Monster Whisperer - J.B. Trepagnier Page 0,1
exam room.
“What is your name, and what is your pet’s name?”
“You can call me Plouton, and my dog is Cerberus.”
I’d treated all manner of hounds and had seen some pretty crazy mixed breed dogs, but the dog on my exam table was something else. I thought the Pitbull mixed with a dachshund was crazy and adorable, but I couldn’t even begin to guess what kind of dog this was. Usually, I could tell the dominant breed by just a look, and there wasn’t a single breed on God’s green earth that could claim this dog.
Cerberus was solid black, and before I brought him to the exam room, I weighed him on the scale. He weighed almost two hundred pounds. His head was blocky, but not bully breed blocky.
“Is he friendly?” I asked.
“Yes, unless I tell him not to be.”
“What kind of dog is he, anyway?”
“A special one that I brought to you for treatment.”
Might as well get to it. I had a feeling he got this dog from a very irresponsible breeder and didn’t want to fess up. I made cooing noises as I approached the table. Cerberus did nothing as I took his temperature and took a fecal sample.
I rounded to the front of the table and stroked his massive head.
“What’s wrong with you, boy?”
“You can tell me. I can understand.”
“He’ll be angry.”
“Let him be angry. I can’t treat you unless I know where it hurts.”
“He’s trying this new diet where he cooks for me. I’ve been feeling bad since he started. The food is too spicy.”
If he was spicing up the dog’s food, was he also putting things like garlic and onions in there that dogs weren’t supposed to eat? This was the tricky part. I knew the right direction to go, but I had to find a way to question this scary man without tipping him off I knew personal details I couldn’t possibly know.
“What are you feeding him?”
“I heard cooking for your dog is good for them, so I’ve started doing that.”
“A raw diet has to be done with a lot of care and research. You can buy it pre-made, but if you are making it yourself, there are things people eat that aren’t safe for dogs. Are you by any chance adding things like garlic, onions, and pepper?”
“Well, yeah. It’d be pretty fucking bland without it. I want my dog to enjoy his food.”
I had pamphlets for this because clients asked all the time. I pulled a few out about feeding raw and handed them to Plouton.
“Raw feeding has to be done very carefully, and onion and garlic can be fatal to dogs if fed too much. You shouldn’t put spices in his food. If you are going to do this, do it right, or it could cost your dog his life.”
“Is my dog going to die?”
“I need to draw blood and run some tests. Cerberus might need some fluids and some prescription food until he’s back on his feet. I’ve got some in stock.”
“Well, hurry up and do all that. I don’t want to lose my dog.”
Plouton was undoubtedly a lot gruffer than my usual clientele. I could save his dog, pending the blood work, but whether he lost his dog would depend on if he took my advice and researched how to feed his dog the right way if he wanted to do it.
I was regretting sending my vet tech home early. Plouton and the man he was with didn’t exactly make me feel safe. They were continually peering over my shoulder, and they wanted to know exactly what I was doing at all times. I’d never had this feeling treating an animal before, but I got this vibe off both these men that if anything happened to this dog, even if it wasn’t me that fed him the wrong thing, I would be the one that paid for it.
Plouton wouldn’t even take no for an answer when I needed to go to the back and test Cerberus’s blood. I tried telling him no one was allowed back there except staff, and he should stay and comfort his dog. That was when it happened. He pulled his jacket back and showed me this nasty looking gun.
That was when I knew I would die if this dog didn’t get better. The bloodwork came back with no permanent damage, but Cerberus was dehydrated from the salt that was being put in his food.
“Your dog is just dehydrated. I can give him fluids, and he’ll be