Financial Aid

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I looked hard at the man seated behind the desk. 

His dark hair was fading into a grizzled gray. His oversized nose had a mass of red pimples. I suspect it was Rosacea. The wrinkles in his face were smoothed a bit by its puffiness. His large ears actually added balance to his whole appearance. On somebody else, they would be considered large.

“What did you ask me?” I asked, not believing the question. This was my first experience with a financial aid office. I was getting ready to start my junior year in vet school, and my funds were exhausted.

Before I went into the Army, I could work a summer in the cheese factory and pay for a year of school. So I had no need for any aid in those years. Following the Army, I had four years of the GI Bill. With those payments of around two hundred dollars a month plus some part-time work, I finished twenty-four months at Oregon State without any debt.

The same was true for my first two years in veterinary school. But now, entering my clinic years in vet school, I would not be able to work part-time, and the GI Bill was exhausted. I was forced to seek financial aid.

“How much money do your parents make?” the man repeated his question.

I could feel a growing contempt for this man with a rumpled shirt and a belly hanging over his belt. I had worked with generals who were this man’s age and who would have little regard for this man.

“Would you look at me,” I said. “I’m not one of your twenty-year-old students who still takes his laundry home on weekends. I am twenty-eight years old, and I have a wife and three kids at home. I have six years of college under my belt, and I spent four years in the Army. I have not lived at home for ten years. I have no damn idea how much money my parents make, and I will be damned if I am going to ask them.”

“Well, Mister Larsen, I generally don’t talk with students who have six years of school, under their belts, and who don’t have some school debt. Unless their parents have paid for their schooling,” the man said. 

This guy looked like he had been in the public trough his entire life. He probably has little understanding of how someone actually works for things he accumulates in life. I stiffed my stance in my chair.

“Are you suggesting that I am being less than honest with you?” I asked, and I continued without giving him a chance to answer. “I have virtually worked my entire life. After age ten or twelve, I haven’t spent a dime that I didn’t earn personally. I resent your insinuation.”

“I’m sorry that you took it that way,” the man said. “I was just explaining my observation from this desk. I have had a few of you veterans through here, and you guys, as a group, have a level of maturity that I admire.”

He’s trying to soften me up, now, I thought.

“My service was pretty plush compared to some guys in combat in Vietnam,” I said. “And a bunch of those guys never came home.”

“Yes, I know,” the man said. “Look, you and I have sort of got off on the wrong foot here. You, obviously, are qualified for financial aid. I will give you a packet of forms to fill out. You get those turned in, and we will send things to your bank for a guaranteed loan. Because you haven’t borrowed anything before this time, you are not eligible for grants or scholarships. I will put special processing on your folder, and your bank will have your information in a couple of days after you turn in those forms.”

“Thanks for the special consideration,” I said as I stood up and picked up the packet from his desk. “My wife will appreciate it, but she was hoping I would get a Pell Grant or something.”

“Yes, those grants are nice,” the man said. “But one of the requirements is prior school debt or a family with great need. You don’t qualify with six years of college paid for. Next year, we will be able to come up with a better package.”

“Thanks again,” I said as I shook the man’s hand. “We will have these papers filled out tonight and turned in tomorrow.”

I felt a little better about things as I left the office. At least the guy recognized the error of his ways. Maybe another veteran or two will benefit from my conversation with the man. But Sandy was not going to be happy about not getting a grant.

“What do you mean, we don’t qualify?” Sandy asked. “Why don’t we qualify for a grant?”

“The guy said if I had paid for six years of school without borrowing any money, I wasn’t poor enough for a grant,” I explained.

“Well, I don’t think that is fair,” Sandy said. “If fifty dollars a month from the Oregon GI Bill doesn’t qualify a family of five as poor, I don’t know what does.”

“We only have a couple of years left, and then I can go to work,” I said. “Living on borrowed money won’t be too bad for that amount of time.”

***

The man at the financial aid office was true to his word. I turned in the packet of papers in the morning, and the gal from his office called in the afternoon to say things were approved and sent to the bank.

The loan process was simple, the bank in Oregon sent me some forms to sign, and we were flush with money for the year.

The following year was better with a large Pell Grant. I think I graduated with a debt of around six thousand dollars. Chicken scratch compared to the debt students incur today.

A Few Precious Hours, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

  I launched the drift boat at the Rock Creek Campground boat ramp. After parking the pickup and trailer. The kids decide that they need to run back to the camp for one last item. 

  “Okay,” I said, “I will pull the boat down by the camp and wait for you there.”

  With that, I got in the boat that rowed down the bank, so it was close to our campsite. Now I just waited for the kids to show up.

  Time away from the practice was precious to me. It was rare that everything lined up in a manner that would allow us a weekend away. Craine Prairie Reservoir, on Century Drive south of Bend, was one of my favorite places to fish. It held large rainbows and was big enough that you could avoid the crowds. It was also far enough away from Sweet Home that it would be rare for me to be recognized.

  When I was away from town, I always avoided any mention of being a veterinarian. Any mention of my profession, even complete strangers, would prompt a long story of their dog, or cat, and their trips to the vet clinic. Being an introvert at heart, I hated such conversations, especially from strangers.

 I pretty much only fly fished. There were times when we would fish with bait, with the kids, and when we could harvest the catch. We had learned that the fish out of Craine Prairie tasted like mud this time of the year. You almost couldn’t use enough tartar sauce to make them palatable. 

  When we were loaded up, I rowed out to Osprey Point and dropped an anchor from each end of the boat. This would keep it from swaying in the wind. I had made fly poles for the kids. I used inexpensive fiberglass rods, 7 and a half feet in length, and rated for line weight of 4. Since kids cannot cast too far, and the most expensive part of a fly setup is the line, I took double taper floating lines and cut them in two. This gave each rod a 33 foot, tapered, fly line. This was almost perfect for young kids

  At Osprey Point, there was a deep hole just off the point and large fish for the taking. It was also an area were the kids could fish with their floating fly lines. By using a nymph, about 6 feet under a strike indicator used as a bobber, they could hook their share of fish. This allowed me to fish the deep hole with a sinking line. I would drag an olive Wooly Worm across the bottom of the hole. This made for wild action most of the time.

  I always believed that when you were fishing with kids, the action was urgent. The quickest way to sour a kid on fishing was to make them sit in a boat, or on a bank, for hours with nothing happening. We hooked fish in the first 15 minutes or a half an hour at most, or we would go do something else. When a kid asks when do they know they have a bite, you have waited too long before going to do something else.

  We managed to get everyone hooked up with a fish in a short time, but that was enough for most of them. We headed back to camp to drop off the kids. Derek was the only one who wanted to fish more. We needed a lunch break anyway.

  When I was ready to go back out in the afternoon, Derek was dragging around a little. 

  “I will wait for you at the boat,” I said as I headed down to the shoreline.

  I was standing there leaning against the side of the boat when I noticed the group of boys. There were 4 boys, walking along the shoreline, coming from the direction of the boat ramp. They looked like they were somewhere around 10 years old. They were checking out everything that looked movable as they came along the bank. One of the boys was carrying something.

  When they reached me, they stopped, and the one boy handed me a bird he had been carrying. It was a Starling. It had a blowgun dart that pierced through its back just in front of the wings. The wound was days old, maybe a full week. There was extensive tissue necrosis around the dart that extended across its back. Its wings were not functional. Even with comprehensive medical treatment at this point, this bird would never fly again. My impression was this bird would not survive, even with medical treatment.

  The larger question was how had this group of young boys find the only veterinarian standing on the banks of Craine Prairie today. Even when I thought I had made a clean escape from town, even when I was as anonymous as it was possible to be, they still find me.

  I knell down, so I am talking at the same level as the boys. This was no rag-tag group. These boys were well dressed for a fishing lake shoreline. I would guess they were all from well to do families. They were probably reasonably well educated. If that can be said for a group of 10-year-old boys when they were grouped with their peers.

  I point out the extent of the wounds caused by this dart.

“I hope the guy who shot this dart is proud of his skill.,” I said, hoping to still some pity for the bird and to just maybe educate the boys on the ethics of killing an animal. “This bird has been suffering for several days, maybe a full week. You can tell by looking at the rotten flesh around the dart.”

  They carefully examine the wound, probably for the first time. I wiggle the dart a bit, to illustrate that the tissue infection has allowed the dart to loosen in the tissue.

  “Hunting, and fishing, is something that we do as a people,” I said. “Some people would say this bird should not have been shot, but it is one of the birds that people are allowed to shoot. But to shot the bird and not finish the kill is cruel to the bird.”

  The boys have some chatter over those statements. Each one of them sort of repeat their interpretation of what I have just told them.

 “I don’t think this bird is going to survive,” I said. “For us to finish the kill would probably be the best thing we could do today. This bird has suffered enough, and we should bring that suffering to an end.”

  So now I was in a corner. With 4 boys watching, how was I going to euthanize this bird?

 One of the boys who, I noticed now, was wearing a cub scout shirt, took the lead.

  “Set him on the ground, and I will get a rock,” the young scout said. “I can crush him with a rock.”

  “That might work,” I said. “But you might miss, that wouldn’t be very fair to the poor bird.”

  “How should we do it?” the young scout asked.

  “I will take care of him,” I said, hoping the boys would continue their exploration of the shoreline.

  No such luck, they all stood there, looking at me for the answer. I gripped the bird in my right hand and held it so the body would not respond. Then I took a firm grip on the head with my left hand. With a quick jerk, I pulled the head off the bird. The body quivered in my right hand for a few seconds.

  “Oh! He pulled the head off!” the young scout said.

  “That was the quickest way to do it here,” I said. “Now, he is not suffering anymore. You guys remember, if you shoot something, you make sure it is dead.”

  Then it is over, the boys continue along the shoreline, I toss the decapitated bird into the grass. Derek comes down from the camp about then, realizing he had missed something, but not knowing what to ask.

  We loaded up and went out to fish for a few precious hours. Surely, they won’t find me out on the lake.

Wooden Tongue

 D. E. Larsen, DVM

The old cow was in the middle of the corral as I pulled up. Her head was extended, and her tongue protruded a bit from her open mouth. Saliva hung from her mouth in long, thick streams that nearly reached the ground.

I stepped out of the truck, pulled on a pair of coveralls, and slipped on my overboots. I could see Ed coming out of the house and heading for the corral at a trot.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Doc,” Ed said as he approached the truck. He was breathing a little hard, and I noted a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. “I don’t know what the heck is wrong with this old gal, but I noticed her having trouble eating a few days ago, and I’m not sure she can drink today. She stands at the water trough with her nose down in the water.”

“Sounds like we need to look at her,” I said. “I will grab my rope and see if I can throw it this morning.”

I chuckled under my breath. It always amazed me how the guy that would apologize for making me wait half a minute while he trotted out of the house was the same guy who never had the cow waiting at the chute or tied in the corral.

I was learning a bit. I made a mistake early in my tenure here in Sweet Home by displaying my skill with a rope. Now I always tried to look awkward in handling the rope, and I made sure I missed the cow several times before landing a good catch.

Since the gate was at the far end of the corral, I crawled over the top rail of the corral with my rope in hand. I just hoped that Ed could hand things over the fence, or I would be getting plenty of exercise this morning.

The cow didn’t move, I could probably just place the rope around her neck, but I wanted Ed to see how much difficulty I could have throwing the rope. I stood back from the cow and threw a loop at her neck. The rope plowed into the side of her neck with a thud. The cow never moved.

I gathered the rope and threw another loop that missed her all together. I figured that was enough of a display for Ed. I walked up to the cow, placed the rope around her neck, and fashioned a halter. Again, the cow never moved.

“I think you probably need a little practice throwing that rope, Doc,” Ed said.

“Roping is really not in my job description, Ed,” I said. “You could save a lot of time for yourself and me by upgrading this corral with a squeeze chute.”

“That is a lot of expense, Doc,” Ed said. “I have just never been able to justify it.”

“My brother-in-law always says that if he had to do it over again, he would have bought the squeeze chute before he bought his first cow,” I said. “And really, you don’t have to have a squeeze chute. I can help you with the design. You can do wonders with just a crowding alley and a headgate. That would save you the expense of a chute. In fact, if you’re a good carpenter, you can build a headgate. Just make a good stanchion on a gate that opens at the front of the alley. It is a little cumbersome, but it can work if the expense is a big item.”

“I’ll give it some thought, Doc,” Ed said.

That was cryptic for I think it is BS.

“I think I could look at this cow without a rope,” I said. “She is pretty distressed. I think she is just going to stand right here. Can you hand me that bucket of water and that black bag on the truck tail gait?”

I plugged in a thermometer and clipped its lanyard to the hair on top of her tail, and she had no problem with that procedure. But when I got to her mouth, she objected, shook her head, and moved away from me a few steps.

“Looks like she wants to be tied up,” I said as I led her to the nears post and tied her short.

When I grabbed her swollen tongue, it was hard. With my fingers putting pressure on the roof of her mouth, I held her mouth open and explored the base of the tongue with my fingers. There was no foreign body and no apparent injury.

I allowed the cow to relax. Her temperature was a little elevated, but otherwise, she looked okay.

I washed my hands vigorously with Betadine surgical scrub.

“What do you think is wrong with her, Doc?” Ed asked.

“She has Wooden Tongue,” I said. “I’ll give her an IV injection of sodium iodide, which should take care of it. Sometimes we need to repeat the injection in a week.”

“How do you suppose she got it?” Ed asked. “I ain’t never seen anything like this before.”

“It is caused by a bacteria, and Actinobacillus is the name,” I said. “It is probably around in the environment and just pops up once in a while. It gets into the tongue through an injury, often just a small puncture from course feed. But we usually can’t define a source.”

“I know a guy in Crawfordsville who lost a bunch of bone on the side of his face to an Actino bug of some type,” Ed said.

“Yes, I know the guy,” I said. “His case was a little different and probably a lot more serious. It was Actinomycosis that caused his problem. Similar names, but Actinomycosis invades the bone, and it is more difficult to treat. That is probably why he lost a lot of bone on the side of his face. He said the doctors told him he probably got it from chewing on a stem of grass. Who knows?”

I retrieved a bottle of sodium iodide from my bag and attached an IV set to it. I placed a fourteen gauge, two-inch needle into her jugular vein and hooked the IV set to the needle. The infusion only took a couple of minutes.

“I will give you a call in a couple of days, Ed,” I said. “She should be mostly normal in forty-eight hours. If that is not the case, we will need to give her some other antibiotics. Then, next week, we will decide if she needs another one of these infusions.”

“Do you think I should keep her up?” Ed asked.

“I would keep here until I talk with you in a couple of days,” I said. “Just in case we have to give her something else. Just have some good grass hay and maybe a little grain for her. I would guess she will be noticeably improved by morning.”

I untied the cow and handed my things across the fence to Ed. Then I crawled over the rails. 

I got out of my coverall and boots and washed my hands again.

“Okay, I’ll call in a couple of days,” I said. “You call if she is not improved in the morning. And Ed, do call and set up a time for me to go over your corral system. There is no charge for me doing that, and you can always ignore it if the plans don’t work for you.”

***

The old cow was back to normal when I called Ed in two days. And I just stopped by and talked with Ed as we looked at her in the pasture two weeks later.

And, true to form, Ed never did come by the clinic to discuss his corral system.

Photo by freestocks.org from Pexels.