The Gift of Pets: Stories Only a Vet Could Tell by Bruce R. Coston Page A

silently, taking me in from my head to my leather boots. I was arrayed, as they were, in the blue coveralls that Dr. Boyd had purchased for me to go on farm calls. I thought I looked like quite the professional.
    “Dr. Boyd worked it out for me to ride with one of you guys?”
    “Oh yeah, now I remember,” the oldest of the men said, breaking into a smile and offering his hand for a firm shake. “I’m Dr. Evers, the senior partner in this practice. And this is Dr. Conner, Dr. Vick, and Dr. Carroll.”
    I shook each man’s hand as he was introduced to me, honored beyond measure at their apparent pleasure to meet me. The pleasure, though, was all mine.
    “Virgil said you are interested in horse practice,” Dr. Evers said. “Is that right?”
    “Yes, sir, I am. I’ve wanted to be an equine vet for as long as I can remember.”
    This seemed to resonate with the group. I was enormously impressed by the four professionals in the room, who were doing exactly what I envisioned myself doing one day. But that was still a long way off. A minimum of eight and a half years of additional schooling stretched interminably ahead of me before I would be qualified to sit in their seats. They turned back to the case they were discussing but took the time to bring me up to speed on the details.
    “This is a five-year-old Thoroughbred gelding that has a non-weight-bearing lameness on the right front,” Dr. Evers said, recapping. He was obviously the attending clinician on this case. “This horse belongs to a woman who does dressage with him. He’s her best hope for the show circuit this season, so she’s pretty motivated to get this problem taken care of.”
    “I see,” I responded with as much confidence as I could muster, surrounded as I was by men whom I so admired.
    “What year are you in school, Bruce?”
    “I’m a senior,” I replied proudly. “I graduate this year!”
    Dr. Evers nodded his head and turned again to the X-rays. The room quieted and I could sense that a change had set in among the men.
    “So take a look at the X-rays and tell me what’s causing the lameness in this horse.”
    I felt my face begin to redden in the darkness. I wanted so badly to impress them with my prodigious horse knowledge, gained from years of reading outdated issues of Western Horseman magazine and my two summers as a camp wrangler. But nothing so far had prepared me for this grilling by four seasoned medical professionals.
    “I don’t know,” I said flatly, embarrassed by my ignorance. I saw a wave of disbelief wash over the group. Looks of helplessness flashed on their faces as they exchanged glances. Dr. Evers raised his eyebrows and sighed heavily before continuing the questioning.
    “We don’t mean to put you on the spot. But can you come up with a list of differentials for a non-weight-bearing lameness in a five-year-old horse?” The room went silent again. I could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall. The four men waited for my response.
    “Well, I guess he could have a broken leg,” I offered weakly. The silence in the room was in stark contrast to the ringing in my ears. I was glad the lights were low, so they would not see the blushing of my face deepen.
    “Anything else?”
    “Maybe an abscess?” I added hesitantly. Dr. Evers nodded sternly. I continued: “Or he might have foundered. Or maybe there’s a nail or something that punctured the sole.”
    “Do you see a nail on the X-ray?”
    I surveyed the film carefully, then shrugged. “I don’t know.”
    One of the other doctors took over the interrogation at that point—kind of a good cop/bad cop thing, it seemed. I think it was Dr. Conner, though their names were already fading from my mind under the glare of their mounting displeasure. With an edge of frustration to his voice, he turned to me.
    “There’s no nail on the film, Bruce. Clearly this is a case of laminitis. You can tell it by the rotation of the coffin bone here away from the edge of