Hunter's Story

Honorable Mention, Experiences
Stephanie Halley, Michigan State University

It started with an “alternate” letter to Michigan State University College of Veterinary Medicine.  I was so close, yet so far from vet school I could taste it.  To beef up my application, I wanted more clinical experience and spent a year working at Clare Animal Hospital.  Before work on a snowy in December of 2010 my dog, a 13 year old golden retriever named Hunter, became weak, tired, and had tacky gums.  I took him to work where my boss, Dr. Paul McNeilly, palpated his abdomen and said it didn’t look too promising.  We shaved him for an ultrasound to get a better look at what was going on.  The diagnosis: splenic hemangiosarcoma.  The prognosis was grave and Dr. McNeilly didn’t anticipate him lasting too much longer.  The reason he was so pale and weak was because he was bleeding internally.

I had fully accepted his fate, vowed to make Hunter comfortable in my home, and was overwhelmed with haunting thoughts that if I had gotten into vet school I may have been able to help him sooner.  Days later I received a letter from Michigan State.  On my second application I was accepted but the feeling was bittersweet with my dog still sick.  Five months later, in May of 2011, Hunter was still alive and in good spirits.  The doctors at the practice couldn’t believe it and thought he might be strong enough for surgery if the mass hadn’t metastasized.  After taking radiographs, checking his blood, and getting a second look with the ultrasound Dr. McNeilly made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse and set the stage for my veterinary career.

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How to round the right way

Honorable Mention, Foot in Mouth
Erica Ward, Michigan State University

To brighten the spirits of my peers on our large animal medicine and surgery rotation, I decided to rap my rounds presentation....

Listen up fellas, I'll tell you the mostest

About a condition called Arthrogryposis.

The calf is born with stiff joints

My rhyme will go over the main points.

It can be caused by many things- from something the cow ate,

To the calf taking up too much real estate.

If you ever see a curly calf

You better move the flag to half staff.

There is no use in fixin' the feet,

We've gotta cut our losses- can't even sell the meat.

This is a bigger problem at beef barns,

A bull can be the culprit at those farms.

The genetic condition is from a recessive mutation,

To solve the problem there should be no hesitation.

It's a 3-point mutation on a single chromosome,

There are many tests to choose from- to each his own,

You see, in Bovine land all the marriages are arranged,

and it would be a pity if calves were born deranged.

So test your heifers and test your bull, 

If they come back positive, it's best to cull.

Now all you Dairy farmers listen up,

This is vital if you want there to be milk for that cup.

Don't let you cows eat Lupine flower,

Keep Bluetonge and Arboviruses away with all your power.

You better pray the calf has enough room,

Or I'll be sending him right to his tomb.

And that's all there is to Arthrogryposis,

Thank you for your attention, I love you the mostest.

Taking a Break

Honorable Mention, Creative Corner
Josh Li, University of Illinois

On voting

Winner, Life as a Vet Student
Tiffany Beck, Mississippi State University

American and Traitor.  These are not two words commonly employed in the same breath in this country. Yet over 236 years ago, this allegation became a harsh reality for 56 Americans with a mere brush of the pen.  By signing the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776, a company of highly esteemed and well-educated citizens pledged “[their] Lives, [their] Fortunes, and [their] sacred Honor”¹ for the establishment of an independent, separate Nation.  Their promises to this freshly conceived country were not empty.  Nine of the 56 signers died during the American Revolution and never tasted national freedom.  The British captured and tortured five signers, and the homes and lands of many more (17) were ransacked and burned.  But how does this dabbling in colonial history relate to deciding on a candidate for the Office of the President of the United States nearly 250 years later? 

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Bacon

 Winner, Creative Corner
Brendan Batt, Louisiana State University 

There are times in life when it is best to fight your tears, and times when you must let them flow. We carried him in an ice chest from my truck through the house into the back yard, just as we had carried him from the mudboat to the truck, burning with remorse laden with pain; our minds still scorched by the horrible images to which we had paid witness. We sunk shovels into the hard earthen clay. Despite our efforts the digging was slow. It was important to go deep, at least four feet. My throat swelled and took off my shirt striking violently at the walls of the hole beneath me. Tears welled again in my eyes and streamed down my face. My brother’s face was stoic and unchanging, but equally hurt. He seemed to be reflecting on thoughts I was incapable of conjuring in my current state of emotion. I stared up at the sun squinting, clenching my jaws in despair.

 

“Is it our fault?” My brother questioned as he rested his weight upon the handle of the shovel, his head facing down into the grave. His eyes wandered to the ice chest.

 

“No. But there will never be another one like him.”

 

“Best dog ever.”

 

We continued in silence. Sweat mixed with tears and dirt, and in our heads the pain fused with remorse and heartache. When the grave was deep enough we both stared at each other and at the hole. My mother watched from the back porch. Tears had muddled her face.

 

“It’s deep enough.”

 

I walked over to the ice chest and motioned my mom to go inside. My tormented face was enough for her to know she would not want to see this. I flipped the lid back and gently grabbed him under the rib cage, wrapped in my bloody hunting jacket, his cold entrails stuck to my arm. Blood and water dripped from the towel down my chest, collecting in a brown stain on my pants. My brother rushed to help me. We laid him in the hole, his dry tongue hanging out of his mouth, eyes closed. His rich, black fur was caked with blood and dirt. There was nothing of my friend left in the corpse we now laid into the ground. His hind leg distorted, hanging on by tendons, showed bone at the corner of his resting place. I placed a clean towel over his body. My brother began to lay his favorite things beside the body. A training dummy from when he was a puppy, a few of his favorite objects to chew on, some duck wings from the freezer for training, and a Canvasback drake, the king of all waterfowl; we had frozen the bird with the intention of mounting it in the living room, its plumage was immaculate. The beautiful specimen would have looked gorgeous on the wall, but it served its purpose far greater in the tomb of our great friend. A final parting gift. 

 

At this point tears flowed freely from both our faces. We sobbed like children and embraced each other.

 

“ It’s just too goddamn much, I don’t get it….We should have known better.”

 

“Maybe.”

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