Be the Cat

Miss Molly Brown sez: HOTTTTT!

Note that Molly is also maximizing surface area for optimal cooling. (One could argue that lying on a rug wouldn't help with this..but then again, one doesn't argue with cats.) Why is Molly (that's Miss Brown to you) doing this?

Because it IS hot. 103 on its way to 106 hot. Record-setting hot.

Last night, with all the scorchiness, my sweetheart and I couldn't face any form of cookery. So we--very cleverly, we thought--headed to a local pub for dinner. Where the waitress informed us that the wait for our food would be at least an hour, maybe more. Because it turned out everybody ELSE in the neighborhood had already decided the same thing and gotten there before us.

Originalityfail.

Before all of you who live in searing locales start snickering in your iced tea, consider this: you most likely have air conditioning. Most of us in Portland don't, because fifty-one weeks out of the year, we don't need it. Besides, most of us in the city live in old houses, and when you live in an old house (and I'm talking old like 1906, not 1972) installing air conditioning ranks pretty much dead last on the priority list. (At the top is "find out why the hot water in the upstairs bathtub comes out of the wall instead of the faucet," followed by two dozen items ranked in order of how loud we screeched "Oh, my GOD" when we discovered them. We old-house owners prefer to think of these things as "character." Until we scrape together enough money to fix them, after which we refer to them as "that disaster the previous owners thought was such a brilliant idea which could've electrocuted us in our sleep.")

Heat waves in Portland are kind of like snow in Portland. We get a week of each every year, more or less, and it rocks Portland's world.

Be the cat, Portland. Maximize cooling. And buck up--after all, it's bound to rain again soon.*


*weeps quietly at the thought

Fat Cat Lips and Other Calamities

So we got home from Colorado Springs to find one of our cats, Seamus O'Leary, with a big fat lip. (Pictures at the end of the last post). Now, I'm a huge weenie when it comes to my own pets. Not to mention that when it comes to my animals, my imaginoscope goes all wonky. A scrape that on a client's pet looks like a scrape will, on one of my critters, transmogrify in my mind to something horrendously malignant. I once looked at a weird, irregular lump on the gums of our eldery German Shepherd and within seconds jumped to a diagnosis of mouth cancer. I bent closer to get a really good look, caught a whiff...and realized the lump was actually kitty poop from him raiding the litterbox. I've learned my lesson. So the next day, off Seamus went to work, where one of my colleagues could examine him with proper objectivity.


Tentative diagnosis: An abscessed lower tooth.


Treatment: Examine under anesthesia, and if confirmed, then yank that sucker out of there.

You can probably guess that if I don't do well examining my own animals, I'm sure not going to do surgery on them. Fortunately, the practice where I work has a top-notch surgical team. Amber, one of our superb certified veterinary technicians, did the work while I held Seamus's little paddy-paw. Once Seamus was under anesthesia, an ultrasonic cleaning (to remove the tartar) and dental X-rays revealed not just an abscessed incisor, but also two teeth with resorptive lesions. Resorptive lesions are roughly the cat version of cavities. We have no idea what causes them, but we know what they do: eat away at the tooth from the outside in. When the lesion gets deep enough, the cat is in a great deal of pain. Seamus's lesions weren't terribly deep--yet--but there's no way to stop a resorptive lesion once it starts, and filling them (like human cavities) doesn't cure them. When we see them, we usually extract the tooth (with the owner's permission, of course). Many owners tell us that afterward, their cats are running around like youngsters again. Anybody who's had bad tooth pain knows what I'm talking about!



We couldn't tell by looking which tooth was infected and causing the lip swelling; on the surface, everything looked hunky-dory. But a dental X-ray fingered the culprit: the root of a teeny little incisor. At this point, Seamus isn't feeling a thing. He's under anesthesia, breathing through the tube at the right of the photo. The gray tube that looks like the end of a ShopVac is the dental X-ray machine; the white gauze in his mouth is holding the X-ray film in place.


Here, Amber is cleaning Seamus's teeth. Removing the tartar revealed one of the two resorptive lesions. That green thing over him is a heating pad; he has another one underneath him. Without heating pads, little animals get very cold under anesthesia.

I didn't take photos of the extractions. I figure we're flirting with TMI already. Suffice to say all went smoothly.

Five minutes after the anesthesia is turned off, the breathing tube is out and he's already trying to lift his head (and get his tongue back in his mouth). Poor kitty!

Don't feel sorry for him too long, though. The next day, the swelling is already going down, he's bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and indulging in all his usual shenanigans:




Cuddling with his favorite dog, Inja, in front of
a heater vent...















...helping himself to my lunch...












...and skedaddling like the wind when he gets caught.





So let's see: Wordstock...a trip out of town...cat teeth...and...ah, yes. The new, as yet untitled book. And some lovely news about Ten Cents a Dance!

Next time...

Airports and Other Adventures

So Saturday evening I dashed home from Wordstock, kicked off the darling vintage-y heels, and packed a suitcase.

Now, I’m an airport fretter. I’m not scared of flying--I love to fly. But I’m the one who always wants to leave for the airport four hours ahead of time. In case of, you know, traffic jams. Or long lines. Or no spots in the economy lot. Or who knows. (You know you’re a champion fretter when you don’t feel you have to come up with specific scenarios. You just know something will happen, and if it’s an invasion of killer bees that shuts down the interstate, you can still turn to your partner and say, “I told you!!”)

But that Sunday, for some reason, I was zen. Dogs at kennel at 8 AM. Plane leaving at 9:57 AM. Plenty of time. Besides, we were already checked in for our flight, thanks to the wonders of teh internetz, as they say on LOLcats. What could possibly go wrong?

And at first, it all went so very, very well. We dropped the dogs off at Stay (is that not the best name ever for a boarding kennel? The folks who run it, Kim and James, are fabulous. Our dogs didn’t give a rip that we were leaving. They know the way to the play yard, and they were all, “Come on, Kim, let’s go play! Let’s play, Kim! Now, Kim! Kim! Kim!” Not one little whine, not a single mournful look. “Yeah, whatever, see ya. Whoo-hoo, Kim! Play!” Ingrates.)

Off to the airport. Lovely spot in the econo lot. Less than two minutes to wait for the shuttle. Disembarked at United and found, in the middle of an otherwise empty airport, the Line From Hell. But no problem, right? We’re already checked in. All we have to do is check our bags. YOU MUST CHECK IN 45 MINUTES PRIOR TO DEPARTURE, the sign warned. Yawn. Magic of teh internetz. We’re golden.

Got up to the counter. Self-help computer terminal won’t check me in. See a United representative for assistance, it says. It is, I kid you not, forty-four minutes to departure time.

Uh-oh.

Am directed to a second line. Get up to the counter for the second time. Am informed by a very nice, extremely harried United ticket agent that I have missed my flight.

Missed my flight? The flight doesn’t leave for thirty-six more minutes! But, no—wait for it—

“Your bag wasn’t checked forty-five minutes prior to departure time,” the agent tells me.

That was the unforeseen circumstance, the fret I should have been fretting. It’s not good enough that the actual live PERSON checks in 45 minutes prior. The BAGGAGE has to check in, too, and unlike the actual, live person, the magic of teh internetz DOES NOT COUNT.

The sign neglected to mention that part. Also the part about how you can no longer fly separately from your bags, as in, Can’t you just let us trot onto this flight and the bags can follow us later?

NO.

Crap.

I fly a lot, and I’ve never run into this before. Maybe because I rarely check bags—I’m a carryon girl. But we weren’t the only ones, that morning. It seemed like half the line missed the same flight for the same reason. So if you were on the Portland to San Francisco at 9:57 AM on November 9, and your supposedly full flight had a bunch of empty seats and you were able to stretch out in luxury…you’re welcome.

The ticket agent (and she was really a lovely person, sweet as could be to us, although you know that part in The Fellowship of the Ring where Bilbo Baggins lunges to take the ring from Frodo, and his face turns, for one instant, wicked goblin-like with fangs? Whatever supernatural talent that is, this ticket agent has it. Some other passenger tried to skip the second line and sneak in directly behind us, and I swear the agent got ten feet tall and bared a mouthful of shiny danger. It was scary. I almost got back in line again) got us booked on another flight, WITH bags, to Colorado Springs, and all was rainbows and puppy breath, and we were happy, especially since we then had time to get coffee and lemon poppyseed scones.


Can I just say? Colorado Springs is DROP-DEAD GORGEOUS. Pike’s Peak, the Garden of the Gods. Sunshine. Three hundred days of sunshine a year, those people get. They get as many days of sunshine as we Portlanders get of overcast and rain. I can’t think about that too much, or I’ll get depressed.


And the wildlife... We saw at least a dozen mule deer grazing in people’s front yards. A most beautiful fox scampering across a pasture.











And coolest of all, this fellow:




The person we were with said that in 35 years in Colorado Springs, he’d never seen a bighorn sheep on the side of the road like this. We watched him for several minutes, until he jumped the guardrail on the far side of the highway and meandered, safe, to the creek below.

We visited for 4 days, then headed back home…only to find our own wildlife up to shenanigans while we were gone.

This is Seamus O’Leary.

This is Seamus O’Leary’s fat lip.

Stay tuned.

A PSA for You and Your Dog: Xylitol and Halloween

Have you heard about a food ingredient called xylitol?

Do you know it can kill your dog?

If not, keep reading.

Halloween is almost here. Friday night, the goodie bags are gonna come home full. Saturday, I—and thousands of veterinarians across the country—will be at work, fingers crossed that this year, we won’t see any poisonings.

First on my hit list: Xylitol. Xylitol isn’t the most common pet poisoning out there. But it made the top of my list because it's the least known, and incidents are increasing at an alarming rate. In 2002, only 2 cases were reported to the ASPCA Animal Poison Control Center. In 2007, that number jumped to almost 2,000 cases.

Xylitol is a sugar substitute, found in a wide variety of sugar-free foods, gum, candy, toothpaste, mouthwash, and other products. It’s harmless to people. But in dogs, even a tiny amount causes severely low blood sugar, which can lead to seizures, coma, and possibly death. A slightly larger amount can lead to liver failure, which can also be fatal. How much is a tiny amount? Only one to two sticks of xylitol-sweetened chewing gum can poison a 20-lb dog. One stick of gum killed this little 9-lb terrier.

Since dogs, like us, have a sweet tooth—and since the number and variety of xylitol-containing products is growing—please, please, please keep these products far out of reach. (When I say far out of reach, keep in mind my clients' dogs have rifled purses, wormed into cabinets, chewed open plastic containers, climbed on counters, and--in one case--figured out how to pry open the refrigerator. As one very wise veterinarian I worked for said, “They’ve got nothing to do all day but figure out how to get what they want!”)

And please—spread the word. Here’s a great article that sums up xylitol poisoning, symptoms, and treatment. If you suspect your dog has gotten into xylitol, get off this blog and call your local veterinarian or the ASPCA Animal Poison Control Center at (888) 426-4435. Minutes are critical in poisonings. Don’t delay!

Next up: Chocolate. A lot of people do know about this one, but did you know why it’s toxic? The ingredient theobromine. At high enough doses, theobromine causes vomiting, diarrhea, tremors, seizures, and heart arrhythmias. Severe poisonings are potentially fatal. How much chocolate triggers these signs depends on the size of the dog and the type of chocolate. About 8 oz of milk chocolate is toxic for a 20-lb dog, compared to less than 1 oz of baking chocolate.

How common is chocolate toxicity? I don’t have any hard numbers, but I can tell you it’s one of the most common poisonings we see, and it’s surely the number one holiday-associated toxicity. For more information, here's a good article. Although lots of people know about chocolate, lots of others don't, especially kids. So again, keep those Halloween bags way out of reach and spread the word! And again, if you think your dog has ingested chocolate, call your veterinarian or the ASPCA Animal Poison Control Center immediately at (888) 426-4435.

Okay, enough spooking of the blog folk! Here's wishing you all happy—and safe—Halloween. Bwah-ha-ha-ha-haaaa!!

An Engineer's Guide to Cats

Hilarious, and yet oddly undescribable. You just have to watch.

(I originally had the video posted here, but it was too big for the space, so I took it down and posted the YouTube link instead.)

It's Kitten Season Again!

This photo totally swiped off Bookseller Chick's blog...what can I say? I'm a cat fanatic, I couldn't resist. Head over there for all kinds of book news--she's awesome!

Now THAT's Grrl Power!

Last Saturday, Rags to Riches became only the 3rd filly (that's a girl horse) in 140 years to win the Belmont Stakes. The Belmont is the third and last leg of the Triple Crown races, and at 1-1/2 miles, it's also the longest. Plenty of horses sputter and fade long before the end. But this tough gal not only hung on, in the final homestretch she turned up the heat, burned up the track, and made horse racing history.

Work that day was crazy--not two minutes to spare for the race. But I caught the replay at home, including the head-to-head battle between Rags to Riches and Curlin (the only colt who could keep up with her) here.

Three Triple Crown races, and this year, three different winners. No single champion to sweep them all. Almost 30 years since the last one, Affirmed, in 1978. Still, in terms of exciting races, all three this year were knockouts. And what a way to end! Just look at the determination in our girl's eye as she holds off Curlin at the wire--she'll be damned if she'll let anybody past her.

Now THAT'S grrl power!

Street Sense and Serendipity

I work every Saturday now. Which is OK with me, as it’s part of my Very Cool Schedule that allows me time during the week to write. Like most anything, though, there’s a downside, and it rolls around every year starting the first Saturday in May.

This is because Saturdays in a veterinary hospital are incompatible with watching the Kentucky Derby. Sigh.

Yesterday, I worked the “fourth doctor” shift. While 3 other veterinarians saw regularly scheduled appointments, I fielded walk-ins and emergencies with my fabulous partner-in-crime and one of the best certified vet techs in the world, Amber. (I’m not saying this just because I think she’ll read this. Amber kicks serious ass as a CVT, and not only that, she’s fierce on skis, a surfboard, or a bicycle, too. You see her on the road, all you’ll see is her dust). Yesterday was a typical Saturday—there's no end to the trouble critters get up to on the weekends—and so we’re bulldozing along from eight AM until three PM. Then we find ourselves looking around for our next emergency. What’s this? Nobody waiting to be seen. Five minutes until the next patient is expected. We haven’t had a chance to eat lunch yet, and…post time is 3:04.

Heat up the frozen tamale, grab a glass of water, race upstairs where the little TV lives. They're off! A colt named Hard Spun leads almost from the start. Actually pulling away from the field, too, just when most early speed sputters and fades. Rounding for home, and it looks like Hard Spun for sure, when out of nowhere charges a dark brown horse: Street Sense, coming from far, far back in the pack, 19th in a field of 20, then he turns it on and passes 18 horses in an eighth of a mile. Catches Hard Spun, and wins going away.

Can I just say? Damn.

Along with the excitement came a little bittersweet, too—because watching Street Sense’s walloping performance, I couldn’t help but remember the brilliant Derby run last year. And to realize again how much the world of racing lost when it lost the great, gallant Barbaro.

No time to reminisce much, though. The race over, we ran back downstairs, just as our next patient walked through the doors. Of all Derby Saturdays for the stars to align, I’m glad it was yesterday, because that was a helluva race.

And at the Preakness, two weeks from now…could the stars possibly align twice, for us as well as for a beautiful dark brown colt? We’ll see…

Goodbye, Barbaro

Eight months of trying. Eight months of fighting. Never a question in anyone’s mind that the odds were long. Was the fight worth it?

Yes.

From the beginning, Barbaro’s owners were clear: They would continue only as long as Barbaro was comfortable. “We just reached a point where it was going to be difficult for him to go on without pain,” owner Roy Jackson said. “It was the right decision, it was the right thing to do. We said all along if there was a situation where it would become more difficult for him then it would be time.”

This is one of the most difficult decisions: how far to go. Not just for a champion thoroughbred, but for any beloved animal. Over and over, I hear people say: This is the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. We talk together about quality of life. We discuss signs to watch for: of pain, of joylessness, of the animal giving up. More often than not, when the owner makes the decision, they tell me: I knew it was time. He told me. I could see it in his face.

“He was just a different horse,” said Barbaro’s chief surgeon, Dr. Dean Richardson. “You could see he was upset. That was the difference. And it was more than we wanted him put through.”

They came close. So close that last month, Barbaro’s doctors were beginning to talk about releasing him from the hospital this spring. But in veterinary medicine, the tide turns with quality of life. Acute pain that can be managed, where there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, yes. Pain that is ongoing and can’t be controlled—no. You can’t explain to an animal, Well, we’re just going to keep pushing ahead, see if we can turn this thing around. Hang in there.

As long as Barbaro was comfortable and fighting, then it was a good fight. The moment that changed, the fight was over. Barbaro was fortunate to have had owners and doctors who understood that, and who were willing to let him go.

“Grief,” said his owner, Gretchen Jackson, “is the price we all pay for love.”

Godspeed, Barbaro.

Can You Find the Pit Bull?

Since the very first day of this blog, I’ve had a link over on the right (scroll down…down…there ya go) called “Can You Find the Pit Bull?” The reason I put up this link is because (1) having worked with pit bulls for many years, I'm a fan of the breed and (2) pit bulls and related breeds have gotten, and continue to get, a tremendously bad rap from the media.

Have pit bulls attacked people? Yes. Have Rottweilers? Yes. Have St. Bernards, English Springer Spaniels, Labradors, Golden Retrievers, Dalmatians, Beagles, and Chihuahuas attacked people?

Yes, to all the above.

However, when a dog attack makes the news, the dog(s) involved are often reported as “pit bulls.” It’s almost as if the media has developed a knee-jerk reflex: “dog attack” = “pit bull.”

Now hold on, you might be saying. Maybe pit bulls end up in the newspaper because, unlike other types of dogs, they put people in the hospital, or even kill them.

But that just ain’t so. When the stories are looked into, often it’s found that the dog involved is not a pit bull or any related breed or even a mix of any of these breeds.

This is yet another reason why I don’t believe in breed bans. Banning pit bulls will not prevent someone from being attacked by a vicious dog of another breed. Instead, you’ll just end up forcing a lot of folks to give up their docile, affectionate pets. But what about any pit bulls who are aggressive? You’ve at least gotten rid of them, right?

Remember, aggressive dogs aren’t created in a vacuum. Take them away, and the people who made them will simply go out and get another dog they think they can mold into a “bad ass.”

Better to focus on the people responsible for dog attacks, and leave the breeds out of it. Before we have to start dressing all our dogs in costumes.

Many thanks to Walter Rowntree, DVM, for sending me the photo of his Doberman, Hana, dressed as a Poodle for Halloween 2006.

Note to Self: Engage Brain Before Writing

Thanks to all who provided wonderful comments on the previous post. First, let me say this will teach me to post hurriedly and late at night. I wrote my first reaction on this study, and I left out my own reservations (not to mention most of my critical faculties). In consequence, I missed the mark I was aiming for by an embarrassingly wide margin. The commenters, on the other hand, hit the bull's-eye in their criticisms.

For the record, over the years I’ve owned a German Shepherd, a pit-bull mix, a Siberian Husky, and a Great Dane—all of which have been named on one list or another as “aggressive.” All of them are/were wonderful dogs. I’m a veterinarian in small animal private practice in an area with a high population of pit bulls, AmStaffs, and other breeds included on these same lists. I love spending time with my patients; they are, almost without exception, sweet-tempered, gentle dogs, and their owners are responsible and caring people.

I'll try to explain my intent more clearly. Simply, I was glad that, finally, someone was looking at irresponsible dog owners as a major contributor to the problem of dog attacks. I have gotten so frustrated with media coverage that focuses exclusively (and often inaccurately—but more on that in a future post) on the breed of dog involved. In my experience, dangerous dogs are created by irresponsible owners. But the media, and knee-jerk legislation like breed bans, ignores owner accountability. I want the current hysterical media focus on dog breeds to stop. I want the focus instead to be held on the owners. I want irresponsible owners to be held accountable--NOT the dogs!

It’s clear that this did not come across in what I wrote.

From the comments: “…one must be very careful NOT to overinterpret the results of the study cited. The "not very nice" people who want aggressive dogs probably can attribute their entire dog-education to the media, which tends to get hysterical about certain breeds… It would behoove those who carry out and publish studies, as well as those who read them, to understand what exactly the data show. In this case, the data show nothing more than the fact that "not very nice people" have bought into the myth of "dangerous breeds."

I agree, and these are issues I failed to address.

“…in an animal that was not TAUGHT to be outwardly aggressive, it will not show aggression unless it feels itself or it's people are being threatened.”

With very rare exceptions (mostly having to do with medical problems) this is absolutely true. We see this often in the veterinary profession. Animals that react aggressively to us are attempting to defend themselves. This is a normal and natural reaction. The animal perceives us as a threat and is acting out of a very rational fear. It then becomes our job to alleviate that patient's fear and minimize its stress. Labelling an animal “bad” for this behavior is ignorant and worsens the situation, instead of resolving it.

Irresponsible owners who want to have a "bad-ass" dog will encourage, train and reward aggressive behavior. This can and does occur regardless of breed, but the point I (so poorly) tried to make is that this kind of person often chooses a breed with a reputation for aggressiveness.

“Would one assume that if a certain brand of cereal was found in a certain percentage of pantries of child abusers that every person whose pantry contained that brand of cereal is an abuser? To draw this conclusion would be erroneous, but it could certainly make a study that would make an interesting article. Let’s use common sense, and stay away from pigeon-holing society with erroneous labels.”

Beautifully expressed and again, I agree. By citing the study in the way that I did, I ended up painting a very wide swath of people with a very damning brush. This was carelessness on my part. It was not my intent.

My intent was to say that dog attacks are a problem of irresponsible ownership—not a problem of breed. If one wants to reduce the number of dog attacks, one must address irresponsible owners. Breed bans don’t do this. Breed bans only promote ignorance.

I am writing a follow-up post with more thoughts on breed bans, but I wanted to respond first to all those who took the time to comment. I apologize for the carelessness with which I threw together the previous post, and for the offense it caused. I appreciate the time you took in your responses, and the clarity and goodwill with which you expressed yourselves. I hope I have expressed myself a little more clearly here.

Thank you.

Like Owner, Like Dog?

Vicious dog attacks, resulting in serious injury or death of a person, have increased to the point that many people feel “something” must be done. Unfortunately, the “something” too often results in knee-jerk reactions. Ban all pit bulls! Problem solved—right?

Not entirely. Because there’s more to this problem than just the dog.

Are certain breeds at higher risk for aggression? Absolutely. But in the hysterical-media coverage of dog attacks, the question hardly ever asked is: What kind of person owns a dog like this?

Recently, though, a team of researchers did ask that question, and they’ve uncovered some interesting answers. According to a study published in the Journal of Interpersonal Violence (which, BTW, how sad is it that such a journal even has to exist?), owners of aggressive dogs are often—brace yourselves for a shock—not very nice people.

Specifically, this is what the study found: Of 355 dog owners, every single one who owned a breed at high risk for aggression had been found guilty of breaking the law at least once. Offenses ranged from traffic citations to “serious criminal convictions.”

When the study looked at owners of aggressive dog breeds who also had been cited for failure to license their dog, 30 percent had at least five criminal convictions or traffic citations.

The criminal record rate for owners of licensed, low-risk dogs? One percent.

One of the study’s authors, Jaclyn Barnes, says: "Owners of vicious dogs who have been cited for failing to register a dog (or) failing to keep a dog confined on the premises ... are more than nine times more likely to have been convicted for a crime involving children, three times more likely to have been convicted of domestic violence ... and nearly eight times more likely to be charged with drug (crimes) than owners of low-risk licensed dogs."

This is one reason I’m leery of breed bans. A breed ban doesn’t address the fact that certain people are drawn to owning aggressive dogs. And if you think such people must all be drug dealers, or others of that ilk, think again. One of the worst dogs I ever dealt with was a 125-lb Rottweiler owned by a seemingly nice suburban mom. Plain and simple, this person just liked having a bad-ass dog. The fact that the dog snarled at her own husband was, she believed, proof that the dog loved her—and she encouraged it. Take away all Rottweilers, and I’m convinced she’d immediately select another high-risk dog and train it to be a bad-ass. Unfortunately, she's all too typical of this kind of owner.

For too long, the spotlight has been solely on the dogs behind the dog attacks. This study begins to shine it where it really belongs: on the dog owners. Solve that problem, and breed bans won’t be necessary.
There’s more to the breed ban controversy…but I’ll save that for a future post.

Barbaro: A Champion, Still

Against long odds, the fractures in Barbaro’s right hind leg--sustained during his running of the Preakness Stakes--have healed.

On November 6th, veterinary surgeons removed the cast from Barbaro’s right hind leg. For the first time since May, no replacement cast was put on.

According to Barbaro's head surgeon, Dr. Dean Richardson, a long road still lies ahead. Back in July, Barbaro’s left rear foot developed laminitis, a serious, potentially fatal inflammation. As a consequence, he lost most of his left rear hoof wall. Although the final outcome is still uncertain, the good news is that the hoof is slowly regrowing.

The team of veterinary surgeons, technicians, and support staff at the University of Pennsylvania’s New Bolton Center deserve kudos and a standing ovation for bringing Barbaro this far. I understand their caution. And yet, I believe this gallant horse will, ultimately, claim victory. On that day, look for a picture of Barbaro here: cast-, splint-, and bandage-free, at liberty, grazing grass in bright Pennysylvania sunshine.

The 21st Century Feline

Seamus O'Leary takes the traditional I'm-going-to-sit-on-top-of-your-papers manuever and gives it a modern twist.

He managed to fall fast asleep in this position, so I felt bad kicking him off. And yet...I did. I'm not a total meanie, though; just as soon as he demonstrates 90 words a minute, the keyboard's all his.

Dog Love

Hop on over to GalleyCat to see a great photo of our wonderdog Ginny, and read about why she’s the cutest dog ever. (Hint: An underbite helps). While you’re there, browse the other posts on this excellent book and publishing blog, and you’ll be the first on your block to learn that Norman Mailer is coming out with his first novel in ten years.

Thanks to Ron Hogan and Sarah Weinman of GalleyCat for posting Ginny’s pic!

Happy 4th of July!

I’ve been spending almost all my free time writing the 2nd novel, so the blog has been neglected a bit. Sorry, folks. But I thought I’d post a couple of quick updates today.

First, Barbaro’s cast (see here for original post) was changed for the 2nd time yesterday. He’s still in the ICU of the University of Pennsylvania’s New Bolton Center, but so far he’s making a marvelous recovery. He’s got his own official photo gallery now—click here to see current pics of him.

Second, if you found the agent information here interesting, and you’d like more—from an actual agent, no less!—then hop over to Agent Kristin’s blog. She’s doing an Agenting 101 series, beginning with this post, that you won’t want to miss. And then bookmark her site in your browser, because she's a gem--if you read her blog regularly, you'll learn tons.

I’ll be back soon. In the meantime, happy 4th of July, everyone!

Kitten Season

One of the more irritating things about being a veterinarian is that some people think you do nothing but play with puppies and kittens. Then again, one of the best things about being a veterinarian is...you get to play with puppies and kittens.

Not all day, of course. But sometimes, even during the most hectic, demanding, awful day—let’s get real, especially on a hectic, demanding, awful day!—taking half a minute to snuggle up to one of the littlest patients is like taking a big old Sanity Pill.

It’s mid-June, which means we’re smack-dab in kitten season. (1) When I lived in rural areas, this was the time of year you’d see little kids in front of the grocery store, with a litter of kittens in a laundry basket and a sign saying, “Free!!!” (2) Litters are abandoned by their owners, some of them literally on our doorstep. Other kittens are brought in by Good Samaritans, who find them in parking lots, hayfields, woodpiles, sheds, inside walls, underneath cars, on the side of the road, in the middle of the road...

And then there was the kitten who fell off a garage roof onto a client’s head. She was teeny-tiny, less than a week old, her eyes not even open. We figured momma cat must have carried her up there, then somehow lost her. It was a hell of a surprise to the client, who was not accustomed to kittens dropping on him out of the clear blue sky. Lucky for the kitten, though—if he hadn’t been standing there at that exact moment, she would have died from falling onto the concrete.

The kitty pictured above is one of the this season's many foundlings. He’s thin, and pretty scruffy, but once he gets some regular meals and TLC, he’ll grow up to be a big handsome cat. He knows it, too—he’s trying to walk across me to get to my lunch (tuna, yum).

Kitten season, we say, and sigh. The shelters are full, the foster homes are bursting, the rescue societies are strained to the limit. So many babies, not enough homes. And yet, despite all this, the kitten-mad among us cuddle each and every squirmy furry little monster, exclaiming, Isn't he cute?

Adorableness. The saving grace of kitten season.

(1) Kitten season starts in mid-spring, and, depending on where you live, ends in mid- to late-fall. That’s because female cats start coming into heat in late February, when the days start getting long. Then they cycle in and out of heat every 3 weeks until fall, when the days get short. They don’t come into heat at all during the winter. (Cats who spend all their lives inside, under artificial lights, are sometimes an exception). The kitty gestation period is about 9 weeks, so that means no winter babies!

(2) If you’re a parent, and you’re considering letting your female cat (or dog) give birth so that your kids can see “the miracle of life”…please, please, please DON’T. I’ll save that rant for another day, and tell you all my reasons why. Just, for now, please believe me when I say it is NOT a good idea.

Barbaro

Two weeks ago, at the Kentucky Derby, a big bay colt blasted past the other horses as if he possessed a top gear unknown to the rest of the field. But more than that, what caught my eye is how relaxed he seemed. His ears flicked from side to front to side, as if he had all the time in the world, there at the finish, to listen to everything around him. With those ears, in that instant, Barbaro had my heart.

I’ve been a horse junkie all my life (the fact that I grew up a city kid, with nary a fiery steed for at least ten miles in any direction, seemed like a particularly sarcastic joke on the part of the universe), and I’ve followed the Triple Crown races almost that long.

The Kentucky Derby. The Preakness Stakes. The Belmont Stakes. Three races in 5 weeks. Anything can happen, and so goes the old saying: That's why they call it horse racing.

As a kid I watched Seattle Slew, the little horse everyone laughed at, romp off with the Crown. Then, the very next year, Affirmed and Alydar slugging it out from Kentucky to New York, Affirm’s margin of victory growing narrower with every race, until that immortal Belmont Stakes: Affirmed and Alydar battling head to head down the homestretch, me jumping up and down in front of the family TV yelling, and at the end…Affirmed again, literally by a nose. The second Triple Crown winner in two years, the third in 5 years. All the "experts" proclaimed that the mighty Crown, the benchmark of equine greatness since 1875, was a benchmark no more. With snide condescension in their voices, they said, Modern horses are just too good. From now on, we’ll probably have a Triple Crown winner every two or three years.

That was 28 years ago. No horse has claimed the Crown since. But this year, as I watched Barbaro blow away the field at the Kentucky Derby, I thought with a thrill of excitement: This is it. This guy could do it.

Anything can happen. A jostle down the backstretch. A thrown shoe. A horse not up to his best. Sure. That’s why they call it horse racing.

We don’t like to think injury. Of course it happens; injury is a risk in any sport, with any athlete performing to the utmost. All it takes is one bad step. But these are horses. We love them. Injury is too terrible to think of.

Yesterday, barely 100 yards into the Preakness Stakes, Barbaro took a bad step. From wishing for a Triple Crown, now we pray only that he survives.

Reptile Love

It’s not every morning you get up and find a dead frozen mouse thawing in the kitchen sink.

Ah, yes. Sunday brunch for Snappy Tom.

Snappy Tom is my boyfriend's snake. A Western hognose snake, to be precise, and a beautiful boy he is, with a pert little upturned nose and intricately patterned brown scales.

I've never understood what makes people afraid of snakes. They’re beautiful. They feel nice to the touch: dry, cool, and smooth. And if you don’t bother them, they have absolutely no interest in bothering you.

Then again, I know the exact same things are true of spiders, and yet I’m deathly afraid of them. Even little ones. If the upcoming summer movie that’s getting great buzz, Snakes on a Plane, was instead called Spiders on a Plane, you’d never get me into the theater. I barely got through the Shelob scenes in Return of the King. Heebie-jeebies galore.

Snakes don’t bother me, but I have to admit that as a pet, ol’ Snappy T. doesn’t do a lot for me. I mean, he’s just not that…interactive. Beautiful, yes, interesting, absolutely. A pal to hang out with? Umm…no. I look at him and make admiring noises, and then I go play with my dogs.

Which brings me to the human-animal bond. People who work with animals talk a lot about the human-animal bond. This is the emotional attachment people have with their animals, that benefits the well-being of both the person and the animal. You’ve probably heard about studies related to the human-animal bond: people who own pets have lower blood pressure and cholesterol levels, children raised with pets have higher self-esteem and are more likely to be involved in sports and other activities, etc. Most of us naturally assume that the animals in question are the traditional “companion” animals: Dogs. Cats. Horses. Birds. Goats. Cattle and sheep, even. Critters that can tell your mood, who interact with you, who recognize you as an individual apart from all other humans, just as you’d recognize Old Yeller apart from all other dogs.

Can the human-animal bond exist between a person and a snake? A turtle? A tarantula? Do those animals have the ability to recognize a particular human, and if they do, does it make any kind of difference to them? Or is it strictly a one-way street, with humans projecting their wants and needs onto a creature that has no more discernment than a potted plant?

Me, I’m not bonding with any arachnids anytime in this life. What do you think? Possible? Not possible? Or do you think the whole human-animal bond thing is a bunch of hooey, even if the critter involved is Lassie herself?

I’d post a picture of Snappy, but he’s eaten his mouse and has holed up under his driftwood to digest. No matter what the species, this I know for sure: if you pester a boy when his stomach’s full, and all he wants to do is nap, he'll become a very grumpy boy indeed.