Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

It’s a Dog’s Life

2006; Elsevier BV; Volume: 49; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1016/j.annemergmed.2006.03.002

1097-6760

Elizabeth L. Mitchell,

Coaching Methods and Impact

“Mom!” “Hhhnmmm,” I groan, annoyed that my 7-year-old son’s always urgent voice penetrates the closed door of my bedroom, the sound machine, and the fan, all meant to help me sleep before my night shift. “Come quick; it’s Etta.” My irritation evaporates. I hear the worry in his voice, followed by the sounds of feet racing and stumbling down the stairs. I run too, following a trail of watery diarrhea. As I careen into the kitchen, I see Etta, our 10-year-old black lab. My husband, Ned, and son, Rees, are staring, horrified. Etta, usually an energy explosion, is swaying unsteadily, bewildered and close to collapse. She is trembling uncontrollably, salivating profusely, and laboring to breathe. Directing my stunned family, I suppress my rising panic. Ned lifts Etta into our car. Rees follows, and we race for the animal hospital. Once there, Ned hefts our 90-pound lab from the soiled car, and we move as quickly as we can to the emergency entrance. We pass a middle-aged couple, exiting as we enter, propping each other up, empty handed, animal-less. We avoid their eyes. Luckily, just as we enter, the critical care specialist approaches the registration desk. She makes a quick assessment of the situation while I tell her the story. She leads Etta away, noting her halting, stiff-legged gait. I’m handed a clipboard with admission paperwork and told to sit. We breathe a communal sigh of relief. We made it. A doctor, help. Etta has probably been poisoned. SLUDGE, salivation, lacrimation, urination, defecation, emesis. She has most of these symptoms. Where did she get an organophosphate? Oh my god, it must be the old lady who lives next door. She’s never liked Etta. Her yard is full of weeds, old bottles, a shopping cart, all types of trash. She’s probably putting out poison. Suddenly, I want out of this waiting room. How many times do I make nervous family members stew in my waiting room? I want to be in the back, next to Etta, talking to the vet, involved. “She will be OK, won’t she, momma?” My son’s quiet voice breaks into my thoughts. I turn. Rees’ hazel eyes mirror mine. “I think so Rees.” But truthfully I’m uncertain. I stifle my urge to invade the treatment area. I don’t trust them to figure it out. To my relief, the vet reappears to ask more questions.