Lucky escape for French bulldog Stitch - Julian Norton

So, as Stitch trotted towards the practice, stopping occasionally to sniff the finest canine smells in town, I couldn’t help but feel that this might be a false alarm. He was an Anglo-French Bulldog, embracing the best in cross-channel bonhomie, but the worst in upper airway health. This sort of dog struggles to breath at the best of times. This evening, however, Stitch’s membranes were a subtle shade of lilac, his eyes were bulging more than normal and there was excessive noise emanating from his throat. His worried owners described exactly what had happened.

“He swallowed a dog chew whole, then he started choking. We can see the end of it but just can’t grab it.” So, this time, there was no doubt that there was something stuck. The bluish tinge to his face confirmed he was perilously short of oxygen. When I was a student, a vet advised me to “always, always sedate a dog before trying to remove anything from its mouth.” These were wise words, but I fancied my chances of getting a quick look before I reached for the sedatives. There was a distinct dull, white thing at the back of Stitch’s mouth. It looked like very thick mucus, or possibly something wedged between his upper back teeth. Even though he tried to clamp his mouth shut and, when I could get a glimpse, the back of his tongue was pushed firmly upwards, I thought I might be able to grab it. I already had a long pair of artery forceps at the ready. These are like a long pair of scissors but with grippy ends instead of cutting blades. After a couple of attempts, I managed to grab the very end of the white thing and slowly pulled. Nobody could believe their eyes, as a six-inch long soggy piece of dog chew emerged. Stitch looked surprised and relieved. His colour returned to a more standard pink and the bulge of his eyes slowly settled to something more normal.

Everyone in the practice came to have a look at the offending object. There was a narrowed bit halfway down, where it must have been squeezed by the constriction of his throat. He’d been very lucky. I laid the offending object on the table next to Stitch for the obligatory photos- a bit like a fisherman with a prize-winning carp- which sparked his interest again. Now able to breath freely, Stitch had perked up. He licked his lips and, as I held the partially chewed up chew before consigning it to the bin, he lurched forward to try and grab it. “Don’t throw it in the bin,” he must have thought. “That is one tasty chew. It’s a shame to waste it!”