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Ramblings of A Country Vet |
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Ramblings of A Country Vet |
ANAL SACCULITIS: A NEW NAME FOR THIS OLD DISEASE
(With
my apologies in advance to the wonderful people of the great state of Alabama)
One of the few advantages my human doctor counterparts have over us veterinarians is a long and honorable tradition of using eponyms. That is, ever since the birth of medicine way back in the days of old Hippocrates, physicians, researchers, and anatomists have been in the habit of naming newly discovered body parts and diseases after the person (often themselves) who first discovered that particular body part or disease.
Up until about twenty years ago, the use of eponyms was standard procedure in veterinary medicine as well, but for some reason, this practice has fallen out of favor. I’m not sure why; one guess I have is perhaps my veterinary counterparts in the research institutions and teaching hospitals felt it was a more professional and precise to do. Political correctness, which is rampant on college campuses today, may also have something to do with it.
And it’s really too bad, because there have been some very colorful and interesting names that have been assigned to some very important body parts. For example, in the pancreas of all animals, including ourselves, there are groups of specialized cells called the islets of Langerhans. (These are the cells in the pancreas that secrete insulin, and they are named after their discoverer, the German anatomist Dr. Paul Langerhans.) In veterinary medicine, we refer to these important structures by the boring name of beta cells.
Human doctors can still use such melodious terms, such as the sphincter of Oddi or the ampulla of Vater. (These are the areas of the intestine where the pancreatic juices and the bile secretions are released into the digestive system; they are named after the Italian physiologist Ruggero Oddi and the Dutch anatomist and botanist Abraham Vater.) We veterinarians call these structures by the unimaginative names, greater and lesser papillae.
There are hundreds of others with nifty names like Schmidt's clefts, Meissner's plexus, Malpighi's layer, aqueduct of Falloppio, the fleece of Stilling, and even the sinister-sounding, crypts of Lieberkuhn.
The same goes for the names of diseases. One human disease that’s been in the news lately is something called Cruetzfeldt-Jakob disease; in veterinary medicine we refer to this same disease in cows by the impossible name bovine spongiform encephalopathy (or mad cow disease). In humans, there is the dreaded and very dangerous Addisonian crisis; we vets prefer to use the tongue-twisting term, acute hypoadrenocorticism. People get Chagas’ disease; animals get trypanosomiasis.
I can hear it out there now: “OK, Doc, what’s your point?” Sometimes I think my life as a veterinarian would be a lot easier if we could go back to the custom of referring to animal diseases by their eponyms. My wish to return to this bygone era arises from a phenomenon I’ve observed time and time again in my daily practice of saving little cats and dogs. It just seems like my clients always feel more comfortable referring to a disease by a common name. For example, Cushing’s disease sounds less dastardly then hyperadrenocorticism does. Likewise, Aujeszky's disease (a herpesvirus infection in pigs) sounds far less threatening than the terrifying term, pseudorabies.
I know it won’t ever go over with my ivory tower colleagues (and it won’t be the first time we’ve disagreed), but I’m going to try to change this custom of not using eponyms, at least with regards to one very familiar problem I see in dogs. As of the writing of this article, I’m gonna try to start a trend by changing the name of a disease called anal sacculitis into something that sounds a little less difficult to say and remember.
With anal sacculitis, for reasons not completely known, the scent glands, which are located in a dog’s rear end, fail to empty out normally. When this happens, it causes a great deal of discomfort to the dog. This discomfort, in turn, leads to the dog dragging its butt (called scooting) or chewing and self-mutilation of the hind legs, tailhead, or crotch. Clients will often blame fleas, worms, diet, constipation, etc., and will spend a lot of wasted time in trying to home-medicate their poor dog for the wrong thing. The only way to fix the problem is for a veterinarian to empty the anal glands manually.
Last week, I had a middle-aged couple come into my office whose dog was ripping its fur off both sides of her hind legs. The couple had just returned from a trip to Alabama. The wife, not finding any fleas, worms, or any other reason for the itching, was convinced in her heart of hearts that the poor beast had picked up a disease on their trip.
After thoroughly examining the dog and finding nothing obviously wrong with her, I mentioned the possibility of the dog having swollen anal glands (anal sacculitis), but the wife would have none of it; she was so convinced that the dog contracted some skin disease in Alabama that she refused to accept any other explanation. Not knowing what else to say, I looked at her, smiled, and jokingly said, “Ma’am, to the very best of my memory, I don’t recall learning anything in vet school about any sort of Alabama itching disease.”
After taking a couple of moments for what I had just said to sink in, the serious look on her face was replaced with an ear- to-ear grin.
Seeing both his wife and me laughing, her husband, who I knew from from past experience didn’t hear very well, asked me to repeat what I’d just said to his wife. Raising my voice up a couple of notches in volume, I hollered, “I was telling your wife that I never learned anything about any Alabama itching disease.”
Still not quite understanding what I said, the husband then turned to his wife and asked her to repeat it. She told him very loudly, “Doc said he’s never heard of any kind of Alabama itching disease.”
The husband then turned to me, and nodding like he now fully understood, said, “So, she’s got the Alabama itch disease. What are we gonna do about it, Doc?”
Without saying too much more, I put on an exam glove, emptied the dog’s anal glands, and declared her cured. The clients were happy, the dog was happy, and I, although I didn’t realize it at the time, I had a new and simple name for my most commonly seen disease. I wish, however, that they had visited Arkansas instead because. . . . maybe I’d better not go there.
Thanks again.
Copyright © 2005 by Richard Orzeck, DVM
The information in this article is based upon the author’s personal experience and his best interpretation of veterinary data at the time of writing. It is not intended to render veterinary advice or service. Specific needs and questions concerning your pet’s health should always be addressed by his or her best friend, your local veterinarian.