Saturday night, we were sitting on our collective fannies...when the door burst open. A young woman staggered - and I mean staggered - into the ICU carrying a limp dog.
"Heyyyyyyy," she slurred, "I gotta unconscious dog."
We took the dog from her, and my tech herded her into the waiting room.
The dog was not unconscious. It was dead. She had BEEN dead for about 2-3 hours, as she was in full rigor mortis. I could feel the heat baking off of her body. Rectal temperature was too high to read (>108). She had bruising all over her gums, ears, and skin. She was fairly classic for a heat stroke (it had been in the high 90s all day).
The plot thickened when the actual owner showed up (girlfriend to Drunky McBrewster in the waiting room). She was sobbing uncontrollably, gasping and hiccuping for breath. When she saw her girlfriend - drunk or as stoned as a fiend - she uttered a guttural, "GET OUT." The girlfriend scuttled out the door.
Meanwhile, the owner turned to my tech and said the following, "She's messed up on drugs. She doesn't know what's going on. I came home from work and found the house trashed, blood everywhere, and Betsy (the dead dog) in the TRASH CAN."
It's not funny. It's not funny in any way, shape, or form, but I felt hysterical laughter bubbling up inside me. The drunk/stoned women threw the dog in the trash can! Seriously!?
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2 comments:
Not funny, and yet funny all the same.
God, that poor dog just cooked to death. I'd have KILLED her.
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