"Dog: Smelled some organic compounds on his breath. Picked up traces of blood in his stool. It's either cancer or the worst case of Happy-Tail Syndrome I've ever seen. Doctor B: I don't buy it. I want a full workup. Blood, imaging. Dog: While you do that, I'll do a full workup on a hair ball the size of a colostomy bag. Tomorrow, I'll still be right and there's a good chance your patient will be dead."
"Dog: My nose is a hundred thousand times more sensitive than any human's. And right now I'm smelling a rat. Why don't you tell me what's going on, Valdez? Doctor A: Administration has been giving us grief. About you. Dog: What is it this time? Doctor A: Last week, you lifted your leg on the attending. Dog: He wouldn't let me near the patient. That's my territory."
Dogs with pessimistic personalities are better than more optimistic dogs at detecting cancer. In a hospital break room, a diagnostic dog tells two doctors that Mr. Henderson likely has cancer based on scent detection of organic compounds and traces of blood. One doctor insists on formal testing and imaging while the dog urges immediate surgical intervention and warns delay could be fatal. The dog emphasizes that its nose is far more sensitive than human senses and mixes blunt medical certainty with canine humor. Hospital administration raises concerns about the dog's behavior, including inappropriate interactions with staff and guests.
Read at The New Yorker
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