D. E. Larsen, DVM

Sandy was standing at the front counter when I returned from a farm call. I was hoping to get lunch before the afternoon appointments started in the clinic. She looked like she had something to say. I would guess that my lunch idea was going to be shoved onto the back burner.

“Charlie called,” Sandy said as soon as I stepped through the door. “He has his new Angus bull caught and would like you to put a ring in his nose. I told him the only open time you had today was over lunch. He said, ‘That was alright, he really needed lunch, and you looked like you could afford to miss a meal or two.’”

“I don’t know if I have a ring,” I said. 

“Ruth already looked,” Sandy said. “You have a large ring, and she laid everything out before she went to lunch.”

I gathered everything and verified that I had all the necessary items. I headed out to Charlie’s place on Crawfordsville Drive.

Charlie was waiting at the corral when I pulled into his barnyard. He had the bull in the crowding alley. This was a big bull. It looked like it weighed close to a ton.

“Charlie, I don’t think this guy is going to fit into your chute,” I said as I shook his hand.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Charlie said. “What do you think we should do?”

“Even if we get him into the chute, his neck is too big, we won’t be able to close the head gate,” I said. “If we can get a halter on him, we can do this right there in the alley.”

“He is pretty gentle,” Charlie said. “I think he was probably a show animal in his younger days. Just a moment, I have a big rope halter in the barn. I’ll grab the ring I bought. Maybe you can show how the thing works. I can’t quite figure it out.”

“That will help us put a halter on him,” I said. “But you need to remember, the bull that is considered gentle is the most dangerous.”

“Why do you say that?” Charlie asked.

“They are the ones that you don’t expect to be a problem,” I said. “You let your guard down. You need to respect all bulls as if they can kill you. Sort of like all guns are handled as if they are loaded.”

We slipped the halter on the bull with no problem. Then I pulled his nose up high and tied the halter short, on the strongest post along the alley.

“How do you get this ring in the nose?” Charlie asked.

“You removed this little screw,” I said as I removed the screw and opened the ring on its hinge. “You see, this sharp end is made to just shove through the nasal septum, but I use a surgical trocar to make it easier. That and some lidocaine for local anesthesia.”

“I was wondering if it was going to hurt,” Charlie said.

“The lidocaine stings a bit, but if we did this ring without the anesthesia, we would find out how strong that was,” I said as I drew up a syringe full of lidocaine.

“That looks like a bunch,” Charlie said.

“I don’t want to end up with a broken arm,” I said.

The bull complained a bit when I injected the lidocaine into his nasal septum. But he quieted quickly as it took effect.

“We will give it a minute or two, just to make sure things are good and numb,” I said.

“I hear stories of bulls tearing these rings out,” Charlie said. “Does that really happen?”

“I’ve heard those stories,” I said. “But I have never seen it happen. I grew up around Jersey bulls. They are reputed to be some of the meanest of our bulls. I’m not sure if that’s true or if it was said to make sure the kids get close to them. I did see a couple of bulls become belligerent when I was young. But they could still be handled with that ring in their nose.”

I stuck the bull’s nasal septum with the point of the trocar, and there was no response. With a quick shove, I pushed the sleeved trocar through the septum. Then I pulled the trocar out, leaving the sleeve in place.

At that point, it was a simple chore to fit the open nose ring into the end of the trocar sleeve and retract the sleeve, leaving the nose ring in the nose. I closed the ring and replaced the screw holding it closed.

“There you go,” I said as I untied the halter and pulled it off.

“What about that bleeding?” Charlie asked.

“It will stop shortly,” I said. “All bleeding stops, eventually. Besides, it’s a long way from his heart.”

Charlie smiled, not quite sure whether I was trying to be funny or not. We backed the bull out of the alley so he wouldn’t have to try to fit through the chute. He licked the blood and snorted a bit as he shook his head, not quite sure of his new jewelry.

Photo Credit: Mark Stebnicki on Pexels

Epilogue:

Today I noticed two young ladies, both in their early twenties, with nose rings. It is beyond me to understand why they would do such a thing to themselves.

My guess is they feel it makes them feel more attractive. But to whom, or to what?

When I was a young man, if a guy was under the spell of a young lady, he was often said to be led around by a ring in his nose. That was a metaphor, equating a situation to a bull. There were other terms, some not so nice. Pussy whipped for one.

My grandfather, who grew up in a time when there was no treatment for a dog with Salmon Poisoning, would say that “he was salmoned on her.” The thought of a girl with a ring in her nose did not exist.

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Growing up on a dairy farm, I have always worked. At least from age four, when we moved onto the farm at Broadbent. I learned early that the cows and other animals at the barn were taken care of before we went to dinner.

Those were every day events. Life revolved around the barn and the kitchen. And for the most part, animals came first. Vacations were mostly non-existent, and a family trip for a pot luck lunch at the beach happened only on rare occasions.

Women always complained that if there was extra money it went into the barn before the house. But extra money didn’t happen often. We were probably poor most of my early years, but we didn’t know it. There were always others who were worse off. I learned early that the nickels and dimes I carried in my pocket from picking up bottles on the way to town, were easily shared with others for penny candy from the store as we waited for the school bus.

We peeled chitum for money to spend at the fair. I was twelve when I started getting paid for work hauling hay and filling silo. If I could put fifty dollars in the bank for a summers work, I considered myself rich beyond my dreams.

When I was seventeen, I started working at the cheese factory in Myrtle Point. I made the best wage in town available for someone my age. But the week was a forty-eight hour week with plenty of overtime. My social life suffered but I could buy a car and put money in the bank for college.

I continued to work at the cheese factory, part time while school was in session and full time in the summers. I could pay for a year of college with no problem.

When I dropped out of school to work full time in the spring of 1965, it only took a couple of weeks for the Selective Service People to send me my greetings letter.

The Army happened. It was a good thing for me. I enlisted to try to maintain some control over my fate. My test scores were high and I qualified for the Army Security Agency.

I made the decision when I entered the Army that I might not be the biggest, the smartest, or the fastest of everyone, but nobody was going to work harder than me. That philosophy served me well.

There was basic training at Fort Ord. Then nearly a year a Fort Devens Massachusetts. When I finished schooling, I was sent to South Korea for a year. Far better than Vietnam.

The work load in Korea was rigorous. I often worked twelve hour days and a five day week was unheard of. There was at least one episode of a forty-eight hour shift.

When I left Korea, I was assigned to West Germany. I had been in the Army for a little over two years. The Army gave a person thirty days leave for every year of service. I had used two weeks after basic training. My mistake was taking the full forty=five days between Korea and Germany.

My thought was, forty-five days with nothing but free time. As it turned out, the folks had sold most of their cows, so there wasn’t much work to do around the place. I spent a couple of days helping Dad finish building a garage. Then I slipped into a pattern of sleeping till noon, eating Mom’s cooking, and then going to town to drink beer and trying to stay out of trouble. 

It was sort of like fattening a steer for market. I didn’t notice much, until it was time to go back to the Army.

When I was scheduled to return to duty, I had to wear my uniform. In those years, servicemen and women could fly standby for half price. But you had to wear your uniform.

When I had left Korea, I was probably in the best shape of my life. Well muscled and weighing 175 pounds. I hadn’t noticed any change in myself during my time at home, but then I had to put on my uniform.

The first problem was sucking my gut in enough so I could button the top button of my pants. Then it was impossible to button the top button of my shirt. I could hide that with my tie. Then I put on my jacket. Again, I struggled to get it buttoned.

I couldn’t breathe. The jacket stretched across my belly and looked like it was going to pop each button. I undid the button and I was comfortable, but how as I going to travel to Europe looking like a slob without getting called to the carpet by some second lieutenant along the way.

Of course, I had no choice. I released the top button on my pants and decided to go in a relaxed mode. 

As it turned out, I had no problem. I was most worried in the Chicago airport where I had to change planes and had quite a walk through the airport. Once I got to Fort Dix, I was able to change into my fatigues. Then were too small also, but it was not as obvious as my dress greens.

I was lucky when I got Germany. Having come from Korea, I was able to change out my entire uniform at no cost. I also found a scale. I weighed 195 pounds. As things go, my 175 frame was lost forever.

Those forty-days were the only time in my life that I had more than ten day without any work to do. The twenty extra pounds are still with me. The timing of my arrival in Germany proved very advantageous, but that is another story. But the weight gain was a great mistake.

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Our first ceramic dog for the clinic was given to us by a client as a housewarming gift when we moved into our new clinic.

It was placed on the floor at the corner of the reception counter with the thought of it being a greeter for our canine patients.

It was a very well-done ceramic and looked almost real. Life-sized and with eyes that seemed to look directly at any approaching.

I was anxious to see the reaction of our patients. I didn’t have to wait long. The first patient through the door was Duke, with Taylor leaning back on the other end of the leash.

Duke was a large Rottweiler who easily tipped the scales at a hundred and twenty pounds. He was well disciplined and well behaved when George was around. But when he was with Taylor, he acted like he was the one giving the commands.

George was a local policeman. He wasn’t a large man, under 6 feet, but well built. Duke followed him in a precise heel position. There was never tension on the leash. With George in the room, Duke was the perfect patient.

Taylor was usually the one to bring Duke to the clinic. Taylor was petite; if her clothes were wet, she might weigh a hundred and ten pounds. She had as much control over Duke as he was willing to allow. And she was scared to death of the dog.

Duke spotted the statue pug the moment he was through the door. With the hair on the back of his neck raised, he made a beeline for the statue dog. In the process, he jerked Taylor the rest of the way through the almost-open door, almost pulling her off her feet and jamming one shoulder against the half-open door.

Duke stopped in front of the statue and, showing his teeth, let out a deep growl. When the statue didn’t respond and just continued to gaze into Duke’s eyes, Duke lunged and bit it on the side of its face.

Duke realized that he had been had. He stepped back and sniffed the statue, then, to show his disgust, he turned, hoisted his leg, and proceeded to anoint the statue with a long stream of strong-smelling urine.

Taylor stood at the reception counter, unable to intervene in Duke’s excursion. She was holding on to her shoulder and profusely apologizing for the attack and the urine. Duke returned to her side and sat down, satisfied that he had neutralized any threat from the statue.

Sam was quick to assure Taylor that there was nothing to apologize for. 

“This is nothing, we are used to some real messes to clean up,” Sam said as she headed to the back for a wet towel.

“Yes, he left his mark, and now the other dogs will be a little confused when they encounter our statue,” I said.

Duke had left a deep scratch over the statue’s right ear, and the urine had soaked into the exposed unpainted ceramic. Any dog sniffing this statue will be wondering how tough this thing really is.

It was interesting to watch the response of the various patients to our little pug statue. A few, maybe ten or fifteen percent, had a similar reaction to that which Duke had. Our statue became quite scarred as time went on.

The majority had no response at all. They obviously saw the statue but didn’t recognize it as a dog. 

A final ten or fifteen percent would approach the statue with caution, take a sniff or two, just to satisfy their curiosity, and move on. Duke’s initial anointing lingered for many years.

At one point, there was an aggressive scuffle, and our little pug suffered a fracture of one of his front legs. It was easily repaired with the magic of superglue. Maybe one day, real bones will be repaired that way.

With the years of scratches and now the leg injury, we decided to purchase a helper for our little pug. We purchased a small ceramic cocker spaniel. Not as a replacement, just as an assistant.

The cocker never seemed to attract as much attention as the pug. Maybe most of the patients were aware of our trickery, but I think the difference was in the eyes. The new statue just didn’t have the gaze like the little pug.

When we retired, the statues were placed in new homes with incredible ease. 

Photo by Nikita Telenkov on Pexels.