I am for sure a better pet owner for knowing this vet. Tonight as my old dog wobbles in from her evening walk I remember when he diagnosed her a year and a half ago with renal failure. He said “I’ve seen some dogs go two weeks from this point, and some go two years.” I didn’t like him the first time I took my cat to see him fifteen years ago. He was brusque with her and with me. The other day I took in little Vincent with a similar problem to that old cat, who lived fourteen more years. Dr. Vincent was like a different vet.

 

I suspect he may have changed a little, but what’s really changed is my perception of him. When he whisked that calico cat away from me fifteen years ago, and said as he was turning his back, “She needs an enema, call me this afternoon,” I was stunned. No further explanation, no chance to say goodbye to my kitty, and he was gone. I stood around for a minute then left. Once I picked up the cat that afternoon I didn’t go back to him for six years. I found another vet ten minutes farther away. She was an excellent vet, and I was very happy with her care of all my animals for years.

 

Then one night the old knobby-headed dog was stricken, bloated tight and crying under the stairs, and my vet didn’t answer the phone. I called the next vet down the valley, and rushed the dog there at 10 at night. He said “Your dog is fine. Whatever it was is over.” That was a relief. But it was wrong. The ailment recurred a few months later. I tried my usual vet, who once again wasn’t home. Believing knobby-headed dog would be fine, I walked him around the yard for hours, but his pain increased. Finally, at 3 in the morning with much trepidation, I broke down and called Dr. Vincent.

 

“Bring him in right now,” he said. When I arrived half an hour later he was waiting for me with The Book open on his table. He showed pictures of a dog’s stomach twisted over on itself. “Gastric torsion,” he said. “This is what it was last time. Occasionally taking a dog for a car ride will create just the right conditions for the stomach to untwist. It usually requires surgery to fix it, and even that might not work. In 20 years I’ve done ten of these surgeries. Five dogs have survived. He might make it through the surgery and die in the next week from the systemic toxins created by the torsion.”

 

He took the dog back to the surgery room and gave him a sedative, then stuck a tube down his throat trying to relieve pressure and get the stomach to untwist. It didn’t work. By now it was 4 in the morning. He said “You’ve got three choices. You can take him home and hope it corrects like it did last time; I can put him down; or I can do the surgery.”

 

I tried to say “Put him down.” The dog was 11 years old, and while he had been an excellent companion and protector, he’d also been a trial. For starters, he always tried to kill any non-human creature that was bigger than he was. The flaws and strengths of that dog’s character are too numerous to go into now, but the part of me that wanted an easier life opened my mouth to say “Put him down.” Instead, out came “Do the surgery.”

 

“He won’t be the same dog,” cautioned Dr. Vincent.

 

“That’s fine,” I said with some relief. He gave me two more chances to change my mind and each time my mind said “Put him down,” but my mouth said “Do the surgery.” I left and drove to a friend’s house to sleep for a couple of hours. Knobby-headed dog not only survived the surgery, but a month later he brought down a fawn in the front yard. He was the same dog. After that experience, after Dr. Vincent’s gentle and informative explanations of the problem and possible solutions, after his obvious concern for both the dog and me, not to mention his total lack of irritation at being waked in the night, I liked him a lot. Knobby-headed dog lived two more years, and while he became rapidly more mellow with his advancing years, he remained a pretty scrappy hound.

 

Fortunately I did not have too many occasions for a vet for the next few years. When I did I spread the wealth between the two or three nearest vets. We’re fortunate where I live that there are half a dozen fine vets within less than an hour, all of whom help out with strays and broken wildlife as well as paying customers. I take the old dog to a holistic vet an hour from home because diet, homeopathy and supplements work better on renal failure than standard treatments. But ever since Dr. Vincent solved two diagnostic mysteries on two dogs in less than a minute each, I pretty much converted completely.

 

He’s been my primary vet now for 7 years. He has never been brusque with me again, and he has unfailingly explained in detail what is wrong and what I need to do to help my pet. In short, he has taught me. He makes jokes and laughs readily when I tease him. He offers options when they exist, and confidence when they don’t. With each visit to him I learn something new about how to treat an abscess, or how a stool softener works and why it doesn’t mix with oil, or when a cat’s lip might need to be cut off.

 

The old calico I first took to him died last year. Three days later I was out in the garden and I heard a strange sound. I thought at first it was some unusual bird, but as my ears sorted it out I realized with dismay it was a cat crying quite nearby. I found him under a tree not 20 feet from the calico’s grave, a tiger tabby with a bloody mouth and bloody paws. I scooped him up and held him to my chest. It was love at first sight. It’s impossible to articulate the feeling that passed between that cat and me in those first moments of holding him. I didn’t even take time to call. I rushed him to the car and, murmuring reassurance to him all the way, drove him up the valley to Dr. Vincent’s office. I needed a name to murmur. “Vincent,” I said, “it’s ok, you’re going to be fine.”

 

At the clinic Doc came out from emergency surgery during his lunch hour and said “What have we got?” “He’s bleeding from his mouth,” I said. “I just found him. If you can fix him I’ll keep him. Please fix him.” He whisked him into the back saying “Call me in three hours.” That was the sum total of our exchange. I realized then that his haste with me that first visit had been solely a result of an emergency situation. For six years my knee-jerk emotional reaction had kept me from knowing and learning from this extraordinary doctor and teacher.

 

I called him in three hours. “It’s calicivirus,” he said, “a respiratory virus that has ulcerated his tongue. If I can save the tongue I can save the cat. A cat can’t survive without a tongue. He needs it to drink. I’ve seen it before but I’ve never seen it this bad.”

 

“You better save him,” I said. “I named him after you.”

 

Dr. Vincent laughed. “Well I’ll have to save him then,” he said. “If he makes it over the weekend I think he’ll be fine.”

 

Monday morning little Vincent emerged from the back room looking like a new cat. “He’s a remarkable cat,” said his namesake. “I just gave him an anti-inflammatory. He did the rest. Really, he’s a special cat. You can take him home tomorrow,”

 

“Only I can’t,” I said. “I leave home for a month tomorrow. Any chance you could keep him for me until I get back?”

 

“I don’t see why that would be a problem.”

 

A month later I returned to the clinic to pick up my new cat. He was the darling of the staff. He came into my arms as though he’d known me forever. The doctor charged me a pittance for everything. But this is what he would do for anyone, for any cat. He’s a small-town vet who works all hours for the valley’s pets. He donates and discounts his services for the local animal rescue group. He works in a room open to the front desk and the waiting area. I never mind waiting my turn, watching and eavesdropping in fascination and admiration as he diagnoses, treats and explains each patient in front of all the rest.

 

A few months after acquiring little Vincent I took in one of the dogs and Doc asked after his namesake. “He’s great,” I said. “He is so smart. Sometimes he’s so smart I call him Dr. Vincent.” The real Dr. Vincent almost blushed.

 

Vinnie goes back to his vet every now and then when he gets in a fight outside at night. Last week he went in for an abscess on his tail. This week for a fecal blockage, the same condition that introduced me to Dr. Vincent fifteen years ago. “This is too far up for an enema to do any good,” he said. “We’ve got to approach this from the other end.” He gave me a week’s worth of stool softeners with a pill plunger to get them down. “These pills are bitter, they’ll make him drool. Don’t be alarmed. Keep an eye on that cat for me, I mean it.”

 

Today, rather than phone, I dropped by when I was in the neighborhood to get a report on blood work for one of the dogs. The parking lot was jam packed. I stood in the center of a hubbub of ailing kittens, nervous dogs, and their people, watching and waiting until he had a chance to talk with me. I watched him take a phone call while he turned off the lights and looked at a cat’s injury with his eye scope. He took his time with me between patients, explained the blood work and discussed options, then patiently heard my report on little Vinnie’s progress. I walked out of the chaos of the clinic calm, informed, and, as usual, a little bit enlightened. I hope he’s not planning to retire any time soon. I want this vet to keep tending my pets and my education for many years to come.