Jerd 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Peggy was lying on the kitchen floor and reaching as far as possible under the wood cookstove. 

“I can almost reach him,” Peggy said.

“Leave him alone. He will just scratch you,” I said. “Jerd doesn’t like us.”

Jerd was our grandmother’s cat. He was a short-haired, white cat with one blue eye and one yellow eye. He was a loner and spent much of his time hunting and sometimes fighting the other barn cats. And he was death on grandkids. He was fine when we were watching him from across the room. But try to touch him, and he was all claws.

The only time he would tolerate our presence was when we were helping him find mice in the haymow of the lower barn. We could scatter hay, and the mice would run in all directions. He seemed to be able to catch one with each paw and one in his mouth.

Peggy reached a little further, and there was a low growl and then a hiss. Peggy withdrew her arm with a long set of scratch marks on the top of her hand. She was crying by the time Grandma got to the kitchen.

“I have told you, kids, time and again, to leave that old cat alone,” Grandma said. That was probably the first time I had heard her speak in a stern voice. “Now, let’s get in the bathroom, wash this up, and put some Merthiolate on it.”

“That stings,” Peggy said through tears from the scratch and now the fear of the treatment.

“It helps if you blow on it after putting it on,” Grandma said.

***  

A year or two later, during silo filling time, we little kids were stuck in the house with Grandma and the other women preparing lunch for the crew. It was more like a Thanksgiving dinner. 

Uncle Rodney pulled up to the back gate in his tractor with a sickle mower attached. He came through the gate and up the steps to the back porch. Grandma and a couple of the other ladies were waiting for him on the back porch.

“Mom, I just wanted to tell you that Jerd was out in the grass hunting mice, and the mower got him,” Uncle Rodney said. “It cut off all his legs, so we knocked him in the head to put him out of his misery. I think he must have been deaf. Otherwise, he would have heard the tractor coming.”

“That was the only thing you could do,” Grandma said. “What have you done with him?” 

“Duke is burying him over under that big myrtle tree on the creek bank,” Uncle Rodney said.

“That’s a good place for him,” Grandma said. “I’ll miss the old guy, but the grandkids will probably be safer with him gone.”

***

 Many years later, my mind drifted back to that day on Grandma’s back porch. I was waiting at the clinic for a client to bring in a cat that had been injured by a sickle mower in the fading light of the summer evening.

As I thought about Jerd and his behavior, he probably was deaf. That was why he was so antisocial with people and why he never hung around the barn with the other cats. White cats do have a genetic degeneration of the organ of Corti in the middle ear. So it is very possible that he was deaf.

And the sickle mower took all of his legs. I am wondering just what this lady will be expecting for the treatment of her cat tonight. And how many legs will it be missing?

“Good evening, Doctor Larsen,” Sally said as she came through the door with her cat peeking out of a bundle of towels. “Thank you so much for coming in this evening to look at my Oliver.”

I took Sally and Oliver into an exam room and placed the bundle of towels on the table.

“Tell me again, what happened to Oliver,” I said.

“Jim was trying to get the last of the field mowed this evening,” Sally said. “Oliver must have been out there, hunting in the tall grass. Anyway, Oliver got caught in the sickle blades, and he is a real mess. When Jim called out to me to bring a towel, I was afraid he had been hurt. I saw Oliver trying to walk as soon as I got to the tractor. I just scooped him up and headed back to the house. That’s when I called you.”

I carefully peeled the towels away so I could get a good look at Oliver. Oliver seemed resigned to his fate but didn’t display any obvious discomfort. What a mess, both of Oliver’s hind feet were severed just below the hock joints. His right front leg was severed at the middle of his forearm. There was only a minor laceration on his left front leg.

“Sally, there is not much I can do for Oliver,” I said. “Maybe we should be thinking of what would be in his best interest.”

“Can’t you just sew up his wounds?” Sally asked.

“Yes, I can sew up these wounds, but I am not sure how well Oliver will be able to motivate,” I said. “Are you sure you want to deal with him in that situation?”

“I just can’t give up on him over an accident that was not his fault,” Sally said.

“I am pretty certain that his stumps won’t hold up to any outside activity, and I am not sure how well he will handle the litter box in the house,” I said. “I don’t have a problem with repairing his wounds, as long as he will be in a situation that is livable for him. We could always rethink our decision later if you have difficulty dealing with Oliver at home.”

“Can you do this tonight?” Sally asked.

“Yes, after I get him under anesthesia, I will clean up these wounds and close things up,” I said. “I might have to shorten his stumps a bit just to be able to make more functional stumps.

“Will I be able to pick him up in the morning?” Sally asked.

“Probably, but call first,” I said. “I will need to check him over and make sure his pain is under control before sending him home.”

I gave Oliver a hefty dose of ketamine to start anesthesia and provide some pain control. 

In the surgery room, I prepped the wounds and trimmed the stumps on both hind legs, removing all the remnants of the metatarsal bones. This allowed me the ability to form a smooth, well-padded stump on each hind leg that could maybe serve Oliver pretty well. 

I smoothed the bones on the right front leg and closed that stump. It would not be as functional as his hind leg stumps, but it would heal well.

I infused a little lidocaine into each repair to help with pain on recovery, but with the ketamine onboard, he should be okay until morning. I settled him into a well-padded kennel.

“We will see you in the morning, Oliver,” I said as I closed the kennel door. “We will see what morning gives us.”

***

In the morning, Oliver was up and looking for breakfast. He seemed to be doing well in the kennel. Hopefully, he will do okay at home.

Sally was in the early afternoon, and Oliver was happy to see her. We sent him home with instructions to stay indoors and keep incisions clean and dry, and use a pelleted litter

I saw Oliver once more for suture removal, and Sally reported he was doing well at home. The incisions had healed well, and the stumps looked like they would be serviceable. He didn’t use his right front leg stump but moved around on his hind leg stumps and his good left front leg.

After that last visit, I never saw Sally or Oliver again. One can only hope that Oliver’s life was tolerable for him.

Photo be Sergio Souza on Pexels.

The Young Boy and the Creek 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

When spring finally came in my third grade year  and I was deemed old enough to fish in the creek by myself. I was nine years old that March. I am not sure why it took Mom so long to come to the conclusion that I was old enough.  I knew every inch of the creek from our upper line fence, through our hill country and across to Herman’s field all the way to the bridge at the highway, maybe a distance of a mile or so.

My only problem now was school. The weekend only provided limited time at the creek. Dad had to drive the car to work. I figured that if I was sick until the bus was gone, Mom would have to let me go to the creek. Friday morning came, and Mom came upstairs to wake us boys up. The 3 of us shared an upstairs bedroom. My sister had the other room to herself.

 “I’m sick to my stomach.,” I told Mom.

“Okay, you can stay in bed,” Mom said.

I laid there and listened for the bus. When I was sure it had pulled out and headed down the road I sprang from the bed. I was confident that the monster was not under the bed this morning because I had watched my brothers get up and get dressed. I made my usual trip down the stairs, bounding down several steps at a time, with a final jump from four steps up, trying desperately to touch the ceiling that crossed the lower staircase.

Mom was in the kitchen. I stood close to the wood stove, the only source of heat in the house.  “I am feeling better,” I said.

“Oh, no you don’t, you go back to bed. You have to stay in bed at least until noon,” Mom said.

I had not counted on that, but that would be okay. Without a breakfast, I could get hungry early then go fishing in the afternoon, I thought as I headed back up the stairs.

Mom finally called me to come down for lunch. She had been working in the garden all morning. We had a large garden, about 1/2 acre.  I was already dressed in my work clothes. We sat at the dinning room table by the window. Mom always liked to sit where she could watch her lilac bush, flowers in the yard and the distant traffic on the highway. There were seldom more than 1 or 2 cars during lunch. Today we had an egg salad sandwich and a small dish of canned pears. Not my favorite, Mrs. Lilly would be serving her chili at the school today. 

This year was the first year that we had a school cafeteria. It was added on the back of the gym. All the mothers had worked with Mrs. Lilly during the summer and fall, canning stuff from the garden and all sorts of fruit.  But my favorite by far was Mrs. Lilly’s chili.  Only the chance of catching fish by myself would lure me away from that lunch.

I helped clean up the table after lunch. Summoned all my courage and then I spoke, “I’m feeling a lot better now, and I am sure bored.”

“You should have gone to school,” Mom said.

“Maybe I should go fishing,” I replied.

“Okay, you can go fishing. But you don’t go too far down the creek. If you can see the highway you have gone too far. And don’t you get yourself wet, you stay on the bank, and stay off the log jam.”

I was out the door in a shot. I grabbed the willow pole that I had cut and rigged last weekend from the cabinet on the back porch. I also picked up my little canister of tackle. I opened it to see what was left, 1 split shot, 1 hook and small, mostly empty, spool of leader.  I would have to be careful in the logjam hole. Maybe I would avoid that hole today, I thought. 

The pole was a cut willow branch about 5 feet long. I had cut a notch in the end and tied a length of line maybe 8 feet long.  I tied a loop in the end of that line and attached the hook with its short leader there. One splint shot above the knot and the rigging was complete. This was precious tackle. This was all there was. 

My brother and I would take the wagon on Saturday mornings and walk to Broadbent, about 2 miles down the road. We picked up bottles along the way. When we turned in the bottles at the store we got 1 cent for beer bottles, 2 cents for pop bottles and 5 cents for large quart size bottles. Mostly there were beer bottles.

With the money we bought our fishing tackle. Once in awhile on a good day there would be money left over for a candy bar or something. We could usually make the tackle last until the next trip but the logjam hole could eat a lot of tackle. That hole had the biggest fish. To fish it best you had to climb out on the logjam and fish down the cracks. Mom didn’t like to see us do that, but the biggest fish were there.  Today I would fish at the falls and be satisfied.  I picked up an empty tuna can from the trash and headed for the manure pile beside the barn.

We always just left the shovel stuck in the ground by the edge of the manure pile. If you could turn over a scoop of dirt by the edge there were generally enough worms for the afternoon.  It was hard for me to turn that scoop. Sometimes when I was by myself I had to dig in the manure pile.  The worms were small there. I jumped on the shovel to drive it into the ground and leaned back on the handle hard.  It flipped up on large scoop of dirt, and it was loaded with worms.  I filled the can quickly.

I headed across the field to the falls.  They were on Herman’s land but that was okay.  I could hear the roar of the water as it spilled over the low falls, maybe 5 or 6 feet high.  The hole here was deep and I could usually catch as many fish as I wanted here.  Once in awhile I would catch one that was 10 or even 12 inches but not as often as at the logjam.  With my pocketknife I cut a willow fork to hold the fish as I climbed down the bank. I had carried a pocketknife since I was 5 years old. All the boys at school had a pocketknife, we often played mumbley-peg at school during recess and lunch.

When I got to the hole I sat on the rock ledge beside the falls and threaded a worm on the hook, pinching off the excess worm. If the fishing was good I would need all the worms I had. I stood up and drop the line into the water just outside of the bubbles made by the falls. As usual, there was no wait, I had my first fish almost as soon as the worm hit the water.  I quickly unhooked it and broke its neck with my finger in its mouth and bending its head back. Then I placed in on the willow fork. I touched up the worm on the hook and added a little more worm. 

Returning the line to water, there was another fish, again, almost instantly. In a half hour time I had a dozen fish on the willow fork, all of them about 8 inches long. I was sure I could easily catch a dozen more, but I wanted to catch some bigger fish.  The logjam was about 3 holes down the creek. It was the last hole before the road was in view. I thought I would skip the 3 holes and go right to the log jam. Mom would never know.

It was good weather and the sun was out; the logs were dry. I liked to fish from the two large logs near the downstream edge of the logjam. They were the easiest to stand on and had a good gap between them. It always seemed that the bigger fish were under those logs. I lowered my worm into the gap between the logs. Again, almost instantly, there was a hookup. This was a bigger fish than the others, I would guess 11 inches. It took a little longer to tend to fish at this hole because I had to go to the bank each time. In the next half hour I had a total of 4 more fish, all between 10 and 12 inches. 

I lowered the wormed hook into the water between the logs. This time there was a funny tug on the line. I raised it again, slowly. A large trout followed it toward the surface before sinking back into the depth of the water. This was a large trout, maybe the largest I had seen in this creek. My heart raced and I lowered the line back into the depths of the water. Bam! There was a big strike on the line. I pulled and the fish pulled. The willow pole bent almost double. He slowly came to surface and the water between my feet exploded. He made a strong dive. Again I pulled and he struggled. Then my pull was against dead weight. He must of wrapped the line around a snag.  I was sick, not only was I about to lose this fish but I was going to lose the tackle also.

When I looked over the downstream edge of the log I could see the large trout still on the hook, struggling against the snag. If I could get down there, maybe I could catch him by hand and maybe even retrieve my tackle. I laid down the willow pole and went back to the bank, moving down the creek to a point I could get into the water. The water below the hole was not deep. The water was very cold. As I approached the hole I could see the trout. He was hung up on a small branch on a short piece of line. When I got close enough to reach him I was in waist deep water. I reached in and grabbed the fish, when I got a finger through his gills I was able to unhook him.

What a prize. It was probably 15, maybe even 16, inches long. I got him to bank. He was too big for me to break his neck. I took my pocketknife and severed his spine at the base of his skull.  After adding him to the willow fork, I returned to creek to try to retrieve my tackle. I found the stick the line had been wrapped around but it was not the now. There was another hook imbedded in the same stick however. When I retrieved this hook it still had some line attached and a split shot.  I was able to reach the willow pole on the log. I pulled my line up with no problem. 

This had been a great afternoon. Not only had I caught the biggest fish in the creek but I was coming home with more tackle than when I left the house. I gathered everything up and headed for the house. Even with the sun out, I was already chilled. Mom was going to be upset, but she would feel better when she saw this fish. I remember how excited she was when my oldest brother caught a 20 inch fish in the river last fall.

Mom was waiting on the porch as I crawled through the fence into the yard. She had her hand on her hips and a frown on her face. Mom never got really mad. She just said she was got disappointed.

“I thought I told you not to get wet!” she said.

“Mom, I couldn’t help it, this big fish almost got away,” I replied, holding up the willow fork filled with fish.

She took the mess of fish and started for the kitchen.  “You get out of those wet clothes and get in by the fire before you catch pneumonia,” she said.

I stripped down on the porch and put my clothes in the hamper by the wringer washer. Now I was really cold. I scampered into the kitchen and huddled up to the wood stove.

“You bring your shoes in behind the stove, I will get you a blanket,” she said.

I ran out, grabbed my shoes and returned to the stove. As I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders, I could start to feel the warmth return to my body. It had been a great afternoon.

Monday morning, as I was hurrying out the door to catch the school bus, Mom handed me a neatly folded note.

“Here is your excuse for Friday, you give it to your teacher when first get to school,” she said.

On the bus I took the note out of my pocket and carefully unfolded it. It read: “Please excuse David from school last Friday. He was ill.”

Photo by David Mark on Pixabay.

The Nineteenth Hole

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Preface: 

This year of 2022 is seeing continued violence on many fronts. We watch the evening news, and there are daily shootings in Portland. The city crumbles under incompetent leadership. The political divide in this country seems to prevent many people from crossing party lines at the voting booth to effect change, much-needed change. 

And now, another horrific school shooting. There is outrage, and there was cowardice on the part of those responsible for protecting us, the people. The anger is being directed against the gun. So the politicians will pass a bunch of laws. Most of those will have little or no impact on future events, but the politicians will be able to pat themselves on the back and declare that they did something. 

And they and we continue to ignore the elephant in the room. We ignore the fact that society is sick. Some individuals pass through our system in great need of help, and the system fails to recognize their plight. 

Is it the drug culture? Is it the fatherless home? Is it grandparents raising grandchildren when they failed in the upbringing of their children? Who knows the answer? And in this divided society, this woke society, those questions can’t even be addressed.

But that was not always the case, and the nineteenth hole was not just for drinking beer.

***

My ball was perched on the closely mowed grass of the fairway. That, in itself, was unusual. My drive had been almost perfect for the eighteenth hole on Pineway. It ended up just beyond the one-fifty bush and on the left side of the fairway. I pulled my eight-iron from my bag.

“You amaze me sometimes, Larsen,” Mike said as he watched me address my ball. “I couldn’t begin to reach that elevated green from here with an eight iron.”

“You know me, I haven’t got there yet,” I said. “This ball could end up anywhere. But this is the most consistent club in my bag, and if I hit it well, you and Gil will be buying the beer.”

I positioned the clubhead behind and ball and gripped the club, first tight, and then I loosened my grip. I could feel the perspiration on my hands.

I stepped away and wiped my hands on the towel hanging from my bag.

“Are you sweating from the sun or from nerves? Mike asked.

“It has been a hot afternoon,” I said. “I was just thinking of sitting on the veranda with that beer you will buy.”

I addressed the ball again. I looked down at the alignment of my stance and my club. My hands and arms were tanned to a deep brown, attesting to the hot summer this year.

I swung hard, the ball bounced on the green, and it climbed up the hill behind the green. It came to rest for a brief moment. I held my breath. It would be a difficult chip from there. Then the ball rolled back down the hill onto the green.

“That happens to you enough that it can’t be all luck,” Mike said. “But you will still need to make the putt to get that beer.”

When we all got up to the green, the match was all but decided before any putts were made. Jim’s ball was close to the pin, almost close enough for him to be given the putt, and I was close also. Gil was off the green with a difficult chip, and Mike had a long putt.

Jim was given his putt, and the match was settled. Gil and Mike paid up as we walked to the cars to put up our clubs. The few dollars that changed hands were a token expense. And the protocol dictated that winners buy the beer. When it was all over, money-wise, you were better off being on the losing side.

We picked up our beer as we passed through the bar and took our seats around the open table on the veranda. I sat back and enjoyed the slight breeze.

“Did you guys read where a guy shot a couple of guys at the campground up by Mountain House?” Gil said.

“Apparently, he was a crazy guy,” I said. “I think had converted derelict camper van has been around town for several weeks.”

“That is getting a little scary,” Jim said. “When you can’t go to a campground and feel safe unless you carry a gun.”

“I don’t even own a handgun,” Gil said. “But I have been thinking that it would be a good investment.”

“Do you have a handgun, Dave?” Jim asked.

“Yes, I have one,” I said. “I bought it when I first came to town, just to have in case I needed it to shoot a horse or something. I don’t like the things. After graduating from high school, I bought a twenty-two Ruger automatic pistol. My dad said you will just shoot yourself in the foot with it. And I almost did, so I sold that thing.”

“I would guess that you would be hesitant to shoot somebody if you were in a situation,” Gil said.

“I crossed those bridges in my mind many years ago, Gil,” I said. “I wouldn’t hesitate to use it if I had to. And the guy wouldn’t be telling any stories afterward.”

“It would make me nervous about having one in the house,” Jim said.

“Well, I figure it’s better than being pinned down and throwing rocks at the guy with a gun,” I said. “Besides, I don’t throw any straighter than I hit the golf ball.”

“What about you, Mike? Do you have a handgun?” Jim asked.

“Yes, I have one,” Mike said. “We carry it when we travel, especially if we are going to Portland. My thinking goes right along with Dave’s. And I don’t throw rocks very well either.”

“Once, when the kids were little, we went on a backpacking trip into Donaca Lake,” I said. “We bumped into a kid who hiked with us a way. He was a good-looking kid, but I kept him in front of me, and I felt much better with the pistol on my hip. You just never know; Ted Bundy was a good-looking kid, too.”

“That makes a lot of sense to me,” Jim said. “I guess I agree with everything you say. Around here, you would be waiting a couple of hours for the cavalry to arrive if you called for help.”

“Well, I have to run,” I said. “Now that we have everybody armed, maybe we can solve the abortion issue next week.”

“Ha! That’s a good one,” Jim said. “How do you feel about that?”

“I would never have one myself,” I said. “But it is sort of a fact of life these days. And all hell would break loose if that was changed.”

“That’s a point never discussed much,” Mike said. “Just what kind of response would there be if the anti-abortion side ever won out?”

“Next week, guys, I have to run,” I said as I took the last swallow from my glass.

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.