Tripping Up the Bully


D. E. Larsen, DVM

Broadbent school in the fall of 1952 had grown to its largest enrollment ever with nearly eighty students in eight grades. 

The school board had discovered that the upper part of Catching Creek was actually in the Broadbent district rather than Myrtle Point. In 1952, they started busing those kids to Broadbent. It meant a long bus ride for the kids, but more students for the school.

Tommy, a small blond first-grade boy, was one of those students from upper Catching Creek. I was in the third grade that year, and Tommy, being so small, was a kid I watched over somewhat.

“David, that other David in your class has been picking on me,” Tommy said as we were waiting for the bigger kids to get out of class.

“What is he doing to you?” I asked.

“He pushes me every time he walks past me,” Tommy said. “And he says he will beat me up if I tell the teacher.”

“My dad says that you have to stand up to a bully, or he will just keep pestering you,” I said.

“Yeah, but David is scary,” Tommy said. “He almost acts like a wild man.”

The other David was a special case. The first two years of school, he and his two sisters were homeschooled. They lived at the top of Dement Creek, almost over the hill where Dement Creek, Flores Creek, and Catching Creek all started. They had no neighbors.

During those first two years, the family would come to school for testing to check their progress. 

David was a holy terror during those visits. My mother tried to say he just didn’t know how to play with other kids, but I just thought he was crazy.

Starting in the third grade, David and his two sisters came to school full time. And it was a constant battle between David and all the other three or four boys in the class.

“Let’s figure out how you can get even with him,” I said.

“He always waits in the hall when we are out of class,” Roy said. “He waits there for his sisters to get out of school.

“I bet we could have Tommy hide behind the door while we stand out in the playground and make fun of David,” I said. “He will get mad and come running at us full speed with his fist in the air.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “And when he comes out the door, I could trip him, and he will fall down the stairs.”

“He is probably waiting in the hall right now,” I said. “Let’s just do it now. It will teach him a good lesson.”

 In good weather, half of the double doors were always open. We positioned Tommy behind the closed door.

Roy and I stood out in the school playground so we could see David in the hallway. We started hollering names at him, and sure enough, he came running at us, full steam ahead.

The plan worked so much better than any of us expected. One would have thought it had been conceived by Army generals. David came running out the door, going as fast as he could run, and little Tommy stuck his foot out and tripped him. David fell, ass over tea kettle, down the five concrete steps in front of the school. 

We were probably lucky that he was not seriously injured. But Tommy sort of pranced by David as he picked himself up, looking at scraps on both of his elbows. 

We laughed and patted Tommy on the back and went over to the swings. David got up and went back into the hall to wait for his sisters, and he never said a word.

For the rest of David’s time at school, he was never a problem again, not for us and not for Tommy. David and his two sisters moved to Texas at the end of our fourth-grade year. 

Tommy and I learned a valuable lesson that day, as did many other kids who watched the event. If you ignore the bully’s actions, you just enable him to continue his abuse. In the end, you live with the constant fear of what he will do next. There comes a time you have to stand up to the bully and trip him up the best that you can.

Post Script:

Lessons learned in elementary school often have applications to later, more severe events in one’s life.

Early Morning Education 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I was just stepping out of the shower when the phone rang. “I hope Sandy is awake enough to answer it,” I thought.

“That was Jack, up on Whiskey Butte. He is pretty excited,” Sandy said. “He has heifer down in the middle of the road going into his place. She apparently fell or rolled down a high bank onto the road. He is not sure, but she might be in labor. I told him you would run right up there before going to the office.”

“Yes, I better get on the road,” I said as I quickly dressed. “I will grab a bite to eat at Midway Market on my way back to town. If I hurry, I should be able to get to the clinic not too long after eight.”

The morning air was brisk as I quickly checked the truck to make sure I had everything. I probably drove a little too fast, but the traffic on Whiskey Butte Road was sparse before seven.

I made the turn onto the road down to Jack’s place and slowed for the hairpin curve at the creek. I could see the heifer lying right in the middle of the road, not far from the curve. I pulled my truck to the far right of the road and came to a stop.

She was right in the middle of the narrow gravel road. There was no way to get around her. It looked like she had slid down the bank on the hill side of the road. There was a steep drop on the other side that went down to the creek.

When I got out of the truck, the heifer raised her head and struggled briefly to get up before laying back down and straining. I could see the nose and front feet of the calf at the vulva. This should be an easy delivery.

As I was getting things out of the truck, I could see the school bus making its way around the sharp curve. 

“Looks like the kids are going to get an early lesson this morning,” I said to myself.

The bus pulled up close to the back corner of my truck. I held my hand up to show the driver five fingers. I should be done in five minutes. I could see the kids piling up at the front windows of the bus. Hopefully, he keeps them on the bus.

I put a rope on the heifer and tied it to my front bumper, just in case she decides she wants to leave. Then I tied her tail out of the way with twine tied around her neck.

The hardest part of the job was getting on my knees on the gravel road. But I got down and scrubbed her vulva before doing a quick vaginal exam to make sure things were what they appeared to be. This would be a tight fit, but the heifer had already done most of the work.

I put the nylon OB strap on both front feet and positioned the calf jack. I glanced at the bus, and the kids were now glued to the front window and fighting for position.

I started jacking the calf out. The vulva stretched but did not tear. Some heavy mucus came out of the calf’s nose. Then the head popped clear of the vulva. I worked the jack faster, and as the hips came to engage the pelvis, I pulled the calf jack down, almost to her hocks. This would push the hips higher in the pelvis and allow them to clear. I remembered the hip lock that Jack had on my first visit.

When the hips cleared the pelvis, the calf almost shot out the rest of the way. The calf raised his head and shoulders and gave a little shake to clear more mucus from his nose. The bus almost bounced as the kids all jumped up and down and cheered. 

I quickly treated the calf’s navel and moved him to the edge of the road. Then I checked the heifer’s birth canal. There were no injuries, and there was no other calf onboard.

I rinsed her rear end and untied her tail. Then, I made sure there was plenty of slack in the rope before swatting her on the rump. She rolled up to on her sternum and then jumped to her feet. There were more cheers. The heifer started forward, hit the end of her rope, and swung over the edge of the road. 

I wanted the bus to go by and pick up the kids up the road. I would wait until he came back down the road before releasing the heifer. After the bus eased by us, I moved the calf over under the heifer’s nose. When the bus turned around and came back down the road, the heifer was licking on the calf. All the kids were on the side windows and waving as the bus eased past us again.

I cleaned myself up and released the heifer, then drove up to Jack’s house to tell him all was well and he could drive the heifer and her calf up the road any time.

By the time I got back to the clinic, they already had heard the story from Jim, the principal at Foster School. The bus made it to school a little late, but the kids were all anxious to share their morning lesson with the rest of the students.

Photo by Raphael Nast on Unsplash.

Samson the Goose, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

It was almost comical to watch Tom struggle to get through the front door with both arms wrapped around a large white goose who had no intention of coming inside. The goose was squawking, and in trying to bite an ear, it had knocked his hat off. Finally, Mary rushed over and held the door open as Tom half fell through it into the waiting room.

“That was a struggle,” Tom said, almost out of breath.

“It is a little too early for Thanksgiving,” I said. “What’s up with the goose.”

“This is Samson, I ran over him with the tractor a few minutes ago,” Tom said. “His one leg is broken or something. He can’t stand on it.”

“Tom, I don’t do birds,” I said. “Maybe I can find some place to send him.”

“Now listen,” Tom said, “you are good enough for my cows, you are going to damn well be good enough for my goose. Samson makes me more money than any of my cows. He’s the top breeder in the area. The money from his stud fees sends the old lady and me to Reno every year.”

“Sounds like I better get a look at that leg,” I said. “Let’s get Samson in on the exam table.”

The exam table was an excellent thought unless you are a barnyard goose. Samson had no intention of being put on a table, much less holding still for an exam on a messed up leg.

“Tom, we are going to have to sedate Samson to get an exam,” I said. “It might take 20 minutes or so. Do you want to wait?”

“Doc, I have a bunch of heifers waiting for their morning feeding,” Tom said. “I want you to fix the leg. You give it your best shot. I have every confidence in you. If it turns out that it can’t be fixed, will so be it. I don’t want a bunch of phone calls. I will be back in the morning after my chores.”

Tom left us with Samson who could not stand, did not want to be here, and had no thought about being cooperative. 

“How do you want to handle this?” Mary asked. “You are supposed to be out to Elliot’s right after lunch. They will have their heifer calves caught for vaccinations.”

“You need to give them a call and let them know we have an emergency, and I may be late,” I said. “I don’t want to sedate Samson more than once. We will give him an injection, do the exam, probably will need to get an x-ray, and then go right to surgery, if that is required. That probably means we work through the lunch hour so I can get out to Elliot’s.

My experience working on birds was almost non-existent. We got an estimate of Samson’s weight by Mary holding him and standing on the scale, then subtracting her weight. I gave him a good dose of ketamine for anesthesia. It only took a few minutes, and we could lay him down on the exam table.

I was surprised that Samson was relatively free from any other injury except the left leg. The leg was a mess. It didn’t feel like any fractures were present, but the knee was totally ruined. There was a definite rupture of the anterior cruciate ligament and also the lateral collateral ligament. We took an x-ray to make sure there were no fractures.

With Samson still under anesthesia, we started plucking feathers and prepared the leg for surgery. I incised over the lateral stifle (or knee). It looked more like a turkey drumstick at Thanksgiving than anything I had looked at before. I carefully dissected to where I could reflect the knee cap to the inside of the leg and expose the knee joint.

It looked better than I was expecting. The lateral collateral ligament was torn, and that fact allowed me to examine the joint a little easier. I spread the joint open, the cartilages were intact, and the anterior cruciate was completely torn.

 “How do you repair this in a goose?” I said to myself.

Samson would put far less stress on this knee than a dog, so a repair should have a better prognosis. I decided to use a modified Paatsama procedure. I looked for a good strip of fascia to use to replace the cruciate ligament and found a suitable piece of lateral fascia that would work. I could leave one end attached near the knee. I drilled a hole with an IM pin through the lateral condyle of the femur, exiting at the location of the cruciate ligament and continued it through the tibia to come out on the medial side of the tibia tuberosity. I thread the strip of fascia through this hole and placed anchoring sutures on each end of the strip of the fascia. I was a little surprised at how stable the joint felt when I was done.

I repaired the lateral collateral ligament with stainless steel sutures. Then I returned the knee cap to normal position and closed the joint. I used Dexon sutures for all the closures and a subcuticular suture for the skin closure.

We placed Samson in a kennel for recovery. I was surprised when I returned from my farm call. Samson was up standing on the repaired leg like nothing happened. I glanced at the clock. With any luck, I could get Tom in here to take the goose home this evening.

“Tom, can you pick up Samson this afternoon,” I said into the phone when Tom answered.

“Is he okay?” Tom asked.

“We did surgery and repaired the leg,” I said. “He is fully recovered and walking well. He will probably be better off in his barn than here tonight.”

“I will be right there,” Tom said.

“I told you that you guys were good enough for my goose.” Tom beamed as he scooped up Samson and headed for the door. “Remember that when you fill out the bill.”

When the breeding season came, Samson was in shape and functional as ever. He paid for another trip to Reno for Tom and his wife.  

Samson had learned to avoid the tractor, and I had learned that I would be stuck working on farm birds for the rest of my life.

Photo by Eric Muhr on Unsplash