look like their potatoes. That being said, there certainly are a few pudgy flat-faced people with pudgy flat-faced dogs, as there are a few tall elegant people with long noses who have tall elegant dogs with long noses. It is safe to say however that the overwhelming majority of people do not resemble their pets at all. And this, you'll agree, is a good thing.

What strikes me as far more interesting than owners who match their pets are owners who are wild mismatches for their pets, not only in appearance, but in temperament. It goes without saying that veterinarians see all kinds of combinations of animals and people, but the ones that get our attention are the ones that seem the most improbable. I'll share two short stories with you about such mismatches.

The first pair is Tim and Mindy. Tim is the owner and Mindy is the dog. I suppose that's obvious, but you'd be surprised. I can't count the number of times I have accidentally called the owner by their pet's name and vice versa. Consider yourself forewarned if you give your pet a conceivably human name. But I digress. Tim made a vivid first impression with his considerable size, his forceful handshake, his loud expletive laden style of talking and the impressive array of smudgy blue tattoos that looked suspiciously like they had been done in prison. But, as we all know, first impressions can be misleading. Two facts immediately emerged that ran counter to that impression. First of all, Tim turned out to be very friendly and very eager to learn everything he could about looking after his pet. And secondly, his pet was a small quiet female Shih Tzu named Mindy, who sported pink bows in her beautifully groomed fur. There were no pink bows anywhere on Tim. Nor was he especially beautifully groomed. They did not resemble each other in the slightest. In fact, they could be considered opposites.

Tim was a long distance truck driver and Mindy was his companion on the road. "Been with me to 43 states and 8 provinces!" It appeared that Mindy was his only family as well. To see Tim transform instantly from brash and boisterous with me to tender and calm with her was as astonishing as it was heart-warming. Utterly unselfconscious, he would gently and repeatedly kiss Mindy on the top her head while I explained something to him. Almost everybody loves their pets, but Tim's devotion to Mindy was in a category of its own. All of us adults know by now that love is a strange thing that cannot be predicted or judged. This was a prime example of that truth.

I typically saw Mindy once a year in the early spring for a check-up and to make sure that her shots and paperwork were in order for the frequent border crossings. Tim was also one of the few clients who insisted on regular bloodwork to follow baselines on her organ functions. He explained that he wanted the peace of mind and pressed me whether there was anything else we could do to ensure Mindy's health. He gave up smoking when he got Mindy because he was worried about second hand smoke, and he planned his rest stops around where it was best to walk her. I said he was devoted and I meant it.

You might be girding yourself for a heartbreaking ending to this story, but fortunately, to the best of my knowledge, Mindy remains healthy as I write this and I expect to see her again next year. One day there may be an anguished phone-call from Alabama or Arizona, but it hasn't happened yet and, I tell you, I don't even want to think about it.

The second mismatched pair is Mrs Abrams and Max. Max was a German Shepherd. Actually, "Max" is almost always a German Shepherd, unless he is a Boxer or a black cat. I picked this pair for the second story because it is in many ways the inverse of Tim and Mindy. Mrs Abrams was small, quiet, elderly and fragile looking. Max, on the other hand, was large and loud and  rambunctious. He weighed as much as Mrs Abrams, if not even a little more. Her son had given him to her for protection. I suppose this was effective as Max would lunge and bark furiously whenever someone other than Mrs Abrams moved towards him. Actually, he would lunge and bark furiously whenever the wind blew a scrap of plastic towards him as well. Fortunately he was a classic example the bark being worse than the bite and there was no need to be afraid of him, but unfortunately all that lunging made walking him dangerous for Mrs Abrams.

One day she came in sporting a cast on her wrist. Max had pulled her down again. Apparently he had seen a particularly irritating squirrel. Mrs Abrams always excused his behaviour with a chuckle and a 'dogs will be dogs' remark. After I addressed the rash that he had been brought in for I talked to her about safer options for walking him. I had talked to her about this before, about halter types of collars and training methods, but the answer was always the same. In her soft voice she would say, "Oh no, he wouldn't like that." And that was the end of the discussion. What Max liked and did not like was always the decisive factor.

Eventually it came out that Max was also pooping in the house. Here too excuses were made and any type of training that would inconvenience Max in any way was dismissed out of hand. She would smile at Max like all the light in the world emanated from him. Like with Tim and Mindy, this was clearly also love and love that should not be judged, but my God, it was hard not to judge. Max was so manifestly the wrong pet for her. Wrong size, wrong temperament, wrong breed, wrong everything. But she felt safe with him and she loved him with all her heart and these two things obviously made broken wrists and poopy carpets seem like trifling inconveniences to her.

When Max eventually passed away I didn't think I'd see Mrs Abrams again. She seemed incalculably ancient and there sadly comes a time in many people's lives when looking after an animal is just too difficult. I was surprised then to hear that she had booked an appointment with a new pet. Perhaps a cat, I thought, or a little Yorkie? Nope. Another German Shepherd. Also named Max.
  

Incoming!

A number of metaphors have been used to describe veterinary practice, but when it is busy the most enduring one is the battlefield metaphor. I'm sure that people in the human medical field will recognize this as well. I want to be very careful though and point out that this metaphor does have limitations, chief among them is that it should not be taken to imply that the patients and the clients are the enemy. They are not the enemy, but more like civilians caught in the cross-fire with the enemy simply being "circumstances". (Ok, most of the time they are not the enemy...) It's more that the metaphor gives the flavour of what it's like to try to function at a high level of competence in an environment of chaos, noise, confusion and occasional random unpleasantness.

And if the practice can be like a battlefield, it is the receptionists who stand at the front lines. When clients start surging through the doors and all the telephone lines are ringing and the doctors are standing around, getting in the way, and the dogs are competitively peeing on the welcome mat and the couriers are waving documents to sign and the computer system is malevolently generating random errors, then, at those times, to be a receptionist must feel like it feels for soldiers advancing through fire, hearing mortar rounds whistling towards them... "Incoming!"

To be fair, it can be just as stressful and busy at these times for the doctors and the veterinary technicians, but there are important differences. The doctors and techs can withdraw into quieter places to work with patients and clients one-on-one, and, more importantly, the doctors especially benefit enormously from one key thing. That key thing is the client's respect. This makes all the difference. I know that the great majority of clients are decent and sensitive people who do respect the receptionists, but sadly, sometimes it doesn't show. And when it doesn't show, it can really hurt them when they are just trying their best to do their jobs and often don't have the power to change things for the clients. Society is gradually evolving in the right direction, but some old habits persist, and one of these old habits is to automatically, probably unconsciously, assign more respect to the person in the lab coat with the title and a series of initials behind their name than to the person in scrubs sitting behind the reception counter who you call by their first name.

Specifically how does this manifest? The classic scenario is where the receptionist warns the doctor that the client is really angry about something, having just been yelled at by them, and then when the doctor and client are in the exam room together the client is sweet and polite to the doctor. The reverse also occurs wherein the doctor says something upsetting to the client in the exam room, like recommending an expensive procedure, and the client nods and smiles and then leaves the room and, once the doctor is out of earshot, proceeds to freak out at the receptionist about what a rip-off the recommendation is.

I am not suggesting that clients vent anger at the doctors instead, but I am suggesting that they not do so at the receptionists. As in all other areas of life, the best approach when you're angry is to take a few deep breaths, calm down and then politely and respectfully address the concern. But I don't mean to lecture any of you on manners - if you are reading this I expect you are likely not one of the shouters or freaker-outers (to coin a clumsy term). I have seen receptionists in tears after one of these encounters and I have had some threaten to quit. I have had to fire a couple of clients over the years when this sort of behaviour really got out of hand. Yup, I can do that.

Other than basic human decency, why do receptionists deserve respect? They deserve respect because of what they do. Not only is there management of the battlefield as described above when there is so much "incoming", but there is management of the doctor's needs ("Can you print this?" "Can you fill this prescription?" "Can you call so-and-so?" "What's that weird smell in room 2?" etc) and mastery of a remarkable range of skills. Some receptionists have college training in the field, but many do not. Even for those that do, the training is often generic medical reception, and not specific to the veterinary environment. There is a complex (and wacky...) computer system, terminology galore, arcane practice protocols, animal handling and, of course, basic veterinary knowledge. Imagine how daunting it is to have to triage every phone call... Is this person's concern serious enough to warrant an immediate squeeze-in appointment? A later appointment? A return call from the doctor? Or just advice I can give as a receptionist? And imagine the stress of treating something as urgent that isn't and having the doctor complain that it put them behind, and, conversely, the stress of not treating something as urgent enough and having the patient suffer. It is all a bit of a high wire balancing act.

High wire over a battlefield...? Sorry for mixing my metaphors. Whatever it is, we are so very lucky in my clinic to have a group of receptionists who do this so well that they make it look easy. It is not easy. Please respect them for it.

Thank you Barb and Cheryl and Tara and Amber and Cam and Brandi and Lisa! We in the officer's tents and on the sidelines salute you on the front lines!