Fleeing the Flea, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

It is another hot August day in Sweet Home, and fleas are eating most of the dogs alive.

Returning from lunch, I could see that Dixie had started the sprinkler on the roof already. That helped keep the clinic cool. The water would run hot, coming off the roof.

Joseph was waiting with a worried look on his face. He was holding a limp Domino.

Domino was a little five-pound chihuahua. He was black as a young dog but was half gray now.

Dixie herded Joe and Domino into the exam room as soon as I put on my smock. 

“He is not doing so good this morning, Doc,” Joe said. Joe was in his early seventies and had lost his wife several years ago. Domino was about all he had left in the world.

We place Domino on the exam table on a fleece. I pulled up his lip, his membranes were white. I looked at his lower back and ventral abdomen, and he was literally covered with fleas.

“Joe, Domino is being eaten alive with fleas,” I said. “I am going to run a quick CBC on him. I can see that he is anemic, we just need to know how bad.”

After we drew a small tube of blood, I discussed the flea situation with Joe as I waited for results. The in-house blood machine would only take a few minutes.

“I don’t know why he would have so many fleas,” Joe said. “He has had a flea collar on since the first of the month.”

“It is a little complex, Joe,” I said. “You have probably had fleas laying eggs in the house all winter and spring. That flea collar might work a little around his head and neck, but for the most part, that little cloud of protection is about three feet behind him. When the weather gets hot, all the fleas come alive, and for a little guy like this, they suck the blood right out of him.”

The CBC showed a packed cell volume of less than 6% and a hemoglobin of 1.6 gm/dl. I don’t think I have seen levels this low in a living dog.

“Joe, Domino is very critical,” I said. “I need to get some blood into him right now. Any undue stress and he could drop dead in an instant. We will need him for a couple of hours, and I will talk about what we need to do when you pick him up.”

Luck was on Domino’s side, we had Riley in the clinic today. Riley was a large mixed-breed dog weighing over 100 pounds. I got ready to collect blood while Sandy called Riley’s owner.

“We have an emergency with a little chihuahua. We need to give him a blood transfusion,” Sandy said into the phone. “We only need about 35 ccs of blood and would like to collect that from Riley, if that is okay. That is a small enough volume that Riley won’t miss it.”

They consented, of course, and I drew the blood into a heparinized syringe. Then we turned around and administered to Domino via a jugular catheter. The risk of a transfusion reaction on an initial transfusion was low, and Domino’s blood values dictated immediate blood.

The result was almost instantaneous. Domino came alive again. His membranes pinked up, and he sat up and looked around as if to ask, “Where am I?”

I gave Domino a Capstar tablet. This was a new pill that provided close to a total flea kill in 30 to 60 minutes. I also gave him some oral Prednisone to reduce the inflammation in the skin.

When Joe returned, we had him fixed up with some topical Advantage for flea control, and I spent some time discussing year-round flea control. In the old days, we would have needed to use a flea bomb in the house, but those were almost impossible to find. The newer products did a good enough job that we did not have to treat the home.

“The important thing to remember is to maintain flea control all the time, year-round,” I said. “In August, when it turns hot, I probably spend 90% of my time treating dogs and cats with skin issues. And most of those issues are caused by fleas.”

“Okay, Doc, I don’t want to lose this guy,” Joe said. “I would have never thought that fleas could do that to a dog.”

“It all depends on the dog,” I said. “Domino is not much of a dog compared to Riley, his donor. Riley weighs over 100 pounds, and fleas could not do that to him. But Domino should be okay now, you just bring him by next week, and I will recheck that blood, just to make sure he is doing okay.”

Joe left with Domino in the crook of his elbow. Domino standing on his front feet, trying to lick Joe’s face. One happy ending.

Dixie had the next patient ready in the exam room. An older lady, who I had not seen before. Doris had a poodle, Daisy, who was scratching on her tail head, that area on the low back above the tail. This was the textbook appearance for Flea Allergy Dermatitis. 

“Daisy has been scratching herself raw,” Doris said.

I looked Daisy over from head to tail. Everything looked fine except for the skin. Daisy had a ribbon in her hair on both ears, she had probably just come from the groomer. I ran my hand over the sparse hair on her low back—fleas scattered in all directions.

“Doris, this pattern of hair loss is what we see with Flea Allergy Dermatitis,” I said. “We need to use some medication along with some flea control, and this will clear right up.”

“I overheard your conversation with the gentleman who just left,” Doris said. “I want you to know, Doctor, Daisy does not have fleas, and there are no fleas in my house. The groomer thinks this is a food allergy.”

I promptly parted the hair on Daisy’s back again and quickly captured a flea. I placed the flea on the exam table and squished it with my thumbnail. I didn’t say a word.

“We had to wait out there in your waiting room for almost ten minutes,” Doris said.

“We just happen to have a new veterinary dermatologist that has started practice in Eugene,” I said. “She would be the one who you should see to handle Daisy’s possible food allergies. I will send your records down to her and send you home with her telephone number. I think that she will be able to get you right in to look at Daisy since she has just started practice.”

Doris and Daisy left with the information. 

“That was quick,” Dixie said.

“I am too tired to spend my time talking to a brick wall,” I said. “The Dermatologist can tell her it is a flea problem after she does $500.00 worth of skin testing. I am sure she will believe her then.”

Photo by Liam Ortiz from Pexels

Note to My Readers, Work Schedule

This is just a quick note to inform everyone that I have to take a break from writing for a few weeks due to my work schedule. I’m retired and this is not supposed to happen.

There will be my Wednesday’s From the Archives articles but no new content for awhile.

Hit By a Car 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I was sitting at the front desk of the veterinary school’s small animal clinic. Clock-watching was not something that I did very often. I always found that time passed quicker if you kept busy, but the ten o’clock hour was fast approaching, and our night duty shift was just about over. Then, the hospital would be turned over to a couple of interns.

The quiet was suddenly disrupted by an older couple rushing through the clinic doors with what appeared to be a near-dead little dog.

“Help us, please,” Doris said. “I just backed over our little Finn. I thought he was in the house with George, but he must have squeezed out the door when I left. You have to save him. I don’t know if I can live with the thought that he died by my hand.”

Jim ushered them into an exam room, and I ran to the treatment room in the back of the hospital to get Dr. Snow.

“We have a hit-by-a-car that just came in. It looks like he is in bad shape,” I said. “The old lady is pretty upset.”

“Okay, let’s go see what kind of a chance the pup has of surviving,” Dr. Snow said as he started down the hall quickly. A line of senior students followed him.

Jim had the pup on the exam table when we arrived. Its right front leg was severely fractured, and its respiration was labored.

Dr. Snow approached the table and put his stethoscope on the pup’s chest. Doris was standing at his shoulder, wringing her hands.

“What do you think, Doctor?” Doris asked as soon as Dr. Snow pulled his stethoscope off his ears. He motioned the students to listen.

“I think his leg took the worst of it, but right now, it is the least important,” Dr. Snow said. “His lungs are bruised, and there is bleeding into the airways. We may not be able to save little Finn.”

“Oh, Doctor, do whatever has to be done,” Doris said. “I cannot bear the thought that I was the one who did this to our little Finn. We can’t let him die without doing everything possible.”

“Okay,” Dr. Snow said. “We will take him back to the treatment room and put him on a ventilator. The leg we will worry about tomorrow if Finn’s is still alive.”

“Whatever it takes, Doctor,” Doris said as she reached out and gently patted Finn on the head.

We scooped up Finn and headed to the treatment room. With Finn on the treatment table, Rod quickly placed an endotracheal tube into his windpipe. When Dr. Snow entered the room, we had Finn hooked up to the ventilator.

“This pup is going to die,” Dr. Snow said. “And pretty quickly. Did everyone get a chance to listen to these lungs?”

Jim was the only one who didn’t have a stethoscope in the exam room. He grabbed one and listened to the gurgling in the large airways. Then, you could see blood starting to show in the endotracheal tube.

“Why didn’t you tell her that in the exam room?” Jim asked.

“She is so upset. I thought she needed some time to adjust to the situation,” Dr. Snow said as he unhooked the ventilator. Blood and bloody foam poured from the endotracheal tube. Finn was dead.

“Now, what are you going to tell her?” Jim asked, a little upset with the deception.

“I’m going to wait a few minutes, and then I will go out and convince Doris that we should put Finn to sleep,” Dr. Snow said.

“You’ve got to be crazy,” I said. “What if she wants to see him one last time. What are you going to do then?”

“You guys stay here, practice putting an IV catheter in the cephalic vein,” Dr. Snow said. “If you can get one in a dead dog, you’re doing pretty good. I will go out and calm Doris down and convince her the best thing we can do for Finn is to put him to sleep so he doesn’t have to suffer tonight.”

So, Dr. Snow went out front, sat with Doris and George in the dimly lit reception room, and talked for some time. We could see him sometimes consoling Doris with a hand on her shoulder.

Finally, Dr. Snow presented them with a clipboard with the euthanasia release for them to sign. George signed the paper, stood up, and shook hands with Dr. Snow. Doris hugged him and sobbed. Then they turned and left through the front door. He had pulled off the impossible.

“What do we do with him now?” Jim asked when Dr. Snow came back to the treatment room. 

“We clean him up and get him into a box,” Dr. Snow said. “They are coming back to pick him up in the morning. They want to bury him at home.” Dr. Snow carefully placed the euthanasia release into Finn’s file.

“We have the catheter in place,” Jim said. “You better inject him with some euthanasia solution, or the record will be incomplete, and the controlled drug inventory will be off.”

While Dr. Snow did the paperwork for the euthanasia solution, we cleaned up Finn. We placed him neatly in a small burial box. We slipped it in the refrigerator.

I glanced at the clock as we cleaned up the treatment and got ready to go home. It was almost eleven, and Sandy was going to be worried.

As we were leaving, Dr. Snow stopped us,

“One last thing,” Dr. Snow said. “You guys probably don’t want to do something like this when you’re in practice. Now that I think about it, it was a dumb idea.”

Photo by Mikhail Nilov on Pexels.