"We called him Rodney"
He was a tall, gangly, flea-bitten shepherd mix. One
ear stood up, shepherd style, and the other flopped over and bounced against
his head like a rag doll when he ran. His head and feet were too big for his
thin but muscular body. A stale, musty odor accompanied him from flea-infested
skin and neglected ears. Altogether, he wasn't much to look at - one of
thousands of dogs facing the world without the luxury of an owner.
I was in my third year of veterinary school, and he
came from the local dog pound. For the next quarter, four of us students would
practice surgery training. He was always happy to see us - tail thumping widely
against the walls of his small steel cage.
Rodney hadn't much of a life, so a pat on the butt and
a little walk around the college complex made his day.
The first thing we did was neuter him, a seemingly
benign project, except it took us an hour to complete the usual 20-minute
procedure, and an anesthetic overdose kept him out for 36 hours. Afterward, he
recovered his strength quickly and felt good.
Two weeks later, we did an abdominal exploratory,
opening his abdomen, checking his organ inventory, and closing him again.
This was the first major surgery for any of us, and,
with inadequate supervision, we did not close him properly. By the next
morning, his incision had opened and he was sitting on his small intestine.
Hastily, we sewed him up again, and he survived. But it was a week or more
before he could resume walks he had come to eagerly anticipated.
He would still wag his tail when we arrived and greet
us with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
The following week, again when he was under
anesthesia, we broke his leg and repaired it with a steel pin. After this,
Rodney seemed in almost constant pain, his temperature rose, and he didn't
rebound as he had in the past. His resiliency gone, despite antibiotic
treatment, he never recovered completely.
He could no longer manage his walks, and our visits
generated only a weak thump of his tail. The shine was gone from his brown
eyes. His operated leg remained stiff and swollen.
The quarter was ending, and Rodney's days were
numbered. One afternoon we put him to sleep. As the life drained from his body
and his eyes lost their focus, my attitude toward animal research began to
change.
I am a scientist weaned on the scientific method. ...
But after 15 years in the veterinary profession, I now believe there are moral
and ethical considerations that outweigh benefits.
Because we happen to be the most powerful species on
Earth, we humans have the ability - but not the right - to abuse the so-called
lower animals. The ends do not justify the means.
Rodney you are with me now humans will never hurt you
again. You gave love but were given only got pain yet you still loved.
"Please Remember Rodney"
(Peter M. Henricksen)
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