AN UNLIKELY FRIEND | Jackie Greenwood
As a young girl I always chose animals over people, science over the arts. No surprise, I chose medicine as a career but veterinary, not human. Bonding with pets and sourcing their pain or illness came naturally, but it took some time for me to understand I had to pay attention to the owners as well.
For starters, people were unreliable when it came to their pet’s history. They had a tendency to project their own woes, both physical and emotional, onto their furry friends. It often took careful probing to get to the truth and usually involved more personal details than I really needed or cared to know.
My father-in-law, a wonderful cardiologist, became my mentor when I explained that humans had become a two-legged species I had to learn about. As time passed and relationships evolved, many clients started to see me as their doctor also, and to my surprise, I came to treasure the role of ‘trusted medical advisor’ as much as that of ‘animal whisperer.’
I met Lois at my first job working at a downtown hospital. She had visited the clinic a few times with one of her cats, but in those early years I was more focused on the pet than the person. It was not until I ran into her at the local swimming pool that our relationship truly began.
I was in the change room with my little daughter, just pulling up her suit, when I heard someone calling my name. I turned to see Lois, nothing but a towel wrapped around her waist, coming toward me. Hands flapping, watermelon breasts swinging wildly: “Dr. Greenwood, Dr. Greenwood!!! I’m so glad I ran into you. I have a question about Sonny – oh, is this your daughter? Hello, I’m Lois. What’s your name?”
Having seen her literally in the flesh, I could not imagine ever facing this woman in the exam room again. But given her utter sincerity, I pulled myself together, looked her straight in the eye and proceeded to have a lengthy discussion about her cat.
***
Lois lived in a beautiful old house on a tree-lined street in downtown Toronto. For the most part, the original families were gone and young Range-Rover-driving professionals were moving in. But Lois was not going anywhere. This was her neighbourhood.
She loved to take a morning walk, hair still in curlers, and dare the young gentry to make eye contact. In her thin pajama pants and moth-eaten sweater, she looked like she had spent more than one night sleeping on a bench.
Lois had a real penchant for hunting dogs—beagles or beagle crosses. They bayed at the full moon, waking even the soundest sleeper and were notorious for escaping on garbage day. Her pack would roam the streets, tearing open bags and leaving a trail of stinking detritus.
Lois, a guilty giggle escaping her lips, would regale me with stories. She got great pleasure out of aggravating the entire neighbourhood with her “naughty” beasts.
As was common in most cities, there was a large feral cat population thriving near her home and Lois had made it her personal mission to help them. After weeks of luring a tomcat with food, she would make a grab, then race her shocked captive over to the clinic to be neutered. She felt responsible for this assault on their manhood so afterward, she would take them in as housecats — their days of wanton sex and wandering coming to an abrupt end.
Neutering may have curtailed their ability to reproduce but did nothing to dampen their territorial tendencies. Once in the house, the spraying (a smell that no cleaner known to man can remove) and the catfights would continue.
Lois thought it best to keep them in separate rooms, of which she had many. They may have had a reliable food source but were forced to live out their days in solitary confinement. It was hard to be critical. She had only good intentions and genuinely believed this was better than a life on the streets.
***
After six years as an associate, I bought my own practice a few miles north; out of walking range for Lois but she had no intention of letting anyone else touch her animals.
There was an ancient Oldsmobile resting in her garage, but she preferred public transit. Dogs were only allowed on the bus before and after rush hour, so she was often my last appointment of the day, arriving in a great tangle as she thought that one collar and two, preferably three harnesses, would somehow make her hounds easier to control.
In fact, all her dogs were well-behaved in the clinic. They submitted gracefully to my poking and prodding and were easily bribed with a scoop of tinned food for more invasive procedures. Appointment over, we would stand at the front desk, chatting as we waited for the computer to spit out her invoice. Lois did not carry a purse; it would be impossible to manage with all those leashes, and the drawstring pants she favored had no pockets. As the receptionist handed over her bill, Lois would reach deep into her cleavage. Like magic, things would appear: used tissues, bus tickets, spare change and, finally, carefully rolled bills with which she would settle her account.
***
Visits were not always happy occasions. In the veterinary world, a ‘puppy’ appointment was often followed by one concerning ‘end of life.’ As a profession, we accepted our role as executioner but each case presented its own unique circumstances and in truth, it never got easier.
When it came to the difficult decisions, Lois had an uncanny ability to ask the right questions and was able to balance the medical facts against her own emotions – an almost impossible task for many pet owners.
It was winter. Lois came at the end of the day, alone. She removed her toque to expose a bald head. “I have cancer,” she said in a voice full of childlike wonder and disbelief. She had brought her medical records and wanted my opinion. In the face of her calm and candour, what choice did I have?
This is how it went for the next year. She would arrive in the evenings, sometimes with a pet, sometimes without, always with her records. She needed to discuss her health with someone experienced in delivering bad news and someone she trusted. I could not deny her this.
During these visits, I matched her matter-of-fact attitude, never a hint of self-pity. I couldn’t help but wonder if navigating so many pet losses together over the years had somehow been a rehearsal for this. Still, the dignity with which she was facing her own mortality only deepened my affection for this unconventional woman.
***
I was at home when I got the call. Lois had lost her battle. My first response was to compose a letter to her daughter whom I also knew well. I do my best writing in my head while walking and planned a long route with a pit stop at a coffee shop.
I took a crisp ten-dollar bill from my wallet, and without thinking, rolled it tightly.
A slow smile broke across my face as I tucked it carefully in my bra for safekeeping.
Jackie Greenwood practiced small animal medicine and surgery for 38 years. During this time, she also made multiple trips to underserviced communities in Uganda, Peru and Northern Canada to deliver veterinary care. Since retiring, she has enjoyed writing about her experiences as ‘the other family doctor.’