A dog bite to my face almost ended my veterinary career, yet my passion for animals prevailed
CBC
This First Person column is the experience of Karen Langtved, who lives in Lac Ste. Anne County, Alta. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
The Irish wolfhound presented to us with his head and front legs riddled with quills. I was a trained veterinary technologist in my first year of practice and it was my job to assist the vet as he removed the quills. It was hard to manoeuvre the dog without being speared.
Uncomfortable, he panted and swiped at his face with one paw and then the other.
The vet filled a syringe with a tranquilizer called xylazine to help the dog sleep, relax his muscles and provide pain relief.
Some of the side effects of the drug include spontaneous movements followed by freezing in position. Loud noises and quick actions could produce unpredictable results.
We eased the dog onto the cool metal table. I gripped his massive head from behind while the vet, positioned in front of the dog, yanked the quills out quickly with his forceps.
Gauze pads surrounded us like miniature stacks of pillows, ready to soak up the blood from his punctured skin.
I turned my body toward his face to locate the migrating quills piercing his mouth and nose. The tiny barbs of the quills make them move inward and deeper into tissue, potentially penetrating organs and eventually producing infection.
This giant breed dog with a head larger than mine inadvertently jumped, opened his mouth and grabbed the left side of my face.
It froze with its jaw still clenching me.
I also froze, and saw my fear reflected in the vet's eyes, forceps stiff in his gloved hands.
"Don't move," he said under his breath.
Placing the forceps quietly on the tabletop, he reached across to me — one hand on the dog's nose, the other on his bottom jaw — and slowly pried open his mouth.
I felt the blood draining from my body, hoping I would not faint and have the dog rip my cheek open before sinking to the floor.
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