Last-Chance Pet Clinic : Medicine: High-tech veterinary hospital saves lives considered lost.

For such a tiny puppy, Yuki the Siberian husky had big medical problems.

With doleful eyes, she lay cradled in her owner’s arms, yelping softly and steadily as Dr. Keith Richter delivered the bad news.

There was a reason for the 3-month-old pup’s recent strange behavior, he explained--her loss of sight and balance, her lethargy and lack of appetite.

Yuki had a congenital liver problem--an errant blood vessel, or shunt, was allowing contaminated blood to re-enter the cardiovascular system without being properly cleansed by the liver.

The toxic blood was playing havoc with the young dog’s body. Without immediate exploratory surgery to locate the suspect blood vessel, her condition would only worsen and she would eventually die.

But there was good news as well. Yuki hadn’t been brought to just any animal clinic. A general practitioner vet had referred her owner to the Veterinary Specialty Hospital of San Diego in Rancho Santa Fe--considered a last-chance haven for seriously ailing pets.

Throughout the Southwestern United States, the hospital has gained a reputation for its diverse staff of specially trained veterinarians as well as an array of technological tools--including costly, specialized equipment not found in some human hospitals.

It’s a place that proves the science of saving animals has enjoyed all the modern and exacting breakthroughs as the human side of things, a hospital known for saving the lives of four-legged creatures.

“There are people who come to us because we’re the last hope for their animal,” said Deborah Cummings, the hospital’s senior administrator. “But there’s a pressure for us as a result because, for many people, their animal is their whole world.

“They want to know what’s wrong with their pet, where the cancer is located and what can be done about it. And, fortunately, we have the technology to give them the answers.”

Take the video endoscope, a machine that’s been used in the veterinary world for only a few years. The device includes a long black tube with a camera chip that can be inserted into an animal’s mouth and maneuvered through it’s body. On its fantastic voyage, the tiny camera chip relays crystal-clear images that are displayed on a high-tech video screen.

There’s a high-quality ultrasound machine to peer inside the hearts of ailing cats and a fluoroscopy unit that allows dyes used in radiology treatment to be seen as they pulsate through an animal’s organs.

There are scopes to explore other regions of an animal’s body, such as the kidney, liver, lungs and intestines; an EKG heart monitor; advanced X-ray equipment, and a specialized oxygen cage that’s custom-made for dogs and cats.

Along with Richter, an internal medicine specialist whose interests are animal cancer and stomach and intestinal diseases, the hospital also staffs a surgeon, a neurologist and even a vet who specializes in dermatology.

Although there are a handful of other specialists throughout the county, no other practice offers the array of cutting-edge technology and broad spectrum of expertise under one roof, veterinarians say.

“The place really is sort of a last refuge for sick animals,” said Brian Davis, a veterinarian and president-elect of the San Diego County Veterinarian’s Assn. “What they offer in Rancho Santa Fe is one of the better private facilities in the country. I mean, you just don’t see that kind of equipment and expertise outside the university setting.

“But the biggest asset they have is the energy that Keith Richter puts into his work. You could put the same equipment into another doctor’s hands, and it just wouldn’t be the same.”

Richter, 35, a soft-spoken Cornell University graduate from Long Island, N.Y., came to the hospital in 1987 from Boston as part of a team assembled by the Helen Woodward Animal Center, a nonprofit foundation that also spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on its state-of-the-art equipment.

Two years later, the center closed the hospital because of cost overruns. Richter decided to open his own practice there, leasing the facility and equipment from Helen Woodward Animal Center officials.

“You just walk into this place and your jaw drops, it’s so impressive--the possibilities of what can be achieved here,” said Richter, formerly an assistant professor at Tufts University’s School of Veterinary Medicine. “When I came here, there was no animal specialty hospital in San Diego. And I knew there was a need. So I decided to give it a shot.”

The hospital treats only the sickest dogs and cats referred by veterinarians. More than 50% of its cases are cancer patients. But there are also cases of diabetes, skin diseases and just about every other malady known to man, or beast.

And Richter has used his highly specialized equipment for less serious problems--removing swallowed objects such as socks and fish hooks, diamond rings and rubber balls, pantyhose, rocks, even women’s bras.

The wood and stainless steel hospital--with its mournful-looking dogs wearing heart monitors and sullen cats sporting IV units--has become Richter’s life. He routinely puts in 16 hours a day there, and works weekends as well.

For him, the histories of his injured patients are as fascinating as any human stories. Like the paralyzed Doberman who was kicked in the head by a horse. Or the dog who broke a leg when he jumped from a multistory parking garage and landed on a man waiting for a bus.

Richter still bears the scars of bites from terrified pets. He’s used to having to duck when drawing blood from ornery cats who urinate at him as a defense. Or, pets like Copper the poodle, who comes into the hospital like a lion, lashing out at anyone who goes near his owner, but who always leaves acting more like a lamb.

He’s seen his patients arrive from throughout California, Arizona and Nevada, including the sick pup from Las Vegas whose high-roller owner provided his pet with its own chartered jet.

And, Richter encourages the local pet owners who daily visit their sick animals--people who just sit by their pets’ cages, who prop the creatures’ heads on pillows, feed them by hand, and just stay nearby.

Worried owners have been known to receive telephone calls from Richter around midnight or later with much-sought news of their pets. And, after an 80-hour week, Richter has given up tickets to Chargers football games--one of his favorite pastimes--to perform an emergency procedure on an ailing animal.

For Richter, his three fellow veterinarians and the staff of 10 technicians, compassion for animals comes with the territory.

Pet owners are referred to as “parents” and “mothers and fathers” by staff members, some of whom have adopted strays left on the hospital’s doorstep. They make emergency trips to regular hospitals for much-needed drugs. And staffers have routinely brought in their own pet-food concoctions to hand-feed sick patients with lost appetites.

At the referral hospital, there’s a staff member present 24 hours a day to answer questions and keep an eye on the sickest patients. Richter himself is often there until the early morning hours.

“He’s always there,” Monica Severino, whose ailing Labrador was treated at the hospital, said of Richter. “You could call him anytime, and he was there with an answer. You had the sense that he knew it all.”

James Palenscar, an Oceanside veterinarian who routinely refers cases to the hospital, said the evolution of veterinary specialists such as Richter has prolonged the life expectations of many animals.

“Whenever I get to the point where I say ‘Aha, I’m really over my head here,’ it’s nice to have such a place to refer animals.”

Palenscar recalled the puppy with what was thought to be a minor ailment. Tests at the hospital proved the dog had an undersized liver, which required a five-hour operation to correct.

“Time after time, he nails down the diagnosis that’s nebulous,” he said of Richter. “He’s truly a whiz.”

Richter said veterinary medicine owes much to human doctoring, and he therefore keeps tabs on research and development by regularly attending think-tank discussions at local hospitals.

Back at his own facility, Richter’s pet Rottweiler, Chumley, is a walking example of the ever-advancing veterinary technology. Adopted from a local breeder, the dog suffered from bad knees, hips and a congenital narrowing of a heart valve.

“He was a congenital disaster,” Richter recalled.

At the hospital, surgeons rebuilt both of Chumley’s knees and also repaired his hips. They healed his heart by inserting a catheter and using a balloon to open the blocked valve--a procedure often used on humans.

Such veterinary medicine, however, does not come cheaply. And, Richter has seen numerous patients grapple with the tough choice of spending thousands of dollars--or putting the animal to sleep.

“People who come here are willing to go the extra mile--both financially and by making the long-term emotional commitment,” Richter said. “What I usually consider most important is the quality of life of the pet. Once it starts to suffer, it’s time to think about putting it to sleep. But, unfortunately, finances also play a role.”

Yuki’s owner, Dr. Stephen Bartz, a local cardiologist, had second thoughts about spending $2,000 on the pup’s risky liver surgery.

“It’s the hardest thing,” he said. “With, say, a 3-year-old child, the issue of cost is never considered. It’s ‘Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.’ But, despite our attachment to the puppy, cost was a consideration.

“We had this vague feeling to go ahead and see how much it would run. We felt we could afford $2,000. But had it been $5,000 or $10,000, well, then I just don’t know what we would have done.”

Still, Richter is amazed at the healing qualities demonstrated by many of his patients. Animals have a much higher tolerance for pain than humans, and do not suffer the same side effects to chemotherapy, such as nausea or hair loss.

Many cats, he said, are up and walking the day after major surgery. “If you have a cat with a broken leg, all you have to do is put the two ends in the same room and they’ll heal.”

But cats, like dogs, have only one life to live--not nine. Of the thousands of often critically ill animals seen at the hospital each year, some die.

Like Solomon, the 13-year-old golden retriever with a cancerous tumor on his spinal cord. Despite surgery to remove the tumor, the dog remained paralyzed as doctors waited for some sign of recovery.

During the weeks he spent at the hospital, Solomon’s owner, Karen Gillum, a school worker from Rancho San Diego, kept a vigil for her dying pet. She made the 90-mile round-trip to visit him every day, keeping him company and stroking his head.

When the day came to put Solomon to sleep, Gillum, her son and father were present as Richter injected him with an overdose of anesthesia. The doctor later helped them handle the cremation arrangements. And, as he usually does, he made a research donation to Cornell University in Solomon’s name.

“With all the sickness they see, I don’t know how they keep up their spirits and their caring for the animals,” she said. “The place is just like a people hospital. Probably better. It’s just like a family.”

And then there was Yuki.

The cuddly white-furred pup died during the complex surgery to locate the errant blood vessel in her liver.

“It’s tough,” her owner said of the loss. “But at least we know that we did all we could.”