My Take Tuesday: The Bloody Mass

The appointment was scheduled simply enough: check bloody mass.

Those three words are usually enough to make a veterinarian straighten their spine a little and mentally review a differential list that ranges from “well, that’s interesting” to “this is going to be a long afternoon.”

The patient was an aggressive, large, hairy dog with jet-black hair. The kind of coat that absorbs light and optimism equally. From a safe distance, I could already tell this was not going to be a hands-on, kumbaya sort of exam.

On palpation—between defensive snaps and several sincere attempts on my life—I could feel it.

A rectangular, well-demarcated mass along the ventral aspect of the abdomen.

The dog tried to bite me roughly a dozen times, each attempt delivered with conviction. We elected to give a mild sedative and waited for it to kick in.

Once the sedation softened the patient’s enthusiasm for violence, I donned a headlamp. Any time a veterinarian puts on a headlamp indoors, you know something important—or deeply unpleasant—is about to happen.

I parted the dense black hair and inspected the mass.

It was red.

Glossy.

Perfectly rectangular.

Turns out, it was not a tumor.

It was not a hematoma.

It was not an abscess, cyst, or aggressive malignancy.

It was a red Jolly Rancher.

Apparently, at some point, this dog had laid down on a piece of hard candy with enough enthusiasm and body heat to weld it to his abdomen. Add a little moisture and friction, and voilà—it looked pathological.

The owners were relieved.

I was relieved.

The dog remained mildly offended.

We removed the candy, cleaned the area, and everyone left happier than they arrived—except perhaps the sticky Jolly Rancher, which spent its final moments in the service of diagnostic confusion.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM