David E. Larsen, DVM

Dixie carefully closed the exam room door. She had just finished getting the next patient ready for my exam.

“This guy just arrived from California,” Dixie whispered. “The cat is old, and he is pretty proud of that fact. His name is Bob, and the cat’s name is Ruby.”

I entered the exam room and patted the old cat’s head. Then I extended my hand to Bob. Bob was a big man. Not fat, just a large older gentleman. His six-foot-four-inch frame towered over me, and his hand engulfed my hand. But I still managed a firm handshake.

“What are we doing for Ruby today, Bob?” I asked.

“You guys are right on the ball,” Bob said. “You had the names down without even looking at the record.”

“Well, we try hard, but we also cheat a little,” I said. “Dixie filled me in on the other side of the door.”

“Honest, too,” Bob said. “I like that. We just moved into town, and Ruby is probably the oldest cat you have seen. I just wanted her checked out. The move was long, and there was a lot of stress for her.”

“Moves are pretty stressful for cats,” I said. “Even short moves are often difficult for them. Does Ruby live inside?”

“Yes, she lives inside exclusively anymore,” Bob said. “In her younger days, she spent a lot of time outside. She is seventeen years old now. We try to take special care of her. Doc, you probably haven’t seen a cat this old.”

“We see a lot of cats in Sweet Home,” I said. “I rarely see a male cat that makes it to fifteen. Fourteen seems to be the magic year for them. But we see many sixteen-year-old female cats and a few who make it to seventeen. The oldest cat I have seen was twenty-three. She belonged to an old lady in the nineties. She told me she had to crawl under the bed to retrieve her cat for the appointment. That most of been quiet of a sight.”

“Well, seventeen is pretty old for a cat,” Bob said.

“Oh, yes, she is in a small group with dwindling numbers,” I said. “Do you just want an exam for Ruby, or do you want me to do blood work and a urinalysis?”

“Down south, we usually take her in for an exam every three months or so,” Bob said. “They never asked about a lot of lab work.”

“A lot of old cats die from kidney failure,” I said. “We should at least be doing a urine sample. And after a trip like she has just been through, it might be wise to run a blood panel, just so we can make sure everything is working like it should.”

“You will probably need to keep her for a couple of hours to finish that,” Bob said. “And you are  right, and we don’t want anything to happen to her that we can prevent.”

So, with that decided, we kept Ruby for a couple of hours, collected blood and urine samples, and completed a comprehensive exam. She passed everything with flying colors.

“Do you think she is really seventeen?” Dixie asked.

“She looks pretty good for that age,” I said. “Did Bob bring any records from his previous veterinarian?” I asked.

“He said that she was never sick, so they didn’t bother with records,” Dixie said.

Bob was pleased with the results and made an appointment for a recheck in three months.

***

Three months later, Bob and Ruby were back in the clinic. Bob had quite a discussion at the front desk. Bob was sure our records were wrong, Ruby was nineteen, not seventeen as our file indicated.

“Doc, this cat just amazes me. She gets healthier as time goes on,” Bob said. “I am thinking that she will live to be thirty.”

As Bob loaded Ruby into his car, Dixie smiled at me.

“She probably will live to be thirty,” Dixie said. “If she continues to age two years every three months, thirty if not too far off.”

***

That became the routine; Bob and Ruby would be in the clinic every three months. Every visit, Ruby was two years older. 

Bob had some bad news on the fourth visit, just before Christmas.

“We will be moving in a couple of weeks,” Bob said. “All this rain is too much for us to endure. This move is going to be a short one, just over the mountains. We have bought a new house in Redmond.”

“I sorry to see you go, Bob,” I said. “But, you will have a dryer climate over there, maybe a little colder in the winter, but not near as much rain. Do you want to take a copy of Ruby’s records?”

“She has been as healthy as a horse on every visit,” Bob said. “There is no need for records. She will have her twenty-fourth birthday this coming spring. Probably the oldest cat most vets have ever seen.”

“I am sure she probably is, Bob,” I said,

We never had any news from Bob, but if it was up to him, I am sure that Ruby lived to be thirty.

***

It was a couple of years later when Jack came in with his old cat. He set the carrier on the floor, carefully pulled an ancient Siamese cat from the carrier, and placed her on the blanket he had spread on the table.

Jack was a large animal client from Brownsville. I had worked on his cows almost from the day we started practice.

“Doc, I have never asked you for a miracle, but that is what I am after today,” Jack said, tears welling up in his eyes. “This old cat is my daughter’s, and we want to get one more Christmas with her. This cat is twenty-six years old. So, I know I might be asking a lot, but our daughter is coming home for Christmas, and I am looking forward to one more picture of her and this old girl.”

“Jack, are you sure of the age?” I asked. “I mean, it is easy to lose track of the years with a cat.”

Jack struggled to get his wallet out of his hip pocket. Then he thumbed through old papers and receipts before finally pulling a tattered and crumpled old photo from the mess. 

“Here is the proof, Doc,” Jack said. “Sue was almost a year old in this photo. It was her first Christmas. And the kitten she is holding is this old girl right here. And Doc, Sue will be twenty-six next month.”

“Well, I would say I had better get to work if we are going to buy some time for this old gal,” I said. And what is this old gals name?”

“Well, we call her Cleo,” Jack said. “Actually, she was named before we got her and that name was Cleopatra.”

“Yes, I think Cleo is a better name,” I said. “Jack, Cleo is a little thin and might be dehydrated. Why don’t we plan to keep her overnight, do some lab work, and see if we can make her feel a little better for Sue’s arrival? Jack, Cleo is ancient. We can maybe buy her time, but we will not make her a young cat. You understand that, I hope.”

“Do what you can, Doc,” Jack said. “Like I said when I came through the door, we are after a miracle. So yes, we understand Cleo’s situation.”

We kept Cleo for the night. After collecting blood and urine samples, we started her on IV fluids.

My heart sank when I looked at the lab results. I had expected Cleo to be in kidney failure, but her blood values showed her failure was advanced. Cats seem to adjust to kidney failure and hold out pretty well right to the end. We were going to have to be lucky to be able to get her up for Sue’s visit.

I gave Jack a call with the news.

“Jack, I had expected Cleo to be in kidney failure, but the lab work shows a pretty advanced status,” I said. “If it was you or I, we would be on dialysis. Unfortunately, for Cleo, that is not an option. What we can do is limited. We will do some peritoneal dialysis this evening. That is where we fill her abdomen with fluid, allow it to stay to absorb some of her toxins, and then draw it off. That and her IV fluids and a special diet will get her through a few days. If you want to extend that time, we could use some diuresis, where we give her daily fluid to run through her kidneys to get as much use out of them as possible. But we are talking about weeks, not months.”

“Sue arrives the day after tomorrow,” Jack said. “If I followed all that, we can buy her enough time for Sue to say goodbye. Then I don’t think we will want to put Cleo through a bunch of misery to buy a couple of empty weeks.”

“We will get started on her treatment,” I said. “Plan to pick her up tomorrow. I think you can expect a couple of days, but three days without additional treatment will be the end of it. And Jack, just a word of advice: the one mistake people make is to wait too long before deciding to put a pet to sleep. It is better to be a day too early than a day too late.”

“Okay, Doc, we will pick Cleo up in the late morning,” Jack said. “That should give Sue a few good hours with her. That will be good. We will give you a call when we are ready.”

Cleo felt significantly better after treatment and a day of IV fluids. Jack was pleased with her progress when he picked her up.

It was two days when he called and asked to speak with me.

“Doc, I can’t thank you enough,” Jack said. “Sue and Cleo had a wonderful day yesterday. Sue was sad, of course, when I told her of Cleo’s prognosis, but they loved the time with each other. Cleo slept at the foot of Sue’s bed, just like in the old days. It was sad, but Cleo died during the night. That spared Sue the struggle to make that final trip to your office. Thanks again, Doc.”

“I’m glad we could them that time,” I said.

I was lucky that Jack choked up a little and allowed that to end the conversation. I was also a little choked up as I hung up the phone.

“Cleo died?” Sandy asked.

“Cleo died,” I replied. “At home and happy. Things worked out the best they could for everyone.

Photo Credit: Avelino Calvar Martinez on Pixabay.

D. E, Larsen, DVM

When I was in a solo practice, in the small town of Sweet Home, Oregon, free time was very precious. It helped a little that Sandy worked with me in the practice. Of course, there are pluses and minuses to such an arrangement, but for the most part, we make it work.

Once in a while we were able to plan short trips. But most of the time, they just happened on the spur of the moment. The kids were at the Grandparents, the clinic was empty and the appointment book was open for the afternoon.

“Let’s run over to the coast for a late lunch,” Sandy sail.

“Sounds like a great idea if we can get out of town before the phone rings,” I replied.

We hung a sign on the door and rushed home to freshen up a bit. Then we pointed the car west and started out. It would take us a little of an hour and a half to get to our favorite restaurant in the little village of Depoe Bay. It would be a little after two in the afternoon when we arrived. Past the lunch hour and in the middle of the week, there was no real need to call for reservations. I pressed the gas pedal a little harder than I should have.

I started to relax when we topped the last hill coming into Newport and get a clear ocean view. We turned north on the Coast Highway and before we knew it, we were pulling into the parking lot of our restaurant. We stopped for a moment before entering and enjoyed the waves crashing over the rocks that jutted out into the ocean.

We were seated at the windows and the place was nearly empty of other diners. It was one of rare moments on the Oregon Coast where the weather was clear, the ocean was rough enough to be entertaining and the crowds of people were gone.

We ordered lunch and an shrimp cocktail for starters. Lunch was going to expensive, but with stolen time and a perfect setting, a few dollars were easy to spend.

Welk were just finishing our soup, Sandy’s clam chowder and my smoked salmon chowder, when I watched a couple of middle aged ladies come through the door. They were carrying a small pet carrier.

There was quite a discussion going on with the Maitre d’. I was sure it was over the pet carrier. Under Oregon Public Health Law, animals are not allowed in restaurants, with the exception of trained service animals covered by the ADA.

This was about the time when people were starting to use the title of emotional support animals for all sorts of animals. Emotional support animals are not covered by the ADA, and in Oregon, they are not allowed in restaurants.

The rules are black and white and written to protect the bonafide service animal owners rather than the establishments trying to follow the rules. In any case, the ended up seating the two ladies and their pet at the table behind Sandy.

Sandy had her back to this whole affair, and I did not bring it to her attention. The lady with the carrier was seated facing me and front of the carrier was placed on the chair beside her.

I looked close, ant there was a pair of eyes in the carrier that seemed fixed on me. It was a damn snake. 

Our stolen moment was close to crashing. I made the quick decision to not say a word. The risk to use was small and Sandy was enjoying the day. And lord knows, she deserved the moment.

I know there are people who keep reptiles as pets. But I am not a veterinarian who feels it is wise to do so. Reptiles are intermittent shedders of Salmonella bacteria. That means all reptiles. They cannot be reliably tested because one day they will test negative, and a week later they will be positive. So under all circumstances, they are a dangerous pet. That includes the turtles many kids play with and the snakes that nearly naked ladies wrap around their necks (not these ladies).

I swallowed hard, and watched Sandy enjoying her panfried oysters. It was one of her favorite meals, but there were a limited number of restaurants that she trusted to order them. I slowly ate my grilled salmon and my eyes shifted between Sandy’s eyes and that pair of eyes in the box over her right shoulder. Those eyes were always fixed on me.

We finished our lunch and watched the ocean for a short time before paying the bill and heading out for the rest of the afternoon on the coast. Sandy had no idea that she ate lunch in the company of a large snake.

We arrived back in Sweet Home just before dark. The message machine was empty, the kids were away, now to top the day off with a perfect evening. A rare event, indeed.

The next day, I called the manager of the restaurant and explained the situation and the law. He apologized and said he would get back to me after checking out the situation. 

When he called back, he said the staff remembered the ladies and stated how difficult they were. Nobody knew there was a snake in the carrier, but the ladies expressed it was their emotional support animal and demanded accommodation. He did call his county health department and they concurred with my opinion.

“This leaves us in a very difficult situation and with little of no support from the health department,” the manager said.

When I called the county health department, they concurred with me but offered little help for the establishment.

“The ADA limits what an establishment can ask to confirm that the animal in question is a bonafide service animal,” the inspector said. “Our hands are tied.”

“Well, you might want to develop a set of guidelines for the restaurants,” I said. “And you might want to start enforcing the law.”

“Enforcement is difficult beyond just fining the establishment,” the inspector said.

“Then, if you’re not going to enforce the law, you should change it,” I said. “But before you do that, you might want to know why the law was put in place in the first place.”

Sandy was standing at the office door when I hung up the phone.

“What was that all about?” She asked.

“I was just talking with the Lincoln County Health department about the snake we ate lunch with yesterday,” I said.

“What snake?” Sandy asked.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you the whole story!” I replied.

Photo Credits: Sandy – personal photo; Snake – Engin Akyurt on Pexels.

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I am unsure of the year, but I think it was 1954. I do remember an early spring and a bumper crop of kittens in the barn. We were living at Broadbent, and we milked a small herd of dairy cows. 

One of my jobs was taking care of the barn cats. They got pretty much all the milk they could drink, and a few cups of dry food. The rest of their ration came from the mice in the haymow.

My self imposed responsibility was to keep track of all the new kittens in the barn. Some of the mother cats were pretty good at hiding their litters and it would take considerable detective work to find all of them.

That year we had twenty-seven kittens born to six mother cats. The largest litter was eight kittens, and the smallest litter (and the last one found) was three. With six mother cats and just about an equal number of young tom cats, how were we going the handle twenty-seven more cats in the barn.

When I found the last litter of three kittens, they were a little older than the rest and the mother cat had kept them well hidden. The little black and white kitten was wild and hissed and scratched when I tried to touch him.

He quickly became my favorite, and with four white feet, I named him socks. After playing with him at every milking, he tamed down quickly. But it was obvious who ruled the litter.

The looming population boom continued to worry me. Finally, I had to discuss things with Dad.

“What are we going to do with all these kittens?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dad said. “Nature takes of things most of the time.”

That didn’t mean much to me at the time. What did nature have to do with a bunch of kittens.

Everything went along fine for another week. Socks even seemed to look forward to my visit to their little nest that I would pass when I carried the grain rations to the cows who were being milked. I would stop and pet the kittens when I had a free minute.

Then one afternoon, the nest was empty. The mother cat never came to the milk bowl for the evening meal. I searched the barn and the haymow everywhere. The litter was just gone.

At the dinner table that evening, Mom could see that I was upset.

“What is the matter, David?” Mom asked.

“That last litter that I found is gone, the one with that black and white kitten that I named Socks,” I replied. “I’ve looked everywhere. I can’t find them and the mother cat didn’t come to the milk bowl tonight.”

“It is probably okay,” Mom said. “Mother cats often take their kittens out to teach them to hunt. She will be back in a couple of weeks.”

That seemed reasonable, but I continued to search the deep recesses ins the barn every evening. When Saturday came, I climbed the hill behind the barn, hoping find the litter. But just as Dad had said, it was a waste of time.

And then the nature thing happened! When I got to the barn after school on Monday. I had some time to look for hiding spots again. When I came across the large litter of eight kittens, four of them were dead. The others were nearly moving. They looked like they would be dead by morning. The mother can was distressed. I removed the dead kittens and showed them to Dad.

“Throw them out in the manure pile,” Dad said. “For them to die that quickly, it is probably Distemper. We will be lucky if any of them live.”

Over the next couple of days, more kittens found the grave in the manure pile. By Thursday evening, every single kitten in the barn was dead.

“That’s what I was talking about,” Dad said. “When there are too many kittens, the ole distemper virus comes along, and not too many survive.”

“None survived,” I said. “Not a single one.”

“Well, maybe your favorite kitten, who is out hunting, maybe they got lucky,” Dad said. “Maybe his mother knew the barn was not safe with so many kittens.”

That was an interesting thought, did she take the kittens out teach them to hunt, or did she know that the epidemic was coming?

It was almost a full two weeks later when I noticed Socks’ mother at the milk bowl following the evening milking. I ran down to their old nesting area, and sure enough, there were three healthy kittens waiting for attention.

Those three kittens were the sole survivors of the distemper epidemic. Was it just the luck of timing the hunt or did the mother know it was coming?

Socks grew into a large tomcat. It didn’t take long and he was the dominant cat in the barn. All the other cats would move out of his way when he approached the milk bowl or food dish.

In the spring of 1958, we moved back to Catching Creek. To a larger farm, an older barn and bigger herd of dairy cows. The cats all moved with us, and everyone stuck around. The familiar milk bowl was a strong drawing card.

This old barn had a lot of old chopped hay in the haymow. Rather the emptying it out, we just stacked the baled hay on this thin layer of chopped hay. The chopped hay was alive with mice.

On lazy afternoons, I would take Socks to the haymow and use a pitchfork to scatter the chopped hay. Mice would run in very direction. Socks would catch three of four at a time. One under each paw and one in his mouth.

One one of those afternoons, both me and socks laid in the hay after a mouse catching session. Without thinking about the consequences, I wiggled finger under the  chopped. Socks, who was almost asleep, immediately pounced on the finger. 

I learned what the mouse have felt like as his claws secured my finger. It took a moment to calm Socks and extract my bruised and scratched finger from his grip. We didn’t do that again.

Barn cats didn’t have the luxury of veterinary care in those days. And tom cats were not known to be long lived. Socks maintained is position at the top of higher archery for quite a few years. You could tell that he was getting older because he stated to have more battle wounds. The younger tomcats were starting to replace the old man.

It was the spring of 1967. I was in the Army in South Korea at the time when I got the letter from Mom that Socks had died. I was thirteen, a very good lifespan for a tomcat in the 1960s. When I started practicing in 1975, I never saw a male cat over fifteen, and those older males were all neutered.

I never heard of Socks’ final resting place, but my guess is it was the manure pile. He finally joined all those other kittens from 1954.

Photo Credit: apertur 2.8 on Pexels