D. E. Larsen, DVM
This week on my blog, there will be three stories that cover my first few days in West Germany when I was in the Army Security Agency. This was in December of 1967.
The Last Visit
D. E. Larsen, DVM
The weather has been pretty good for the last couple of weeks in Northern Colorado, and all the snow was gone. We had a trip home planned, and I had to visit the practice in Enumclaw, where I hoped to go to work next week. Gas was the only question mark now.
“Make sure you fill the gas tank today,” I said to Sandy as I headed out the door on my way to school. “This is our day to get gas. If we fill up today, we will be able to leave in the morning.”
Today was my last day before spring break, and we were in the middle of the 1974 Arab oil embargo. We had nearly twenty-four hours of driving ahead of us, and gas was a concern.
I was just finishing a two-week clinic rotation at the bull farm, and we had most of the work done for the week. I had made arrangements to skip my Friday clinics so we could get on the road in the morning and do most of the travel before the weekend.
Sandy had the car ready to go by the time I got home. She had the back seat leveled out so the girls could have level ground to play or sleep as needed. We would only need to throw the suitcases in the trunk in the morning and head out.
***
Morning came, and although we were not as prompt as I had hoped, we were on the road.
“It feels good to be on the road,” I said. “I am a little excited to be going home,”
“I will feel better when I know where we will get our next tank of gas,” Sandy said. “I have nightmares about being stranded in the middle of Wyoming for all of the spring break.”
“I think that gas is supposed to be available in Wyoming and Idaho,” I said. “If we fill up in Green River, we won’t have to worry about getting gas in Utah.”
“I don’t want to be driving across a desert with a gas tank tittering on empty,” Sandy said. “I don’t think we should pass up an open gas station.”
“I agree, but Utah is like Colorado, they sell gas on even and odd days according to your license plate,” I said. “And our plate says we can buy gas in Utah on Saturday. But I checked, and we can make it from Green River to Burley, Idaho, with no problem. Then if we top off the tank before we get into Oregon, we should be fine. Our only problem will be at Burns. We will arrive there in the early morning hours, and we might have to hang around until something opens. I don’t think we would want to try to make it all the way from Ontario to Bend on one tank of gas.”
Things went along great. We pulled off the freeway at Green River and right into an open gas station with no line. We filled the tank and took a break for lunch. We had planned to eat lunches out of our ice chest, but the cold wind of eastern Wyoming suggested that we find a little cafe for the girls.
The trip from Green River through Utah was uneventful. It was getting dark when we pulled off the freeway at Burley. Gas was no problem, and we filled the tank and found a restaurant for dinner.
“What do you hear about the gas situation in Oregon?” I asked the waitress.
“We don’t hear much, I know they are on even and odd days,” she said. “And I hear that they are really strict on that. Saturday is an even day, so if your license plate is even, you should be okay.”
“That is why we filled up on Thursday in Colorado and planned to be in Oregon on Saturday,” I said. “I guess I am worried about there being anything open in Burns at two or three in the morning.”
The drive from Burley to Boise mainly was desert, and in the dark, it was a pretty dull drive.
“I think I need to take a short nap,” I said as we approached Boise.
“Do you think we can just pull over and sleep?” Sandy asked. “I think we need to find a place with some people around.”
We found a spot, I slept, and Sandy entertained Dee. At seven months, she slept too much today and was ready to play. A fifteen-minute power nap turned into almost an hour, but it was all I needed.
It was three in the morning when we were approaching Burns. Sandy had been sleeping since we left Ontario. I could see lights on the edge of town, and as we got closer, I could see that it was a gas station. I pulled in.
A guy was pumping gas, and several cars lined up at the pump. I stepped out of the car to speak with him. The wind was blowing hard, and it was cold. This young guy pumping gas was bundled up and wearing a thick stocking cap.
“Do you have gas to sell?” I asked the young man.
“I just got a delivery,” he said. “I am selling to anybody for a couple of hours. Cash only sales, that way, there is no record.”
“I have the cash,” I said.
“Pull up to a pump, and I will fill you up,” the young man said.
When I paid him, he had a big roll of bills in his pocket. He was doing a booming business for now.
We had to wait for a restaurant to open in Bend, so we could get breakfast. We were able to fill the gas tank again and sleep a bit in the restaurant’s parking lot.
“We should have enough gas to get to Myrtle Point,” I said.
“If we can get gas in Roseburg, I think we should,” Sandy said. “Otherwise, we will run on empty when we get to Myrtle Point, and we won’t be able to get any gas until Monday.”
***
The trip was an obvious success. Both sets of grandparents were thrilled with getting to see the girls. They pretended they were happy to see Sandy and me, but the girls stole the show.
“I have to run up to Enumclaw and look that place over a bit,” I said to Mom. “But I want to visit with Grandpa Davenport if he is up to it.”
“He is doing pretty well right now,” Mom said. “I will give Bernice a call and see when would be a good time for you to visit.”
Mom’s sister, Bernice, and her husband, Hub Haughton, had moved up from California to care for grandpa during the final years of his life. He was getting pretty frail at ninety-four and couldn’t really live alone.
It was two in the afternoon when he arrived at his house on Catching Creek. Bernice had him up and dressed, and he was waiting on the couch when we arrived.
When I was fifteen and thinking I was pretty tough, this old man was eighty-one. I worked for him that summer, and he had worked my butt into the ground. He had trouble keeping the pace for a full eight hours, but the time he worked beside me showed me what endurance was all about.
On this day, I was amazed at how pleased he was to see us.
“David, how have you been,” he said as I sat beside him and shook his hand. His lower lip quivered a bit as he looked at the girls.
I introduced Sandy and Brenda, who he had seen before. But Amy was his first great-granddaughter born following my grandmother’s death, who was also named Amy.
“And this Amy,” I said as I pushed a reluctant two-year-old over to a strange old man.
“Amy,” he said as tears welled up in his eyes. He took her hand, and his lower lip quivered some more.
“And now we have Dee,” I said as Sandy sat Dee on his knee. His sister, Auntie Dee, had been a favorite aunt for a couple of generations of his family.
“Dee,” he said as he balanced her on his knee, and a tear fell down his face.
Our visit was brief but profoundly rewarding. I clearly understood that this was probably my final goodbye when I shook his hand for the last time. It made that long drive worth it.
Bernice went out to the car with us when we were leaving.
“I am so glad you could come to visit, David,” Bernice said. “You know, of course, he probably doesn’t have much time left. But I think he will hold this visit near his heart. We can’t thank you enough.”
The rest of the trip has become sort of blur in my memory. I did make an overnight trip to Enumclaw to look over the job offer. And we did manage to navigate the gas crisis on our return trip to Fort Collins.
My grandfather passed away on June 14 of that year, just as I started my senior year of vet school. There was no possibility of attending his funeral. But this trip had served as my goodbye to this significant role model in my life.
Cows Never Eat the Stuff, From the Archives
D. E. Larsen, DVM
Here I was again, standing over a dead cow, in the middle of a pasture filled with Tansy, listening to a rancher explain to me that cows never touch the stuff. As I stood there sharpening my necropsy knife, I thought about my long history with Tansy.
My first recollection of awareness of Tansy was at a family picnic at Tom and Kathryn Lawson’s ranch, on the top of Catching Creek Mountain, out of Myrtle Point. The year was 1950, the plant was just then starting to show up on the high ridges of Coos County. We knew it killed cows and horses, but I do not recall seeing a loss. My oldest brother had a summer job the following year, working for Coos County spraying Tansy, mainly on the high ridges in the county. It did not take long for it to spread to the valleys. By the time I was 10, pulling Tansy was a standard summer chore for almost any farm kid in the county.
At least this cow was dead. In the 1970s, the diagnosis was challenging in a live animal before it was near death. Blood work could show liver failure, but that was not specific to Tansy toxicity.
I was always amazed at how these guys could be in such a state of denial. They wanted an answer to the death, but one that fits their opinion that cows would never eat the stuff.
It only takes me a few minutes to open this cow up. I slit the skin down the ventral midline and reflect the hide up to her back. Elevating the legs and freeing them of their muscle attachment, I flip both legs and the skin to layout over her back. Then I open the belly and ribs, reflecting them back, so I now have the cow opened for view.
“So, I want you to look at this, Tom,” I say as I start to point out the visible signs of liver failure. “This belly shows all the signs of liver failure. The yellowish discoloration to the tissues, the severe accumulation of fluid in the belly, the chest is normal, and the liver is swollen and pale yellow in color.”
“Okay, I can see liver failure,” Tom says. “But there has to be a lot of things that cause liver failure. How can you be so sure it is Tansy?”
“Well, an old veterinarian, Dr. Pierson, who I respect very much, always said: “When you are in a barn and hear hoofbeats, you look for a horse, not a zebra.”
“I guess I don’t know what that means,” Tom said.
“That means you rule out the obvious diagnosis before you go off in some unrelated direction, trying to prove a once in a lifetime diagnosis. In my mind, when I stand in a field filled with Tansy, looking at a cow with liver failure, the diagnosis is Tansy Toxicity until I prove that it is something else. Now let me get a piece of this liver and show you the insides.”
I slice off a large section of the liver. The very sharp knife almost vibrates as it is pulled through the liver tissue. I lay this piece of liver on the cow’s hip for a makeshift table.
“I can send a piece of this into the lab, and the pathologist will give us a confirmed diagnosis,” I say. “Tansy Toxicity has a very characteristic appearance under the microscope. First, I want you to look at the cut surface of this liver. Think about the liver seen in the store and compare it to this liver. This liver is swollen with rounded edges, not dense with sharp edges, pale yellow in color rather than deep red, and this cut surface has the appearance of nutmeg, not a consistent deep red appearance.”
I handed Tom the knife. “I want you to drag this knife through this liver. You watched how sharp this knife is when I opened this cow. I want you to feel how it almost vibrates as it cuts through this chunk of liver.”
Tom takes the knife and makes a slice in the liver. “It almost feels like it is cutting steel wool.”
“That is maybe a good analogy,” I say.
“Okay, Doc, you have presented me a pretty good case,” Tom says. “And I guess we are going to send a piece of this to the lab, just to be sure. Why is it then, that we don’t have a bunch of cows lying here dead?’
“You are a little bit correct, Tom, when you say the cows never eat the stuff,” I say. “Most cows will avoid it most of the time. It is most dangerous in the hay, and also after it is sprayed. The plant takes up a lot of sugars as it wilts after being sprayed. Cows will find it acceptable for a week or two as it dies. Also, some cows, and some horses, will develop a liking for the stuff, and they will seek it out.”
“So you are saying we are both right,” Tom says.
“Only sort of,” I say. “This cow didn’t eat a bunch of Tansy yesterday and then died. She could have eaten a toxic dose months ago. You are just lucky that you found her dead and not sick. Making a diagnosis in a cow getting ready to die from Tansy is difficult, and expensive. Sometimes I will make several visits before ending up doing a liver biopsy. There is a lot of frustration in treating a Tansy Toxicity. But time always tells us, all of these cows die. I looked at a dead cow once and her 3-day old calf, who was also dead. Both of them died of Tansy Toxicity. The cow is easy to understand. The calf is a little more of a question. It is highly unlikely it could have eaten enough Tansy to be a problem. There is some evidence that the toxic alkaloids are passed in the milk. But probably not in a dangerous concentration. That leaves the placenta; this calf probably received a toxic dose from its mother through the placenta.”
“What do I have to do now to get control of this stuff?” Tom asked.
“It is tough, and it is not going to happen overnight,” I said. “Maybe not even in a year. This stuff it too high to benefit from spraying. I would mow it down and either compost it or burn it if you can. Then next spring, you need to spray the pasture. Keep the cows off the pasture after spraying for 2 – 3 weeks. Then next summer, pull any plants that make it through all of that. Probably most important, get all your neighbors to do the same. And talk to the County Extension Agent. They promise that a caterpillar is coming that will eat the stuff. I haven’t seen any yet.”
“What do I need to do with this carcass?” Tom asked. “Is it toxic? I mean, if my dog gets out here and eats on this, is it going to kill him?”
“Now, that is an interesting question,” I said. “And I don’t have an answer for that one. I will definitely check the books, but I am not sure anything is written about the toxicity of the tissues. I doubt if there is a problem, but I don’t know. I would call the rendering company, or I would bury it.”
Memoirs of a Country Vet 