God as my witness, I will never have clients like this again:

Case #1:

She arrived late for her appointment.

She complained about the subsequent wait.

She and her gentleman friend stank to high heaven of foul body odor.

Her carrier stank.

Her cat stank.

Her cat was feverish and thin.

She refused all diagnostics and treatment.

She demanded, instead, that I give her cat “the other doctor’s” special shot.

Said shot was not in the record or in the computer files.

She suggested I was an incompetent stand-in for “the other doctor.”

She complained bitterly about her bill at the front desk.

She barged into the lab and berated me on the price of an office visit.

She lifted her shirt to show me a surgical scar to explain her inability to pay.

She loudly proclaimed her status as a 30-year client to help make her case.

She refused to pay her bill.

She yelled at the staff as she wafted out the door, odor and all.

She called back later to complain her cat was no better.

She wanted to be seen again—immediately.

I told her she’d have to go to another hospital because “this doctor” would not be seeing her ever again.

 

Case #2:

She arrived late for her appointment.

She was accompanied by a gaggle of four teenaged girls…and one cat.

Her cat’s Coach bag (actually, her Yorkie’s) was sodden with urine and smelled powerfully.

Her cat was smeared with urine and stool.

Her cat was a two-year-old tom—as in, unneutered (!).

Said cat was emaciated and sported bite wounds and scars about his head.

She agreed to diagnostics and asked the girls to fetch some of the stool from the trunk(!).

She blithely admitted to having transported the cat in the trunk of her Jaguar.

Her cat had hookworms, coccidia, fleas, a high fever and a low red blood cell count.

She declined hospitalization.

She agreed to let her thirteen-year-old medicate the cat at home.

She declined to consider neutering.

She looked shocked when I explained that almost 100% of my male cat patients were neutered.

She had never heard of FIV or FeLV.

She had always wondered why she couldn’t get the odor out of her daughter’s rug.

She asked the fifteen-year-old to hold the cat in her arms on the way out (with a waiting room packed with big dogs).

She paid her bill without complaint and herded her flock out the door.

Her cat was presumably headed back to the trunk of the car.

Saturdays can be hell.