In addition to be horrifically expensive, the lack of communication between their staff members and the client is dumbfounding. Sidebar: why is it consumers pay premium prices for students to experiment and learn on our animals?
Zuki, The White Dog, had had diarrhea and was vomiting intermittently. I took her to the local vet, who eventually recommended that I take her to a vet's office which had more advanced imaging equipment.
I immediately called my other vet, who was unable to take Zuk till the following week (in retrospect, I should have said 'TODAY!' They always accommodate emergencies).
Zuks went into distress that night. Crying, whimpering, barking. I rushed her to Cornell.
The intake vet recommended taking an X-ray. This indicated wither a foreign body or 'something worse.'
Still in shock from Kuro's death, I asked for a couple of minutes to pull myself together. As I walked down the hall back into the exam room, I told the young vet: 'I don't believe in life at all costs.'
And, as Zuki is officially a rescue dog, anything the was done to her had to be weighed against the good and needs of the other dogs we have in rescue.
I told the intake doc that -- clearly informing him that Zuki is part of Akita Rescue, is a foster, and is not my dog. I clearly stated that we have dozens of other dogs that we need to consider, and that all decisions had to be made in light of the good of all of them, not just for the good of the individual. I told him we're a small group, and the costs incurred in Zuki's treatments were coming out of my pocket.
After reflection, I opted for exploratory surgery. Doc quoted a range of $2400 for FB, to $3500 'if it's something more involved.' I told the vet: 'if it's a foreign body, proceed. If it's anything more involved let her go.'
"We'll call you for your permission.'
'I'm giving you my permission now. In another 2 or 3 hours, I'll be fried. I'll have been up for 24 hours by then. So, I am giving you my permission NOW.'
I went to see Zuki, who was now in the ICU area, hugged and kissed her, and left. The poor dog was in great distress. Again, I repeated: You have my permission. Don't call me. If it's anything more than a foreign body, let her go.
At 4:30 or so, the phone rings. It's the vet.
"it's more serious than a foreign body. It's intussusception. We can save her, but there's a risk of recurrence. We'll do what we can to limit that, but there is always a chance of recurrence.'
I'm thinking 'why are you calling me?' yet at the same time am drawn into the drama and emotion of the moment. I keep asking questions. The young vet says 'the surgeon is waiting, the dog is on the table. We've got to know what you want us to do. You have to tell us NOW.'
'Would you do this to your dog?'
'Yes, I probably would.'
'OK, then.'
'The surgeon will call you when she's done.'
Around 7 a.m., the phone rings again. It's Dr. Fitzpatrick.
Zuki has made it through surgery, and seems fine. Dr. Courtney Fitzpatrick says 'typically there's a 30% recurrence rate for this condition. I see it higher than that, though. 40 or 50 percent.' She tells me that she's done what she can to prevent this, by tacking the intestines to each other in several places.
'But this has risks, too. And you can't do it in too many places as the intestines need to move. There's also the possibility of infection.'
I'm exhausted and now in shock. I'd not heard that incredible percentage prior to her call. In short, I'm stunned. What (WHAT!?) would prompt a vet to do surgery on a condition with such a high probability of recurrence? On a rescue dog?
The 4th year student who is assigned to Zuki's case calls around 9 a.m. She, by way of breaking the ice, asks how I am.
'Not good.' And I told her why -- I'd not heard the probability of the dog having another episode, I'd told the intake doc that he needn't call me, I felt as if I hadn't received the appropriate information to make an informed decision. I wasn't yelling; I was, however, very intense and direct.
She asked if I'd like to speak with the chief of surgery, Jay Harvey.
I said yes.
Dr. Harvey called shortly thereafter, around 9 a.m. His first two sentences were: "I have a very upset student here. What the hell did you say to her?"
I was shocked. He stated 'you yelled at her and got her very upset.' No, I did not yell. I was clear, direct, and intense.He didn't believe me. 'You shouldn't yell at someone for something that is not their responsibility.'
In an effort to get the conversation back to a better footing, I began to discuss what happened the previous night. (I'm also wondering, 'would he have said that to me if I were a man?')
"The surgeon said there's a greater than 30 percent probability that this will recur. She told me that she considers it to be 40 to 50 percent probability of recurrence. Why wasn't I given that information BEFORE I made any decisions? Why didn't the intake doctor listen to my first statement that I was giving him my permission when I was actually in the hospital?"
Harvey responds: "The probability is not that high! It's 10 or 15 percent chance." (Who am I supposed to believe? The surgeon who has actually has her hands in the animals or an administrator?)
"The surgery is already done. What do you want us to do? Euthanize Zuki? I'll go euthanize her right now if you want!"
"That's not the point. The point is that I was not given information that was crucial to the decision making process."
"But the surgery has already been done! We can euthanize the dog. We can do that right now!"
He informed me he works with King Charles Cavalier Spaniel rescue, and relayed a story about a puppy with a cardiovascular problem. His group opted to have the surgery done, however the puppy died after the procedure was completed. His group payed for the treatment.
I asked: Does Cornell provide discounts or support for rescue groups?
Harvey answered: They didn't for us.
I told him that our group is small and doesn't have deep pockets, that we're stretched thin, and that the expenses incurred with Zuki will come out of my pocket. "You should have told the vet that!"
"I did."
He asked "Do you want a refund?"
"Yes, I would. And I also think that the staff at Cornell needs to communicate better."
"Would you like to speak with my boss? He's the director of the Vet School."
"Yes, please, I would."
"One of two people will call you. Either Dr. Horne or Dr. Hornbuckle."
I waited a day.....
Bill Horne calls and leaves a message. We finally speak on Monday. I explain what has
happened. I’d visited Zuki at the hospital over the weekend, and she seemed to be doing fine. The young vet student who was assigned to her case told me on Sunday that ‘Zuki didn’t need to be in the ICU any longer, but we’re keeping her there because everyone likes her.’ I said nothing, although the thought ‘I’m paying for ICU when she doesn’t need to be there?’ I mention this, to him, too, as well as the fact that Zuki’s stool was checked for parasites, and she was given panacure, when two days prior to the emergency surgery, she’d had her stool checked for parasites, and had been given panacure.
Bill seems like a reasonable guy. He says he’ll look into the charges. He calls back the next day, and leaves a message. “I’ve capped your bill at $3500."
I immediately respond with a message of my own. “I’m confused! Why am I capped at $3500 when Doctor Harvey offered a refund? And the intake vet had indicated that the foreign body charge was $2400, while anything more complex would be $3500. Where’s the refund Jay Horne offered?”
His return message: “Now I’m confused. I thought you'd be happy! I capped your bill at we charge for a foreign body.”
My reply voice mail repeated my comments. And added a bit about how their customer service is abysmal.
Horne, to his credit, calls back. Another voic email: I asked Jay Horne about the refund, and he said ‘I don’t know where she got that idea.”
“I got that idea from HIM” is my return message.
His solution: to arrange a meeting between me and the key players at Cornell. Is that good customer service? Putting a paying client in with people who will attempt to be covering their rear ends? Harvey is already, in essence, calling me a liar. And Horne must think I am one, too, since he hasn’t refunded me.
I’m disappointed. As a rescuer. As a pet owner. As a consumer. And as an alum. I’m taking the Big Red out of my will. I think that portion of my estate is better off in the hands of animal rescue groups.
