The Sensuous Bean

Bollo's

I go to a particular coffee shop a street away from my apartment. It isn’t perfect. Not the perfect replica of the one I have spent the last 20 years trying to replace, but, it’s good enough. I feel a sense of belonging there. Silly, I know to find a sense of belonging in a $3 cup of coffee delivered to me in a tiny chit of a chat to make room for the other paying customers behind me. But it’s enough. Enough to feel warm within. Enough to call me back to every morning. Enough to find solace within, and comfort around. 

Gillies.

Most days it's just that. A large cup of black coffee; strong, dark, bold, intoxicating. I breathe it in. That first hello. Steam from its surface filling my foggy head with wakeful inspiration for the days needful wanting. 

Today, standing in line, I thought I saw her. She is always near. I can always feel her around me. But she has never appeared to me in human form until today. Today she was working far behind the counter in the small staff area half hidden from the line I waited in. Today she was there, standing back toward me, hair down, filling the monster coffee grinders just out of my view. And just for a second, the briefest of seconds, I saw her. I knew as my heart overrode my heads sensibilities that this was her. Her hair was long, straight, just past the shoulders, as it always was, with the tinge of silver her box color couldn’t confiscate. She was standing tall.  Taller than she had been in the last few years when the weight of the painful burden of her bodies betrayal had permitted her. Today she was 50 again. Time had slipped two and a half decades. Oddly, or poetically, this is the same morning our clocks had been pushed forward an hour. She worked quietly. I could only see a part of her from the back. Just enough to tell my heart that she was still among us. She had decided to hide in a coffee shop. She must have known I would settle upon this one. It’s deep, sensuous allure calling me in. The cry of a baby to its mom. It’s how we just sense the other needs us. 

Sensuous Bean

I know she turned around at some point. I know she did, but there was no face my mind could correct itself into seeing. Just the back of her. When it was her. The rest I don't need, and, so, I let her stay. 

No, I countered. It's not her. She never wore black. And yet between the coffee and the crowd I was content and comforted to just know she's near.

I spent the best part of 12 years sitting here studying.
Bollo's. My corner

The Tipping Point. When There Is More Behind You Than In Front.

The tipping point.

There is a place, a moment, a collection of revelations, where you realize, bring to your own attention, that you are looking back, (horrifically in some cases even attempting to relive, revive and recollect the exact details of what was before), more than looking forward. 

That place where there is more behind you than in front of you, and not only is that the truth, but worse, your preference defers to back versus ahead.

Gracie. Just rescued. Her mouth was soo diseased the smell would knock you over.
All of her teeth had to be removed. This is her waking up.
She was a different (soo much happier) cat 24 hours later.
The degree of neglect she came to us with was pitiful and compelling.

In the misery of many a childhood moment I would sit, close my eyes and imagine the magic that lay ahead. Too often the allure of what might be. What I could salivate over. Some lustful moment. A momentous accomplishment dreamt of but yet to be fulfilled. A far away land with all of its exotic flavors. I got by, (a theme song from my favorite Grateful Dead anthem), because I projected forward. Those invisible carrots of motivation lay just at the tip of my tongue. Propelled me forward through what turned out to be some pretty traumatizing growing up. 

At 50ish I have realized that the carrot has shape shifted. It no longer hovers above calling. It lays beside me waiting. The small dirt-dusted, blunted, jaundiced nut in a collection resembling a sickened nest of eggs to ride out the Winter. 

The snowdrops and the crocus.
They remind me to believe in beginnings,, even after all of the endings.

Unbeknownst to me the tipping point hasn't evolved into a concession, rather a gentle acceptance that the To-Do list, my collective life accomplishments still yet ephemerous, need to be fast-tracked. That list cannot be allowed to outlive me, good intentions, or fate deciding.

Perhaps other people spend their autumnal time reflecting on the amassed possessions as some aging dragon in her liar of pillaged treasures? Perhaps not having children to leave a better life to isn't the motivation to dying with assets left behind? Or, perhaps even more disturbingly I recognize my stash will outlive me. I will not be able/chose not to, exhaust it before the timeline draws to a close. Perhaps this is the tipping point? that place where your efforts tip to giving back versus gaining more? Perhaps that's what aging, retirement, exhaustion and a worn out body brings to your peace of mind as the collective cacophony of a chaotic world swirls around you?

My Raffles kitten. She was given up on because her sibling came up positive for rabies.
Four months of quarantine and she is mine.
Life for me works like this. These needful souls find me.
I am as much grateful for them as I am for the fate that brings them to me.

Maybe that's why I am so much happier in the looking back than the drive to accelerate forward?

Oh, that's right, today is Tuesday. I must get dressed and go fight those diseases and dragons for another good day of deeds in the small animal vetmed trenches. I'll rest tomorrow and save a carrot for the slumber another day. 

Raffles watches as Birdie wakes up from her spay surgery.

Tipping points too often get me confused between tipping and pivoting. I don't know if I can recognize one versus the other any longer.

There is a real-life plight in vetmed these days. Those of us who grew up in the trenches, took on a place of our own, led or our community practice for a few decades, sunk our whole lives into. We are at a place now where we have to decide how to exit. Do we take the big cash out from the guys who might as well have a Hamburgler face on. Their shifty eyes, smooth talking and thick gravid unexplained check books? Or, do we try to find some new grad willing to take the reigns and care for the next generation of pets the way our previous generations of vets did? Is that even possible?

Hamburgler holding the American icon hostage

Me, I am at a place where the box has to be rethought, reinvented and repurposed for the greater good and not the singular cash out retirement/burnout plan. Me, I'm pivoting before the tip pulls me under.

Hand Holding Anxiety. When You Love Too Much It Costs.

 Hand-holding vs. confident and competent?

Izzy takes a ride with Allie.

It occurred to me that as much as I hope to practice for the latter I see a lot of the former. Maybe I attract it?

Maybe I market it,,, albeit unknowingly.

Questions about intentions from the newest rescue we are helping.
This little one is about 10 weeks old and was rescued from a dump in deep Kentucky.
She had an ultrasound and some questions about the size of our position pillows.

The issue is not that one is better, or worse, than the other. The issue is that I am not as adaptive as I hope to be, or know others hope me to be. The issue is that I am too sensitive, too driven and too insanely compelled to practice for the benefit of the patient and forget to tailor my delivery to the client.

 The real issue is that I forget I am merely an extension of the leashes many avenues, and not the patients only resource to recovery. 

Teddy. TPLO surgery last Wednesday.
All sweetness and a pinch of Border Collie anticipation.

Yesterday was an example of this. Yesterday was Lilly. A bubbly, bouncy curly ginger girl who has had multiple trips to the ER and multiple trips to my clinic for her waxing waning intermittently, self-described as "violent" vomiting and diarrhea. She is owned by two doting millennials. The kind that the vet journals remind me to both recognize and cater to. They are the new generation of my bread and butter. They love their pets in place of having children and they will both spend for them and advocate for them. These are the couples with sets of pet outfits, all personally monogrammed with the family crest, one for each member. One for each holiday, each gathering and always captured in holiday post cards. They have vacations designed around "pet friendly" parameters. They are new parents who jump and take notice at the first sign of illness, discontent, or dismay. They are what I want every pet parent to be, not withstanding the narrow age bracket to remind me I still live in a rural place where people on farms still refer to all species with a prefix denoting "farm use." (The labels can literally kill you around here).

Skylar, also a TPLO surgery Wednesday.
The eyes, they always get me.
I spend a significant amount of my work day reassuring.

Lilly's mom arrived in her work clothes. A clean, dark, pet hair free, (I cannot remember the last time I had one of those outfits, likely never) pencil skirt, with mid-heeled black leather shoes,  and a tight fitting ruched shirt to match. She must work in an office where professional image matters, I think. I have yet to ever live that life,,, (and, yes, there is a side of me that is jealous about that). Compared to my professional attire which included; poorly matched scrubs, upper and lower hemispheres, and not-at-all comfortable, (nor supportive) sneakers with the laces untied dragging behind me swinging to and fro collecting hairball tumbleweeds as they traversed. I was reminded of the hazards by everyone I passed and still was too tired, too painfully arches in agony, to correct them. I have considered adding slippers, or Crocs, (I cannot believe I am here), to my wardrobe as the days get soo long I am reminded my body is decaying. Lilly's mom was intense, apologetic and fretful. Her dog is just over a year old and she has been to the vet a dozen times for the same thing. She is also, in quiet, subtle undertones, worried about the current place her vet bills lie and what the road ahead will look like to for retirement account if she stays on the current path for another decade.

It was 730 pm. We close at 8. I had fit her in after her call at 630 pm begging to be seen for her dogs "vomiting and diarrhea all over the place for the last 3 days." I had been in the clinic all day, 12 hours, and I was,,, done. Toast. And I know it.

I was exhausted. And now I have Lilly in front of me, with her worried mom,, and I am asking myself if I can see just one more case today? I remind myself silently that this, this profession, this day, and yes this moment,, is not about me. There are times, many times, and many days like this, where I am a bag of bones with untidy shoes, urine/fecal stained scrubs and a belly soo dehydrated and hungry I cannot adequately focus, nor separate myself from the clock calling me to close. I had arrived at the clinic at 8 am. I have not had a meal of any sort, nor sat down, nor taken a break to clear my cluttered head. There were 11 surgeries today. Two of which were my own pets. (Let's talk about how difficult that is). Then pile it on top of a day like this. I remind myself there won't be anything left of me to cremate when the burner expires within. I know this. I push my nose deeper into the ground and flex all fours to plow on. 

"Lilly's exam looks fairly normal." I reply. Lilly is now cowering behind her mom. She is drooling with anxiety and really wants me to go away. Pet hair free and upright on her kitten patent leather heels she asks me, "Why does this keep happening? And, how do we stop it?"

It's 745. That answer could take another 12 hours. 

Gunner, using the almost infallible tactic of,
"I'm too cute to ask to participate in an exam" ploy.

"Well, we have never gotten her a diagnosis. We are always treating the emergency and never investigating the in between times that might be leading her to this." I reply.

It's 750 pm. I sit down. I have to. I look up and meet her moms eyes. This was not the answer she wanted.

"Again, thank you for seeing me today. For fitting me in."

"You are welcome. I know you are worried." I suspect she is also worried about needing the ER, having to repeat an overnight stay. The x-rays, blood work, and ultrasound. Never mind the barium study. All of these have been done. And all were normal. 

"Maybe it would be helpful to keep a journal?" I suggest. Something for us to better understand what is happening between her visits? She is a normal weight. Normal size, normal coat. A picture of a healthy dog, but,,,, (bracing myself here),,, she is nervous. Mom is nervous. Is everyone in this household nervous? Stressed? How much exercise does she get? There is a direct correlation between dogs who play, act, and remain happy independent of their parents. I suspect she is a single pet in a perfectly doting home and maybe this isn't beneficial to her gi tract?

I suspect too much love is not what her inner self needs to grow up feeling confident, calm and content with the world she lives in. Good news is there is not an expensive diagnostic for that... just some difficult conversations and a few transitional anti-anxiety medications.. and,, "have you considered another dog?"

Pumpkin is waking up for a mega-dental extraction dental..
very common in older dachshunds.

Lilly is like so many cases I see everyday. I am never sure how problematic a medical problem is when I am not sure that the environment is influencing the clinical signs. Can you love a dog too much? Yes, when you complicate the problems with perception, actions and off setting the balance every life needs. That balance of allowing your pet to be who they are and not needing to live in the shadow of who you are and what you expect them to be. Feeding; the dilemma of feeling desperate to have your pet be happy with their meals, eat as much as you think they should be, and not buckling to offer them anything they find interesting,, too often poor quality, and too often ever changing as we chase the palatability compulsion. When I was in Ukraine rescuing dogs and cats I had a Romanian vet remind me that I needed to chill about the constant feeding concerns for the 12 animals we had transported in the car for the last 20 hours. He reminded me "that in the wild dogs might not eat for days." I wondered to my exhausted, cooked self if that included the stress of a tiny cage shoved in a tiny car running from wars? I loved those animals so much it will be the PTSD I never can shed about that broken place with all of its too many heartbreaking tales.