Welcome to the Jungle

A possum assaults a beloved chicken. A marauding Labrador skewers his paw. A grown man forces his affections on his neighbor’s cat. “Or so the neighbor claims,” says veterinary technician Lorna Dewey, rolling her eyes and hanging up the phone.

It’s been ringing nonstop this Saturday night at the Animal Emergency Centre in Studio City, where the calls for help range from the desperate to the frankly deluded.

“You can never predict what will come in next,” says Dr. Diana Kobashigawa, who supervises the Saturday graveyard shift. “But chances are it won’t be your basic ear infection.”

The center is one of eight animal hospitals in Los Angeles open dusk to dawn. On an average weeknight shift--6 p.m. to 8 a.m.--about a dozen patients are treated. Come the weekend, however, the pace, and weirdness, picks up.

This evening’s early arrivals seem ordinary enough: a constipated pointer, a tabby kitten with a fever, a dachshund mauled in a dog-park brawl. Then again, it’s early. At 1 a.m., a young man telephones to report that his hamster has swan-dived from the second floor. Rodents, alas, aren’t Kobashigawa’s department, and she defers to a specialist up the road.

It would take a different sort of specialist to deal with the next caller: A woman accuses her neighbor of taking sexual liberties with her cat. “Why don’t you bring the cat in for a checkup?” Dewey tells her patiently.

Out in the lobby, Perry Bernstein and Dierdre Moore anxiously await the diagnosis of their keeshond, Rocky, who may have slipped a disc. Finally, they can stand no more and dash to a nearby bar to quiet their nerves.

“Bloody Marys,” a somewhat mellowed Bernstein says when they return. “Another dog owner was in there drinking them, too.”

At 3 a.m., a hush falls over the clinic. Some Saturday nights, that’s just the calm before the storm. A few weeks ago at this time, a broken-winged owl arrived hooting and huffing, victim of a hit-and-run. This is also the hour that celebrities sneak down from the hills for their veterinary care. The staff is sworn not to give out names, but Geena Davis was spotted in the lobby, baseball cap pulled low. There was also the surreal “Star Trek” moment earlier this year when William Shatner and Patrick Stewart both dropped by, just two old space commanders sitting in the clinic with their faithful hounds.

Tonight, however, there’s only the forlorn-looking dachshund, licking his wounds. It’s 4 a.m.

“We’ll stitch this guy up,” Kobashigawa says. “There’s a bed in back for napping. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get some sleep.”