The Deadly Foul

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Louie and Virginia had been clients for the very early days of my practice in Sweet Home. Louie was a tall, lanky guy who had worked hard for most of his life. Virginia was the sweet side of the couple who kept Louie in line most of the time.

Louie told me once of their move from New Mexico to Oregon shortly after they were married. They first stopped in Roseburg for a short time before moving on to Sweet Home. That was a move that they never regretted.

They became real Sweet Home residents. Like Sandy and I, not lifelong, but very dedicated members of the community. And they were both regular visitors to the clinic.

Gigi was their current pet. She was mainly a poodle, and she went everywhere with Louie. For the most part, Louie was the one who would bring Gigi into the clinic for her routine visits.

***

The day was a nice early summer day in Western Oregon, with bright sunshine and moderate temperatures. This is the type of day that drives people outside. They often forget their appointments, even those made yesterday.

Summer league baseball and softball were in full swing at the local diamonds. Operated by the local association, it gave the town’s youth ample opportunity to play ball.

I had a farm call in the late afternoon, so I could escape the chaos of the clinic and enjoy the late afternoon. I noticed that the bleachers were full as I passed them out by Hawthorne school. I only had to vaccinate a couple of calves for brucellosis at a small backyard lot out on the end of Long Street.

Brucellosis vaccine had to be administered by a veterinarian. This was because the state needed a record of the vaccination. And because the vaccine could cause the disease in the person using the vaccine if not handled correctly.

The brucellosis vaccine in those years was called Strain Nineteen. It was an attenuated live bacteria vaccine. Its efficacy was debated, but it was at least seventy effective in preventing brucellosis in cattle. That was considered enough to provide herd immunity. 

The other problem with the Strain Nineteen vaccine was that the vaccine could induce disease in man if mishandled. This usually occurred in young veterinarians who were not adequately acquainted with handling procedures.

The titer in vaccinated calves declined at a rate that they could test negative for the disease as an adult. This was important because, along with a vaccination program, we had a test a slaughter program. Cows that tested positive went to slaughter, and the herd they came from, and sometimes the entire county, would be quarantined.

***

It was after closing when I returned to the clinic, and everyone had left for the day. I was busy cleaning up the truck and equipment from the farm call when there was some loud knocking on the front door.

“Dammit,” I thought, “I will never make it home for dinner.”

I looked at the front door. There was Louie and Virginia with a very limp Gigi. I opened the door, and Louie rushed in, looking a little confused at where to go with Gigi.  I pointed him to the surgery room.

“Doc, I think she’s dead, but I just wanted to have you check and make sure,” Louie said, almost a matter of factly, as he carefully laid her on the table.

“What happened?” I asked as I put an oxygen mask on her before starting an exam.

“We went out to watch our granddaughter play softball,” Virginia said. “It was such a great afternoon that we didn’t want to miss the opportunity. 

“We had Gigi sitting between us,” Louie said. “This girl hits a foul ball that went really high. I could have caught it twenty years ago, but the sun was in my eyes, and my reflexes are not what they used to be.”

“That ball came down right between us and hit Gigi right on top of her head,” Virginia said. “What are the odds of that happening to a little dog perched between two big people.”

“I think it killed her right on the spot,” Louie said. “She hasn’t taken a breath since it happened. There was nothing to do. We just gathered her up and rushed down here. I didn’t want the girls to see her. They have enough to deal with these days.”

Sure enough, Gigi had no pulse and no response in her pupils. I turned off the oxygen. 

“Unfortunately, Louie, I think you are right. She is dead, probably not a thing that could have been done to save her. It happens to ballplayers at times. That’s why they wear helmets nowadays.”

“What do we do now,” Virginia asked.

“I can take care of her for you,” I said. “We have several options. Cremation, either private or communal, or you can take her home to bury yourself.”

“This has been so sudden. Can we think about it for a day or two?” Louie asked.

“That is not a problem, Louie,” I said. “I can hold her for a week with no problem. You two have been through a lot in the last few minutes. You need to go home and relax. Check with us when you are ready.”

Leaving the clinic now was bittersweet. I would make it home for dinner, but the transaction with Louie and Virginia would wear on me for some time. What were the odds, indeed?

Photo by Noodles from Pexels

Ergot Foot

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Perry was busy loading a large log onto his portable sawmill when I pulled through the gate. I stopped and closed and gate and then sat in the truck to watch his operation for a few minutes.

I could see the young cow standing off to the side of the activity. It did not appear that she was interested in moving much.

Perry had a stack of large logs, most of them about four feet in diameter. They didn’t look like prime logs, but the lumber he had stacked nearby seemed pretty good.

After he had the log positioned, Perry turned off his loader and walked over to the truck.

“This is quite an operation,” I said as I extended my hand.

“Oh, it’s just a sideline to help pay for the cows,” Perry said. “I buy a bunch of cull logs when I can. I get them dirt cheap for chip prices. I find quite a bit of good wood them. I can do that because I have the time that the mills don’t. Anyway, I get the good wood and then send the rest of the stuff down the road to the chipper. I usually come out pretty good. If you have some time, I will show how this little mill works after we take care of this little cow.”

We walked over to the cow. I brought my rope, even though Perry acted like it wasn’t going to be needed.

“I have to really work to make this gal take a step,” Perry said. “She has one heck of a sore foot on her right hind.” 

The cow didn’t budge when I stuck a thermometer in her rear end. I looked her over and listened to her chest. Her temperature was up a little, and her pulse was elevated. Everything else looked okay. 

I knelt down and looked at her sore foot close. There was an obvious line of demarcation that ran around her foot above the hoof. The skin below the line was hard and leather-like. I stood up and checked the tip of her tail. It was also dry and cracked. I think it would have come off in my hand if I had given it a little tug.

“What do you think, Doc?” Perry asked.

“I think this is Ergot Foot,” I said. “Where have you been keeping her?”

“I brought her a three other over from my place up the Calapooia River,” Perry said. “They in the pasture below the barn, it was pretty tall, and I couldn’t make hay out of it this year. So I figured I would get some use out of the grass.”

“So it was tall and headed out when you put on the pasture?” I asked.

“Yes, but the others are all okay at this point,” Perry said.

“This is caused by a fungus that grows on seed heads,” I said. “You need to move the others off of this pasture, probably put them back at your place.”

“What about this girl?” Perry said. “Is there anything we can do for her?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “The end of her tail is going to fall off any minute, and her hooves will slough on this foot in a short time. She is not going to recover.”

“Can I send her to slaughter?” Perry asked.

“To be honest, I don’t know for sure,” I said. “But my guess is they will tank her. The only way to know is to send her to an inspected slaughter and let the veterinarian there make the decision.”

“If it is that questionable, I will just take care of her myself,” Perry said. “There is no sense of loading her onto a truck and haul her off. It is too painful for her to take a step on level ground.”

“Yes, that’ll be best,” I said. “Then you need to get the others off the pasture, and you should probably clip that pasture down. Don’t make hay with it unless you get it checked by the extension agent. I would just clip it this year and pasture it next year, so it is eaten down before it heads out. The fungus grows in the seed heads.”

“Okay, that’s done,” Perry said. “Not good news for this girl, but this farming business is one of those things that you have to learn something new all the time. Come on over here, and I will show you how this little sawmill works. This keeps me busy. I can’t stand to just sit around and watch the calves grow.”

Perry’s sawmill was a small, free-standing little mill. But it was not one of those cheap ones. Perry would load a log onto the carriage and set the dimensions that he wanted. It had both a horizontal saw and multiple vertical saws. So, with one pass along the log, it would make on horizontal cut about twelve inches deep. At the same time, if he was cutting two-inch boards, it would make six vertical cuts two inches apart. That would give six boards, however wide the horizontal cut was made.

“I cut up one of these logs in a couple of hours,” Perry said. “If I hired a couple of young guys to pull green chain, I could do it faster. I save the good boards and the others I throw in the slag pile. I send the slag pile and the sawdust to the chipper place. That just about pays for the log, and the lumber is pure profit.”

“I have seen some cheap portable mills, but this one looks pretty sophisticated,” I said.

“Yes, sophisticated and expensive,” Perry said. “But, with the profit margin on this lumber, I paid for this mill in the first month. A man with a crew could make some real money doing this, as long as the price of chip logs stays low and the lumber’s price is high. That part of things is sort of like the cattle market. You never know what next spring will bring.”

Photo by James Wheeler from Pexels.

From the Archives, one year ago

Banana Chip Therapy