Hygienically challenged

I knew before I became a veterinarian that there would be some after-hours calls. Sometimes they drive me crazy, but I usually try to find the humor in them. Either way, they are fascinating if nothing else.

Ms. Johnson called Friday at about 10 p.m. Her little short-nosed dog always had an ailment of some sort. Over the years of caring for the animal, I started feeling bad for the poor little critter — not because it was sick (it wasn't) but because its owners always found something to worry about. This night was no different.

"He isn't breathing right," she exclaimed over the phone. We met at the clinic, and much to my surprise, Poopsy was having respiratory distress.

His tongue was purple, and he was making all kinds of strange gagging noises. Ms. Johnson and her mother were standing by, biting nails on both hands while they waited for the verdict. I was a bit puzzled.

Poopsy was absolutely not going to let me look in his mouth. Little did he know that I possess the great equalizer: anesthesia.

Once Poopsy fell asleep, I could get a gander at what was causing the distress. Ms. Johnson and her mother were just about to tears as I began the diagnostic journey into Poopsy's throat.

I looked and looked in the mouth and pharynx, but to no avail. I hunted around for my laparoscope to get a better view and to push some of the folds of the tissue around in this little dog's fat throat. The tension mounted. Both of the ladies were on the edge of their seats — literally — trying to see what might unfold. I probed for several minutes until I finally saw it. Tucked away in the corner recesses of this dog's throat was some hard, white-looking thing. It was stuck into the tissue, part in and part out. It had sharp-looking edges and a tan pearly glow. It was much too deep to get with my hand, so I went for the long forceps. I used the forceps as extensions of my fingers and could feel that the thing had a hard texture and was stuck pretty good. The Johnsons were bemoaning: "What is it, doctor?"

"I have no idea," was little comfort.

The anticipation mounted as I gently tugged on the object until it finally came loose and was in the light of the room at the end of the forceps. I had never seen anything like it in my life and was wondering intensively what it was when the silence of the moment was interrupted with the answer.

"Momma, I told you not to leave your toe nails on the arm of the couch," Ms. Johnson said in a shrill and disgusted tone. "Just look: That one was stuck in Poopsy's throat and could have killed him."

This thing was so hard that you could have driven it with a hammer into a 2x4. It was sharp as a razor and shaped like a giant comma; she must have used a pair of hoof nippers to cut it.

I was so amazed that I was speechless. Finally, I asked them if they wanted to keep the toenail, and I assured them that Poopsy would be fine. They were both very happy and tootled away just giggling and chattering like a couple of kids.

I guess the lesson of the story is: Don't leave your giant, hard-as-steel toe nails where your short-nosed dog can eat them.

Dr. Brock owns the Brock Veterinary Clinic in Lamesa, Texas.