by L. A. Craig

The Animal Care Center clinic sits on one side of a Rohnert Park strip mall, surrounded by fast food franchises and just barking distance from the Codding Building. From the outside, the place resembles the UA Theater four-plex it once was. But as you step into a lobby the size of the Disneyland Train Station and take in the sedating lime-green lighting, tan walls, and immaculate cream-colored ceramic tiles, you get another impression.

This is no ordinary vet’s office. It’s more like Mount Sinai for dogs and cats and just occasionally a few other kinds of four-legged fur balls. Then you see the boxes of tissue spaced liberally on the upholstered bench seating.

Off the lobby is an L-shaped conference room that accommodates 30 people. It’s where the day begins for a staff, truly a team, with one goal: to send each animal home. Sometimes that goal is attained, sometimes not.

“The doctors and all the employees go over each case so they’re all on the same page and 100 percent in the loop,” says nursing supervisor Erica Beedle, who has been in health care longer than some of her nurses have been alive. Beedle is like a lynchpin between the admin staff, her nurses and the vets. She once left ACC for a more lucrative paramedic job, but was lured back four years ago when the clinic moved from a 3,000-square-foot building to this current 17,000 square foot facility.

“We have some of the best minds in veterinary medicine here and it’s fun to hear then discuss the cases,” she says. “Everything here is done with the animal in mind. We try to consider what the animal wants.”

Indeed. there seems to be to be enough degrees on the walls of the vet offices to paper somebody’s den. In fact, the clinic boasts a host of board-certified cardiologists, neurologist/neurosurgeons,
and radiologists. There are five or six emergency doctors on the premises 24/7.
The spacious “treatment room,” the nerve center of the operation, has four tables for examination and treatment, with cages on two sides, an oxygen kennel for animals who have trouble breathing, and
a bank of counter space with supply cupboards, sinks, and other necessary accouterments.
There are a dozen or more people busily working in the room at any given time, but there are no signs of disorder or urgency. Everyone is calm, which helps keep the patients calm. Everybody is working at something and somebody is always cleaning something. Almost subliminally, an intercom intones, “Housekeeping to the lobby.”

The biggest evidence of the gravity of the work done here is reflected in the patients. There are more than just a few hairballs and cut paws here. Henry, a 5-year-old yellow Lab is awake but lying quietly on his side and looking for all the world like he should have a thermometer in his mouth and an ice bag on his head. In reality, the ACC vets discovered one lesion on a nerve coming from one of Henry’s teeth and another coming from a nerve in his brain.
Another sporting dog, 13-year-old Louie, collapsed; a cardiology workup detected arrhythmia. A cute little Yorkshire Terrier named Bobo is suffering from an embolism.

Moxie, a 12-year old, made-for-love Jack Russell terrier has been “acting strange,” while Caleze, an
11-year-old Pekingese is recovering from surgery, and a jaunty Australian Shepherd named Neptune
has a possible ear infection.

On one examination table, a vet examines a cat’s skin for cancer, while a nurse holds the animal
firmly but affectionately and whispers soothing words. The 9-year-old cat needs to have a hind leg
shaved, so a blanket goes over his head. “I’d rather deal with an aggressive dog than an aggressive cat,” says veteran veterinary nurse Rueben Moore. “They have those claws and those sharp teeth.”

The most common ailments include cancer, seizures, back problems, and rattlesnake bites. This year’s abundant rain has caused wild grass to get very tall, creating ideal hidden romping spots for peppy little pups. So ACC staffers are getting ready for a bumper crop of snake bites.

In the back of the treatment room, a door leads to operating rooms for orthopedics, soft tissue procedures, neurosurgery, and emergency surgery. The place is computerized and getting ready to go digital. “Every piece of equipment is state of the art, except for the industrial washer and dryer that run constantly,” says Beedle. “We give better care here than some people in Sonoma County get. In emergency situations, the animal gets stabilized within minutes of coming here. We don’t make
judgment calls based on the appearance of the animal. Or the owner.

Although it’s quiet in the treatment room, she adds, “There is a room just for animals that are stabile, and last week we had a chorus going on in there.” There are also rooms for chemotherapy, hydrotherapy, disease isolation, the obligatory cat ward, and a “gamma camera” for nuclear medicine studies.

In a corridor off the treatment room are several visiting rooms, tastefully decked out like a sitting rooms at a coastal bed and breakfast with warm furnishings, pictures on the walls, and serenity pools. People come here to either to visit their pets or say goodbye to them. “We do a lot of euthanasia in these rooms.” says Beedle. Since the clinic operates largely on a referral basis, and since ACC is a private facility, it’s often the last stop for animals. Treatment frequently includes hospice services facilitated by professionals.

“Our nurses are all incredibly attuned to the animals’ needs,” Beedle notes. “One of our nurses went out and got eggs to feed a patient. We had a dog here that would only eat Carl’s Jr. hamburgers, just the meat. And one dog hadn’t walked in months and didn’t like the cages, so we let her stay in a cubby hole in the treatment room. One day we noticed she was gone and we found her visiting the front desk.

“This is an incredibly supportive place,” Beedle says. “We’re all very passionate about animals and we know what it’s like to lose one. We have conversations with clients who want to do the absolute right thing for their animals. But some won’t let go and that’s unfortunate.”

Beedle embodies the weird balance between sensitivity and remarkable strength of spirit. That’s essential. It’s no job for weenies. Beedle lost her own pet during a visit to ACC. He came in “dancing” with an aggressive, but unsuspected cancer. He died during the examination.

“When I interview people for nursing jobs, I’m very clear that this is not a place of joy and happiness all the time. We don’t euthanize healthy pets. Now that I’m older and I have some experience, I feel it’s an honor to be there for an animal’s death. But it takes a piece of you every time.

“Usually, I’m more happy after work than sad,” she adds. “I sometimes miss the lights and sirens, but I wouldn’t trade my worst day here for my best day at any other job.”