
Angela had a cat called Thing, pronounced ‘Thleeng’. His problem was cystitis.
Thleeng was a handsome character. He was very much a full Tom and, although not destined to be a stud cat, Angela had nevertheless decided (her foot went down very firmly on this subject) she would not have him neutered.
He was very much a male; a real man about town, with more than his fair share of testosterone. Thleeng had an attitude, a characteristic flaw that often goes hand in hand with high hormone levels. He was a fighter of note, a gangster with a Bruce Willis lifestyle. A swash-buckling character, he had the physique to match his mind, and often arrived home in the mornings after a night on the tiles with wounds to his face and neck.
One day a very distressed Angela contacted me by pager at seven a.m. My breakfast was a quick gulp on the run, and, on arrival at the clinic, a very vocal Thleeng and his mother were waiting for me. I smiled at them and said, ‘Come now friends, what has this hooligan done now?’
‘He seems blocked up behind. He does look very sorry for himself.’ Angela was on the point of tears.
The diagnosis was an easy one and I agreed: ‘You are spot on Angela. I am sure that small crystals are blocking his urinary passage. That is preventing him from passing urine. So that is why his tummy is swollen and hard. His bladder is enormous and, as you pointed out, he is in a lot of pain.’
Andrea, our senior nurse, had arrived early for duty. Those ladies are the unsung heroes of veterinary practice. They show great dedication in what is often a demanding, distressing and unglamorous job. Andrea was the best of the best and certainly more valuable to our practice than Simon, a new graduate who had recently joined us.
Thleeng was soon asleep. As my examination continued a song sprang to my lips, ‘Now then pussy cat, whoa, whoa whoa! Now then pussy . . .’
Andrea interrupted me, ‘Alex please do not make that horrible noise! You know you can- not sing, we know you cannot sing. Please!’
‘Sorry friend, it helps me to concentrate. I thought that Tom Jones number would be perfect for this. . . hang on, hang on. . . this urethra is blocked fast.’ I was unable to work the plastic catheter into his urethra. I worked patiently and quietly and by then Andrea was humming out something from her hero Rod Stewart – probably Maggie May. She made a much more soothing sound than I did.
The necessity to be fastidious, when attempting to unblock that urethra, caused me to become tense and I soon felt physically and mentally drained, ‘Damn it Andrea, but this is a difficult one, it is getting to me. Best if I take a short breather.’
‘That’s a good idea. I don’t want you getting rough with this special creature. Yes! Best if you take a break.’
‘Hmm!’
I straightened my back and stepped away from the table. That’s when I saw him arrive. Yes! That one; the know it all, and it made me blurt out, ‘Oh no, that is all I need this morning.’
Simon was soon perched over my shoulder and his unsolicited advice followed, ‘Why don’t you try rotating the catheter a bit more? Give it some lubrication with Vaseline?’
I kept my cool, ‘How many of these have you successfully dealt with?’
His reply was in his normal confident manner, ‘Not actually ever seen a case before, although I have read up on all the latest published works on the subject. Yes! I do feel that I have a good working knowledge of the problem.’
I signed to Andrea, ‘Let’s test him.’
I gave in to temptation: ‘Simon. I have had a hard morning with an early calving out at Tarlton. Maybe you are right. Maybe you should scrub up and take over. I will have a cup of coffee and support you from the sidelines. There’s a good chap, let’s see the Cambridge boy in action.’
‘Excellent idea. Let me show you a top graduate in action.’
Andrea was monitoring the patient’s vital signs. She gave me one of her sighs, looked hard at the clock then spoke to Simon, ‘Time is getting on, do you feel you are getting anywhere? ’
He followed my instructions and agreed the situation was improving, ‘That does feel better. If I continue to rotate the catheter will it slip into the bladder?’
My reply encouraged him, ‘You are almost there.’ I raised the tone of my voice, ‘Remember! That urine is under a lot of pressure, be careful.’
Simon made a mistake!
The blockage was breaking down and he should have advanced the catheter along the urethra with his left hand, while gently squeezing the bladder with his right hand. That would have allowed the escaping urine to pass into the stainless steel bowl awaiting it. I continued to encourage him, ‘That’s it Simon, that’s the way. You are learning fast, but please remember the pressure in that bladder is great.’
‘I have it. Watch a real surgeon in action . . . and . . . here she comes.’
I guessed what might happen and warned him, ‘Excellent, but PLEASE go gently.’
Simon removed the catheter completely with his left hand. He was mantling Thleeng’s little body in the manner of a golden eagle with a hare. The release of urine was a beautiful sight to behold, a great joy for all who witnessed it. Well! Most of us! Simon’s face was only eight inches from the tip of Thleeng’s willy. He was directly in the line of fire, and when a magnificent stream of urine left the bladder at fifty kilometres per hour, it was a torrential release. We witnessed our assistant’s face being drenched in urine.
Simon leapt into the air. He ran off screaming some weird English ejaculations that were probably ancient war cries about the parentages of some of my Celtic forebears.
Andrea and I almost fell down laughing. It really is odd, but Simon didn’t last much longer with us. I think somethleeng about general practice must have . . . p****d him off!
Editor's note: Here is an article on Herbal Remedies and First Aid for Pets
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