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.”

Gary’s Accident 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

The afternoon was filled with bright sunshine and anticipation. It was the end of March, Friday the 31st in 1950, and we were planning to go to the high school tonight to watch the school play. Our cousin, Bill Davenport, was one of the actors. The last two weeks of March had been a welcome relief from January and February’s horrible weather. 

In January, we had just moved to our place in Broadbent and were welcomed with nearly two feet of snow. The weather remained miserable through February. A couple of weeks of good weather in March had the grass growing we were enjoying the out of doors.

There was a massive cherry tree in the backyard, and I was sitting in the grass under that tree. Gary was on a sturdy wooden table that was under the cherry tree.

“I’m going to jump on you,” Gary said. “You better move.”

Gary, four years older than me, was always picking on me. I considered myself tougher than him, so I didn’t pay much attention to his threats.

Suddenly, he made a leap at me. His arms were spread as if he was going to swoop me up. He landed far short of me, putting his hands down to break his fall.

The next I knew, Gary was screaming and bouncing across the yard, holding his hand, with blood spurting everywhere.

By some stroke of divine guidance, Dad had brought home a first-aid booklet and a tourniquet for Larry, my oldest brother, to study for a first-aid card so he could get a summer job.

“Larry, get ahold of Gary, and I will grab the tourniquet,” Mom said as she ran into the house.

Larry’s memory was that he tackled Gary, but that may have not been an accurate description of the event. Mom was right there with a towel and the tourniquet.

“Do you know how to use this?” Mom asked.

“I just read that chapter last night,” Larry replied as he applied the tourniquet to Gary’s forearm. He twisted it tight until most of the bleeding stopped. “This is a bad cut, Mom. We need to get him to the hospital.”

“Linda, you need to call Mrs. Hermann and see if she has a car and can take us to the hospital,” Mom said as she picked up Gary and sat on the edge of the porch, holding him in her lap.

Gary buried his head in her chest and sobbed.

I looked at Gary’s hand as I passed by and followed Linda into the house. The phone was sort of a mystery to me. It was a large wooden box that hung on the wall and had a crank handle that Linda turned three or four times. I was never allowed to use the phone. Everyone on the line had a number coded in long and short sounds. Linda knew Mrs. Hermann’s number, and since she was on our line, she could call her without talking to the operator.

“Gary cut his hand real bad,” Linda said into the phone. “Dad has the car at work, and we need to get him to the hospital.”

“I will be right there,” I could hear Mrs. Hermann say.

Mrs. Hermann’s car was like our car, but it was black. Larry helped Mom and Gary into the back seat, and then he got in the front with Mrs. Hermann.

“When Dad gets home, you have him call the hospital before he comes,” Mom said to Linda through her open window as Mrs. Hermann started down the lane to the highway.

“Okay, David, let’s go find what cut Gary’s hand,” Linda said as we watched the car pull onto the highway and head to town.

I ran over to where I was sitting, and Linda followed.

“Gary landed right there,” I said as I pointed to the spot where he had landed. I could see blood on the grass.

Linda looked in the grass where there was blood on the grass. She picked up a broken bottom of a milk bottle, and there was blood on the glass.

“This is what happens when you guys play out where the grass is long and hasn’t been mowed,” Linda said. “I don’t want to see you out here until this grass is cut.”

Linda was ten years older than me, and I think she thought she could boss me like Mom.

“We need to go in and call Grandma and Aunt Lila,” Linda said.

I don’t know why she said we needed to go call. I was not allowed to use the phone. But I followed along and listened to her make the calls.

There was nothing else to do until Dad got home. Linda seemed to be on the phone all the time. I think she was calling everyone she knew.

It seemed like hours before Dad got home, and Linda was crying as she tried to tell him what had happened. About that time, Mrs. Hermann drove up with Larry in the car.

“Boy, what a day this has turned out to be,” Mrs. Hermann said while talking with Dad. “They had traffic stopped at Hoffman Wayside, but I rolled down my window and waved. They let us through as soon as I told them we had an emergency. When we got to the hospital, they gave Gary a couple of shots, and Gary got ready for surgery. Anyway, we dropped Deacon and Gary at the hospital. And the doctor said that Larry did an excellent job with the tourniquet. Otherwise, Gary could have lost his hand.”

“We can’t thank you enough,” Dad said. “Can I give you some money for gas?”

“No, I think you will need all the money you have by the time that hand is fixed,” Mrs. Hermann said.

Mrs. Hermann had not been gone too long when Grandma and Grandpa showed up.

“We just wanted to make sure you guys were going to be okay the next day or two,” Grandma said. “Have you heard from Dolores yet?”

“She hasn’t called yet,” Dad said. “I think they are probably working on Gary’s hand still. Larry and I will do the evening milking now, and Linda will fix dinner. I think Larry and David can get the morning milking done.”

“Well, David isn’t going to be able to stay home by himself when Larry and Linda go to school tomorrow,” Grandma said.

“I’m big enough,” I said.

“I know you think you’re big enough, but I think we will come over in the morning and pick you up before Larry and Linda go to school,” Grandma said. “We can take you two to school, so you don’t have to worry about catching the bus.”

We were just done with that conversation when Mom called.

“Gary is in surgery now,” Mom said. “Doctor Gurney is operating on his hand. We will need to stay the night here. They say that I can sleep in his room, and I think I will be able to come home tomorrow afternoon. The doctor says he is pretty sure that this surgery is just a temporary fix and that we will have to go to Portland to the Shriners Hospital for more surgery. I think Dr. Gurney said he would be sending us to see a Dr. Thatcher.”

“Grandma said they can come over and pick you up when you are ready to come home,” Dad said on the phone. “You take care and tell Gary to keep his chin up. Grandma also says that she will call Uncle Ferrill. You can probably stay with them if you go to Portland.”

Mom came home in the afternoon, the day following Gary’s surgery. Gary stayed another day.

During surgery, Dr. Gurney had to make an incision at Gary’s wrist in order to pull the tendons back into the wound. They had retracted with the muscle pull after they were severed.

“The worst thing about the surgery was when they put a mask on my face and then dropped ether on the mask,” Gary said as we sat at the dinner table the day after he was home. “They asked me to count while they did the drops, and I think I got to six.”

And so, Gary’s ordeal began. At home, we made do. Larry could do the morning milking with no problem. It was early enough in the spring that many cows had not calved yet. Linda could come close to fixing dinner and breakfast, although I am sure she complained a bit. There were days that I stayed with Grandma and Grandpa, and I liked that because I could spend time in the lower barn with Uncle Ern.

“This is the bottom of a milk bottle that cut your hand when you landed on it,” Dad said as he showed Gary the jagged piece of glass.

“I don’t want to look at it,” Gary said.

Dad took the piece of glass and threw it down the hole in the outhouse.

The first trip to Portland was for surgery. Mom and Gary stayed with Uncle Ferrill’s family on their dairy farm out of Aurora. 

To avoid the discomfort of the ether anesthesia, when they started the drops, Gary breathed as deep as he could so he would be under quicker. Dr. Thatcher opened the wound at the original laceration site and cleaned up the tendon repairs done by Dr. Gurney. 

A few weeks following that surgery, Dr. Thatcher signed Gary up for a couple of weeks of physical therapy. Mom and Gary would make daily trips into Portland for Ferrill’s farm in Aurora. This involved a trip across the Willamette River on Boone’s Ferry to and from Wilsonville.

Gary was testing how well he could throw with his left arm during this stay. His target was the many swallow nests under the eves of the barn. Uncle Ferrill caught him in the act and was none too happy.

There were follow-up trips for months with a second surgery stuck in there somewhere. I went along and stayed at Ferrill’s on the second surgery trip. 

The second surgery was through an incision separate from the original injury on Gary’s palm of his right hand. And again, Gary sucked in the ether as fast as he could.

The frequent trips were arduous. Dad would take Mom and Gary to catch the Greyhound Bus in Coquille at three or four in the morning. The bus trip up the coast to Portland was a long one, probably eight hours. People would flag the bus down at most any location along the route, disrupting anyone trying to sleep.

They did have a stop at Otis Junction that allowed for a walk to stretch their legs and get a bite of food. Then the bus went on to Portland. 

They would get off the bus at the central Greyhound station in the middle of downtown Portland and walk a couple blocks to the doctor’s office. It was in a high-rise building on the seventh floor.

After the doctor’s visit, they would eat lunch, usually a hamburger and fries, at the lunch counter in the Woolworths store. Then they would have time for a movie before catching the bus back to Coquille. If they were lucky, they would be able to get some sleep on the bus, wrapping up a nearly twenty-four-hour day. They would arrive in Coquille around two in the morning.

“You should see all the movie theaters in Portland,” Gary said one evening as we were getting into bed. “There are five or six of them, all in a group, and you can just pick which movie you want to watch.”

Gary’s hand was never the same. The laceration was across the entire width of the palm of his hand, severing tendons, muscles, blood vessels, and some nerves. As he went through life, he displayed his Larsen character and never allowed the deficit to dictate what he could or could not do.

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.