David E. Larsen, DVM

Pumpkin was one of my first patients when I started practice in Sweet Home. She was probably over ten years old when I she made her first trip to the clinic.

For a calico, she was pretty well behaved and seemed to actually enjoy her trips to see us. Gladys seemed to have something to me check every three or four months, so Pumpkin soon became one of our favorite patients. We were always checking something and the something was always not much to worry about. Pumpkins trips were always fun and she learned that a treat was waiting at the end of the visit.

Pumpkin was settled onto the plush pad that Gladys had carefully placed there for her. We wouldn’t want Pumpkin to have to set on a cold stainless steel exam table.

Pumpkin pushed up against my hand as I stroked her head.

“What are we looking at today? I asked.”

“I think that Pumpkin got her back foot tangled up in my yarn basket last night,” Gladys said. “I think things are okay, but I just wanted to make sure. You know the weekend is coming, and I don’t like to call you on weekends.”

It hadn’t been much over a month since I last looked at Gladys. I would have been easy to check out the foot and finish this office call in three minutes, and get back on schedule. But, when I started practicing I made it a rule to do a complete exam, every time. So, we started at the tip of Pumpkin’s nose.

“Doctor, I told you it was her back foot, and you start looking at her nose,” Gladys said.

“I know, Gladys, but I try to do a complete exam every time I look at a patient,” I said. “I do this for every patient I see. Every time I see them, it only adds a few minutes to the office call, and it just makes sure I don’t miss something.”

The question sort of made me lose tract of where I was at in the exam, I listened to Pumpkin’s heart and lungs, and palpated her abdomen before returning to her head. Eyes, ears and face looked fine. I palpated her neck and thyroid glands. 

Then I grabbed her head and pointed her nose in the air, and pulled her lower jaw down to look in her mouth. Pumpkin’s tongue stayed down for a moment, almost glued to lower jaw. Then it came loose and afforded me a good look under her tongue.

My heart sank. There was a tumor under the lift side of her tongue. I paused for a moment.

“What is it, Doctor?” Gladys asked. “I know that expression, and it is not good.”

I released my hold and allowed Pumpkin to return to a rest position.

“There is a small tumor under Pumpkin’s tongue,” I said. “It wasn’t there  last month. Tumors in the oral cavity are usually not good. We should get a biopsy of this to see just what it is.”

“That sounds a little drastic,” Gladys said. “What are you worried about?”

“This could be a squamous cell carcinoma,” I said. “That is a big word for a bad skin tumor.”

“Can I see this tumor?” Gladys asked.

“Sure,” I said, as I repositioned Pumpkin and opened her mouth so Gladys would have a good view. I moved the tongue a bit to right side with a q-tip. The small, reddish, tumor was in full view.”

“That doesn’t look like much,” Gladys said. “Can’t you just snip that off and call it good?”

“If this is what I think it is, this is a bad tumor,” I said. “If this was on you or I, it would mean we lose half our tongue, maybe more, and go through radiation therapy and I don’t know what else.”

“Okay, Doctor, let’s get real now,” Gladys said with a stern voice. “Pumpkin has probably not been happy since Frank died. She adored that man. She tolerates me as long as I keep the food bowl full. She is over fifteen years old. I am not going to put her through a bunch of surgery that will be hard to live with, spend a bunch of money which I really shouldn’t spare, and end up buying her how much time?”

“Those are hard decisions that only you can make,” I said. “I can tell you, there is no second guessing what we decide today. In veterinary medicine we have one shot at one of these tumors. That early radical surgery and a hope and a prayer. Coming back two weeks from now and saying you would like to go all out to save her is not an option. It will be too late then, if it is not already too late now. These tumors grow fast and spread locally. Left unchecked and given enough time and it will all but consume her head.”

“I am not ready to put her to sleep now,” Gladys said.

“That isn’t necessarily today,” I said. “But it would not be inappropriate if that what you decide to do. I can tell you, it will be a hard job finding the perfect day for the job. Many people wait too long.”

“We are going home and have some steak for dinner, wait a few weeks to make sure you’re right, then I will feel comfortable with the decision,” Gladys said. “Do you think she needs any medication for pain or anything?”

“She shouldn’t need any medication if we are only going to wait a few weeks,” I said. “I’ll have Ruth make you an appointment for a recheck in three weeks.”

***

Gladys was right on time for the recheck. The tumor doubled its size on a weekly basis. It was large enough that it was starting to bother Pumpkin. She was having trouble eating and even trouble keeping her tongue in her mouth.

“We have decided that it is time,” Gladys said. “These last couple of days it has been almost impossible for Pumpkin to eat any solid food. And she even has trouble lapping milk.”

Gladys had no intention of staying. She signed the papers, said her goodbye and left. We were to call her when we got the ashes back. With the loss of Pumpkin, Gladys was also losing her last connection with Frank. She would have a complex grieving process to go through.

Photo Credit: Erdem Akil on Pexels

Preface

I wrote this story in May of 2020 with a lump in throat. I have tried to expand on it several times since then but find the task too painful.

It is a good story for the special 250th 4th of July to remind us that Freedom is never Free.

I hope people will take a few minutes during their celebrations to honor the many thousands of yound men and women who have given their lives over the centuries so we can enjoy the benefits of this great country.

Dave Larsen

Hallowed Ground

D. E. Larsen, DVM

  We hurried across the cow bridge at the upper end of Uncle Dutch’s farm. We were in a hurry because we planned to hunt up to the Bartlett farm this afternoon. This would require us to cross Catching Creek one more time, and that crossing would have no bridge. Don Miller and I were in the fall of our 8th-grade year. Living on neighboring farms out of Myrtle Point, we hunted ducks and anything else along the creek as often as we could.

  Don was a little smaller than I, but we were both stout young men and growing as we hurried along. I had on pair of hand-me-down hip boots. Don was in tennis shoes. That meant that I would have to carry Don across the creek piggyback. 

 As we rushed across the field toward Bartlett’s lower ground, a ruffed grouse sprang from the creek bank. We generally collected several wood ducks on these evening hunts. Occasionally, we would run into a flock of mallards. If we were lucky, a China rooster would cross our path. But this grouse was an unexpected surprise, and he was quickly dispatched.

  We had been hunting the creek for a couple of seasons now, and we were crack shots with our shotguns. We knew every riffle in the stream, and we knew where we could expect ducks. Most of the time, we didn’t have enough time to get this far up the creek. We would have to hurry to get back to our fields to shot ducks as they came back down the creek heading to roost in the swamp near town.

  When we came to the creek crossing, I pulled my boots up, and Don jumped on my back. With Don holding both shotguns, we crossed the creek with no problems. We had worried about this ford when we were planning to hunt higher in the creek. We hunted along the creek in Bartlett’s lower field, jumping a group of mallards. Don and I both added a large mallard drake to our bag. This was a great addition to our typical hunt.

  As we headed back down the creek, I stumbled while carrying Don across the ford. We came close to ending up in the water. I did recover my balance and ran the last few steps to the far bank. We sat and rested and laughed at the near disaster. We knew it would have made the trip down the creek a chilly walk.

  We had about a mile to go. We didn’t need to follow the creek going down. We had jumped all the ducks on the way up the creek. We just wanted to get to our field at the base of the Cowhorn (our field was named for its shape, the Cowhorn on our side of the creek, and Horseshoe Bend on Uncle Dutch’s side). The ducks flying down the creek in the evening would cross this field every evening. We seldom hit a duck here. They were high and flying fast, but it gave us a lot of fun shooting, and just maybe we would get one.

  As we reached the field, we had to follow the creek a short distance to reach our shooting area. We both stopped at the same time. There were riffles, many of them, in a quiet area of the creek. This had to mean a whole flock of ducks. We spread apart, crouched a little, and snuck along the creek bank. Expecting to see the sky fill with ducks, we burst into an open grassy area of the bank, guns at the ready.

  There were no ducks. A cow was floundering in the water. She seemed unable to recover her footing and was struggling to keep her head above water. I laid my shotgun and game bag down, pulled up my boots, and entered the creek to hold her head.

  “Don, run over to Lundy’s and call Dad,” I shouted to Don.

  He dropped his gear and took off like a shot. 

  The cow settled down a little with me holding her head. It was going to be 20 or maybe 30 minutes before anybody got here. I was glad I had my hip boots.

  The first to arrive was Vern Lundy and Don. They drove in Vern’s old pickup. Dad was on his way with the tractor, an old Ferguson, a small but function tractor. Next to arrive was Uncle Dutch and Grandpa. They stopped and tended the gate while Dad drove the tractor through the gate and up to the creek bank.

  Dad came into the water with me, standing on the other side of the cows head. He had a large cotton tow-rope.

  “We are going to tie this around her neck and pull her out with the tractor,” he said.

 “Won’t that break her neck?” I asked.

  “Not if we do it right, now you watch. We are going to tie a bowline with the knot placed under her chin. The rope will be tight against the back of her head,” he said as demonstrated the knot and the placement of the rope. 

  When he was done, he looked at me and said, “Savvy?”

  “Savvy!” I replied

  “Now you do it,” he said as he undid his knot and handed me the rope.

  With little problem, I wrapped the rope and around her neck, pulled it tight against the back of her head and ears, and tied a bowline that fit under her chin.

  “Good,” Dad said, “Now, hold her head until I start pulling her, then you move out of the way, so you are not in the bite of the rope in case it breaks or something.”

  With the rope secured to the tractor, Dad started pulling the cow, I moved away, and the tractor pulled the cow up the grassy bank and up to a level spot in the field. The men were quick to untie her and help position her half sitting up. I waded to shore, still thankful that I was dry. 

  “The vet is on his way, he should be here before too long,” Grandpa said.

  “I have to get heading for home, or it will be dark by the time I get there,” Don said as he picked up his shotgun and ducks.

  I watched as Don started across the Cowhorn, headed for Felcher Lane, that would lead him to his house. We both knew that we hunted and fished on hallowed ground. Less than 20 years before, this same ground was covered by Phil Bartlett, who was lost when he crashed his Navy fighter plane into a mountain on a night mission in the Pacific. Stan Felcher also covered this same ground, he died in the Batan Death March. Bayoneted by a Japanese soldier while on a detail to gather firewood. Bob Lundy was decorated for his service on a flight crew in the Pacific, and my Uncle Ernie was a bomber pilot. I had several cousins who fought in Korea, a couple of them in the thick of things. 

  What we did not know was that Don had but 7 years left to live. He would be killed by a 50 caliber round in a friendly fire misadventure in Vietnam. I received that news in a letter from Mom while I was stationed in Korea. This was, indeed, hallowed ground. A tremendous sacrifice of young men from such a small area of close-knit farm families.

  Dr. Haug, the veterinarian, arrived shortly. He hurried through a quick exam and started an IV, I guessed he probably had dinner waiting. When Dad asked him what he thought about the cow being in the creek, he was pretty brief. “The creek just got in her way as she was going down, this cow has milk fever,” he said.

  Dr. Haug finished the second bottle and put his stuff away. Slapping the cow on her back, she was quick to right herself and get to her feet. Everybody was relieved.

  “It probably would be a good idea to put her in the barn tonight, that will help her warm-up. It is unlikely that she will go down again, but if she does, there won’t be any duck hunters to find her tonight,” Dr. Haug said, glancing at me with a smile.

  Dad and Uncle Dutch started the cow toward the barn, I knew I would be expected to finish the job. I picked up my shotgun and game bag, and as I passed Dr. Haug, I asked, “Which do you want, the mallard drake or the ruffed grouse.”

  He was quick to take the grouse, smiled, and said, “Thanks,” as he got into his truck and headed to the gate. I hurried to catch up to the cow.

Epilogue:

Stan Felsher: 

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/56788026/stanley-r_-felsher/photo

Phil Bartlett:

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/115949598/phillip-f-bartlett

Don Miller:

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/103386505/donald-gene-miller

http://thewall-usa.com/info.asp?recid=35282

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I hated this hole. I was trying to visualize the perfect shot as I placed my ball on the tee. Standing back behind the ball, I took a deep breath. Even with my slice, I could play this hole. I never understood why it bothered me so.

The 8th hole at Pineway Golf Course was straight away and a little downhill, especially on the second shot. The green was elevated and small, but I could play this hole. I just needed a good tee shot. I needed to block those trees out of my mind.

I addressed the ball, checked my alignment, and started my backswing. Then I swung as hard as I could. The ball flew off the tee, cleared the close trees, and faded to the right around the grove of oaks. I was in great shape, just right of the fairway, but only a six iron to the green.

My Thursday afternoon golf game was a closely guarded escape for me. The phone never rang on the golf course. I was never a great player, but I could beat anyone on any one hole. I loved this game, I just wished I could play well enough to beat my Father someday.

I lined up my second shot and set my six iron on the ground behind the ball. I took a peek at my target, and I swung hard. Typically, a large divot flew in the air. The ball was high in the air when I locked onto it visually. It was right on target, high in the air, it should land softly on the green. 

I followed the ball carefully, it landed on the green, left of center, one small bounce and rolled toward the pin on the left-back of the green. I came to rest two feet short of the pin. 

My heart raced, I slammed the six iron back into my bag and started toward the green. Jim was just making his second shot from the middle of the fairway. Partners in a men’s club game, he would be happy that I had a short birdie putt. Jim’s ball came up just short of the green. Hopefully, he could get up and down for par, making my birdie putt a lot less stressful.

I was just setting my golf bag down on the edge of the green when I saw the golf cart speeding down the 9th fairway, heading right for us. Moments later, Woodberry pulls up beside in the cart.

“You have an emergency, Doc,” Woodberry said. “Bill called and said he has a cow who cut her tail off on a sickle mower. He thinks she is bleeding to death.”

“The tail is a long way from the heart,” I said. “All bleeding stops, eventually.”

“Get in, I told the guy I would send you as soon as I could,” Woodberry said, apparently not impressed with my words of wisdom.

“Woodberry, do you how long it has been since I have had a 2-foot putt of a birdie on this hole?” I said.

“Get in, Jim will give you the putt, we have to go,” Woodberry said.

“You can keep my ball, Jim,” I said as I loaded my bag on the cart.

At least Bill’s place was not far and on the way home. I threw my golf bag into the back seat in the truck and jumped in, not bothering to change my golf shoes. That would give Bill the impression that I had hurried.

I could see both Bill and his wife out at the chute. They had the cow in the chute already. I didn’t see any blood squirting, but the cow’s hind legs were covered in blood, and Bill’s teeshirt and pants were also soaked.

“I am glad they could get you,” Bill said as I got out of the truck. “Sorry I had to ruin your game, but I was running these cows out of the barn, and I had this damn tractor parked here with the sickle bar up. This gal must have switched her tail at the wrong time, and that sickle bar just sliced it off in an instant.”

I walked over and looked at what was left of the tail. It was a clean cut, about a foot and a half from the base of the tail. 

“I didn’t know how long you were going to be,” Bill said. “I figured I better get the bleeding under control, that hose clamp a little way up from the cut end did the trick. I just screwed it down until the bleeding stopped.”

“I see, that was pretty good thinking,” I said. “I will close up this wound, and we will be able to remove the clamp.”

I shaved the hair for about 6 inches above the severed end of the tail. Then I gave her an epidural injection of Lidocaine for anesthesia. After scrubbing the wound, I made a bivalve incision of the end of the tail, so I would have two flaps to suture over the cut end. Then I removed enough bone so I could get the skin to close over the bone with no tension.

“I’m going to have you take that clamp off now,” I said. “I will need some bleeding to make sure I can get all the vessels ligated.”

Bill removed the clamp with the screwdriver that was still in his pocket. The blood started squirting. I was able to get a hemostat on the main arteries, and I ligated those, check again, there was just minor bleeding evident now. Suturing the end of the tail with number 2 Dexon, made for a secure closure, and I would not have to come back to take the sutures out. I sprayed her well for flies, and we turned her out. 

“That should heal with no problems,” I said. “But keep an eye on it and let me know if I need to recheck her. The stitches will dissolve, so we don’t have to take those out.”

“I am sure glad you could get here so quick,” Bill said. “And, I apologize again for ruining your game.”

“The worst thing about that is I left a 2-foot putt for a birdie on the 8th hole,” I said. “I guess I will just have to add that onto your bill.”

“Well, damn! Now I am sorry, I hear a lot of guys complaining about that hole,” Bill said. “I never play the game myself.”

Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash