Animal Hospital of Pittsford (Rochester, NY) gave my wife and me the worst experience we have ever had together and darkened our beloved pet's last hours

The most horrible experience my wife and I have ever had together was inflicted on us one night by staff members of the Animal Hospital of Pittsford. Even now, years later, the memory of that night is still painfully raw and ugly.

On Sunday, May 5, 1996, our 14-year old dog, Fred, became ill. He had been ill like this on a previous occasion and had pulled out of it on his own within a day or two, but this time he was not getting any better.

On Tuesday I took him to his regular veterinarian, Dr. David Hancock at the Perinton (NY) Veterinary Hospital. He kept Fred there for 24 hours for tests and the next day Dr. Hancock recommended that Fred be taken to the Animal Hospital of Pittsford (NY) with referral to Dr. Robert Rosenthal. (The Animal Hospital of Pittsford is actually located in Rochester, New York, at 2816 Monroe Ave.)

By this time Fred, a 95-pound Lab mix, was unable to walk by himself and had to be carried or trundled on a gurney.

At the Wednesday afternoon consultation, Dr. Rosenthal was not optimistic about Fred's chances for survival. Euthanasia was discussed but first it was decided to do some more tests, plus I wanted to keep Fred alive at least until my wife, Chris, could see him. She did not know about Fred's condition because she had been out of town and was due back late that evening.

In addition, Dr. Rosenthal wanted to get some liquids through Fred with IV input and catheter in the hope that that might make a difference in his condition. But he was not at all certain that Fred would even live through the night.

Because of bad weather, Chris arrived later than scheduled. I met her at the airport, told her about Fred and we went directly from the airport to the Animal Hospital of Pittsford to visit him. Naturally she was quite upset and anxious to see Fred. It was 11:30 p.m. when we finally arrived at the hospital.

There was no one in sight when we walked into the reception area, but through a small aperture in the wall I could see a seated woman reading a book. I got her attention and when she came out I told her we would like to see Fred. She told us that visiting hours had ended at 9:30. I explained in detail about Fred, that my wife had been out of town, that this was a somewhat unusual set of circumstances and that we wanted to least briefly see Fred.

The woman was unmoved and adamant, telling us we would "be welcome to come back in the morning" during regular visiting hours. Chris was crying and pleading with the woman, whose name I later learned was Heather, to please let her see Fred. The extreme emotional stress caused by the imminent loss of our beloved pet; the officious, bureaucratic coldness of the desk clerk; and the sight of my wife crying, pleading for a little mercy, were extremely painful for me. I was becoming -- understandably, I believe -- quite angry. (At no point, however, did I become "out of control," an accusation that would be levied against me a little later that night.) I told the woman behind the counter that we intended to see our pet, that there was no reason that we could not other than that it might inconvenience her, and that I wanted to talk to someone in charge.

With this I felt we finally had her attention. Not compassion, understand, just her attention. She asked the name of Fred's doctor, I told her, and she said she would call him to get permission.

When she left the room I commented to my wife, "What a bitch." This was overheard and, I would learn later, went on the record to be used against us. Heather came back shortly, said she had been unable to contact Dr. Rosenthal so it would not be possible for us to see Fred. Again my wife was crying and pleading, and again I could see we were getting nowhere. I told the woman this was an outrage, that this was not Nazi Germany and if they would not let us see Fred I wanted to take him out of there right then. At that she imperiously pointed to the exit and yelled at us to get out. I told her we would not leave without Fred and I demanded several times that she call the police. As I did this I stepped into the hallway leading to the examination rooms, looking for a public telephone to call the police. I saw a young man in hospital greens and I demanded of him, too, that we be allowed to take Fred out of there. I figured that if they would treat us like this there was no telling how they would treat our dog. Chris later said that she had had the same thought. The man in greens did not answer, disappeared, and did not show up again.

After I had stepped back into the outer reception area Dr. MacMichael, the veterinarian on duty, finally made an appearance. She asked inanely if there was a problem. The cold, dismaying indifference in her affect was chilling. I have long been a student of the Nazi period of German history and I could not help drawing parallels between what was happening to us that night and the kinds of events that took place in Germany half a century ago. I expected a jack-booted official to step out at any minute and demand, "Papers? Papers?"

I remained silent and let Chris explain the situation, although she was obviously quite distraught. After Chris explained, MacMichael said we could see Fred but that it would take a few minutes to make the arrangements. She left to get Fred ready and bring him out where we could visit with him. Or so we thought.

We stood there for more than 20 minutes, mostly silent, in a good deal of emotional pain, trying to support each other while we tensely waited to see Fred. While we were waiting a strange thing happened. A third woman stepped briefly around the corner where she could see me. She pointed at me, shook her head knowingly, then disappeared back around the corner. I had never seen this woman before and had no idea at that time who she was or what she was up to. We would find out later.

A short time later MacMichael reappeared and stunned us with the news that we would not be able to see Fred after all. She said she could not put up with the way I had talked to her staff, going so far as to call the other woman a bitch, and that this was the second time that day I had been "verbally abusive and out of control." I was obviously taken aback by the charge so she related to me how I had yelled at and verbally abused a woman there earlier in the day.

Here is what actually happened: When I first arrived to check Fred into the hospital I had forms to fill out. I did this while I was waiting for a gurney.

There were four chairs in the small waiting area but I chose to stand because there was a woman there, whose name I learned later was Wagner, with a large dog that was climbing all over the furniture and anyone who happened be in the dog's range, which was just about anywhere in the room except where I was standing. It was a small room and a long leash.

Through this waiting room also happened to be the shortest distance from the rear parking lot to the front reception area. At one point a woman came through, or tried to, but Wagner's dog blocked her way. The dog was sniffing at the woman, intent on smelling her crotch. Mrs. Wagner watched, apparently unconcerned. The other woman finally worked her way past the dog and made a comment about such inconsiderate behavior. Wagner looked at me and made a face, as if to say, "Aren't some people unreasonable."

I said that I agreed with the other woman and that I thought she -- Wagner -- was very rude. She said, "I'm sorry" in a way that clearly indicated she was not.

"So am I," I said. "I'm sorry I have to be cooped up in the same room with you and your dog."

That was it, the whole episode. No yelling, no "verbal abuse." Ms. Deleo, the hospital's front end manager, told me later that no one had heard anything unusual going on in the reception room. The alleged incident occurred in a very busy area where there was always at least one employee, usually more. No episode of yelling and abuse could have taken place without a number of people being aware of it. Ms. Deleo had queried the staff and no one could report anything like that happening. The reason, of course, is quite simply that it did not happen in any way even vaguely resembling the fabricated version with which we were confronted that night when we were trying to see Fred.

Even stranger is the fact that neither Heather nor MacMichael would later tell Ms. Deleo who had told them the story of my alleged abusive behavior. She thought it was probably a paratech named Angie (who was not even on duty the afternoon of the alleged event, but was on duty that night when we were trying to see Fred), but I will have to see her again before I can say for sure if she was the one who stepped around the corner and falsely accused me. If she is, she is undoubtedly the one who started the slanderous story about me.

There, in the midst of being subjected to the midnight outrage, I tried to explain all this to MacMichael, but she remained cold and unmoved. Kommandant MacMichael had decided to punish us. She was clearly punishing my wife and me for my behavior. I asked her what difference all of that made, anyway; what right did she have to hold our pet captive because she disapproved of me? How could she be so insensitive? We might never see our pet alive again. Unfortunately Doktor MacMichael was proving to be even icier than Heather.

At this point we were drained and traumatized, and we had no choice but to leave. While we were getting into our car in the parking lot Heather made a big show of locking the doors to the hospital. It occurred to me that they probably wanted to avoid any more interruptions of their light reading by inconsiderate people like us wanting one last visit with their dying pets.

The next morning Dr. Rosenthal called and reported that Fred had pulled out the catheter during the night, so obviously the fluid therapy had not made any difference. Frankly, I do not believe he pulled it out himself. Fred had always been very easy going and compliant over the years when various kinds of treatment had been required. Now he was even more compliant and lethargic because he was so sick. In my estimation it did not ring true that he would have bestirred himself to pull out his catheter. Added to this was the improbability that he even felt the catheter at all. He had a good deal of numbness where the catheter was inserted. His hindquarters were almost paralyzed from his illness.

These thoughts were only partially formed in my mind at the time. The emotional battering and sleeplessness of the past day and night had taken their toll and we were certainly not at our sharpest.

Chris and I discussed the options and decided the kindest course for Fred was euthanasia. We went to the hospital and Fred was put to sleep while we were there, petting and talking to him.

I consider it a terrible tragedy that this was the only time Chris had a chance to see Fred. She should have been permitted to see him the previous evening before she had the pall of his euthanasia clouding her visit.

It occurred to me later that, of the four staff members I saw Animal Hospital of Pittsford that evening, two of them (Heather and MacMichael) were extremely insensitive and the third (possibly a paratech named Angie, who stepped around the corner to identify me) was a slanderer. This makes me even more suspicious of the story that Fred pulled out his catheter himself.

It would be interesting to get these people on the stand in a courtroom, sworn to tell the truth, and ask each of them: "Did you pull out Fred's catheter to spite us?"

The hospital staff's odious behavior had an immensely disturbing effect on my wife and me and we now suffer from the symptoms of post traumatic stress syndrome. When we cannot sleep at night, when we wake up in a sweat remembering the events of that week, when ugly memories intrude themselves at odd times, they are not all of Fred drifting off to sleep, dying, nor are they of his illness and debility. Many of them are of the nightmarish treatment afforded us that night at the Animal Hospital of Pittsford. They robbed us of the ability to remember Freddy fondly and sweetly without the ugly memories of that night intruding themselves.

There will be no forgiveness by us for the monstrous behavior of the people who deprived us of that last opportunity to visit Fred, and for turning what was already an immensely distressing and painful experience into a hideous nightmare. It is especially painful to think that our Freddy spent the last night of his life in the hands of such people.

* * * * * * * * *

I filed a formal complaint with the New York State Office of Professional Discipline. Don Tubman, an investigator with that office, considered this a very serious charge against the Animal Hospital of Pittsford. He informed me that Maureen MacMichael, who was on duty at the Animal Hospital of Pittsford that night and whom I thought was a veterinarian (and who did not bother to correct me when I addressed her as doctor) was not a veterinarian. In fact, she was not even a veterinary technician. Animal Hospital of Pittsford claims to be a 24-hour hospital and that requires a veterinarian to be on duty at all times, but when I last talked to him Tubman had been unable to determine that there was one on duty the night in question.

I learned later from Mrs. Sally Deleo, the Animal Hospital of Pittsford's front end manager, that Heather had been fired for "spreading gossip," as Mrs. Deleo put it. She said that she had tried to put together the events of that day and night but had been unable to get anything out of anyone. It had "been real strange," she said.

Mrs. Deleo had tried several times to talk to Mrs. Wagner [the woman-with-rude-dog whom I allegedly "verbally abused" in the waiting room that afternoon] but she would not return Mrs. Deleo's calls. I, too, would very much like to talk to Mrs. Wagner.

Four months after the event I received a late evening phone call from Paul R. Black, DVM, evidently the owner of Animal Hospital of Pittsford, or one of them. It was after 9 pm when he called, which I considered inappropriate, and although I could not be sure, it seemed to me he had been drinking (using alcohol to screw up his courage to call me?). He was imperious and patronizing and told me it was his business, not mine, to "deal with the issue with his people." He did not convince me that he even understood the gravity of the event and how we had been treated. I had the impression that he was making a public relations effort in a last effort to mollify my wife and me. It might have worked if he had demonstrated a better attitude and said the right things. I'm pretty easy. But he did not. What he did say was tantamount to little more than "oops, sorry" which he apparently expected would settle the issue.

It did not.

-- Chuck Henderson