A dog bite to my face almost ended my veterinary career, yet my passion for animals prevailed

This First Person column is the experience of Karen Langtved, who lives in Lac Ste. Anne County, Alta. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

The Irish wolfhound presented to us with his head and front legs riddled with quills. I was a trained veterinary technologist in my first year of practice and it was my job to assist the vet as he removed the quills. It was hard to manoeuvre the dog without being speared.

Uncomfortable, he panted and swiped at his face with one paw and then the other. 

The vet filled a syringe with a tranquilizer called xylazine to help the dog sleep, relax his muscles and provide pain relief. 

Some of the side effects of the drug include spontaneous movements followed by freezing in position. Loud noises and quick actions could produce unpredictable results.

We eased the dog onto the cool metal table. I gripped his massive head from behind while the vet, positioned in front of the dog, yanked the quills out quickly with his forceps.

Gauze pads surrounded us like miniature stacks of pillows, ready to soak up the blood from his punctured skin.

WATCH | When a dog looks like this, it takes about 4 hours to carefully remove the quills: 

Dogs speared by 1,000-plus quills recovering

9 years ago

Duration 1:35

Dogs speared by 1,000-plus quills recovering

I turned my body toward his face to locate the migrating quills piercing his mouth and nose. The tiny barbs of the quills make them move inward and deeper into tissue, potentially penetrating organs and eventually producing infection.

This giant breed dog with a head larger than mine inadvertently jumped, opened his mouth and grabbed the left side of my face. 

It froze with its jaw still clenching me.

I also froze, and saw my fear reflected in the vet's eyes, forceps stiff in his gloved hands. 

"Don't move," he said under his breath. 

Placing the forceps quietly on the tabletop, he reached across to me — one hand on the dog's nose, the other on his bottom jaw — and slowly pried open his mouth. 

I felt the blood draining from my body, hoping I would not faint and have the dog rip my cheek open before sinking to the floor.

Afterwards, I remembered sitting in the clinic hallway waiting for the vet's wife to take me to the emergency room. Holding a large gauze pad to the bloodied rip in my skin, I stared blankly at the floor. During the two-hour wait before the doctor stitched me up, the vet's wife checked on me regularly to see how I was doing. 

I tried to say I was OK. But I wasn't OK. I felt like vomiting from the shock and magnitude of what had just happened.

I questioned my future

Instead of thinking about almost losing half my face, I felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. 

I wanted to know how the vet and the dog were doing. I felt guilty that I couldn't help with the workload left for the other clinic staff.

I had developed an interest in veterinary medicine in my teens. I volunteered at a local vet clinic and after high school, left the Okanagan in B.C. to attend the animal health technology program at Fairview College, which is now known as the Fairview Campus of Northwestern Polytechnic, in northern Alberta. 

At 20, I was proud when my practicum clinic located in northern B.C. morphed into my first job. I personally connected with its clientele, supporting the human-animal bond: a mutually beneficial relationship between people and animals. 

As I dealt with the physical pain and discomfort from the Irish wolfhound's bite, I questioned my future. 

This trauma became my focus. I felt alone.

With a few days off to heal, being away from my passion made me feel like a failure. I didn't call my parents about the experience as I thought they may suggest I pursue another career direction — not what I wanted to hear.

One week after the dog incident, a RCMP officer arrived at our clinic with his German shepherd partner. He offered to restrain the dog if I would remove the stitches from the dog's front leg.   

Typically, police dogs appear twice the size of what is considered "normal" for the breed. This dog fit the profile.

I was the only staff member in the clinic. I led the officer and his dog to an exam room and went to grab the stitch removal scissors. 

I took several deep breaths — reminding myself of my training and skills, discounting my trepidation — then re-entered the room and safely removed the stitches.

This procedure shaped how I was going to move forward. 

The Irish wolfhound, as a breed, was considered a gentle giant. The porcupine quills coupled with the drug's side effects ultimately caused the sequence of events that led to my trauma and guarded fear of large dogs.

I focused daily on lessening the anxiety.

Being in the presence of my own dogs reinforced my courage to take one day at a time while practising safety and self-care in the clinic.

That was 44 years ago, in 1980, and since then, I have been a veterinary professional in different capacities. 

I am currently a student in a veterinary social work program, and I am committed to helping others through trauma, grief and the issues veterinary professionals and their clients face in practice.

A couple of faint scars along the left side of my nose and cheek convey the story of the dog that unintentionally latched onto my face those many years ago, yet I have not allowed those scars to define who I am and how I navigate my veterinary career.

I believe the scars would have been deeper in my heart had I not remained fierce and determined. 

This First Person piece came from a CBC Edmonton writing workshop this fall with the Mayerthorpe Public Library. Read more about CBC's workshops at cbc.ca/tellingyourstory.