D. E. Larsen, DVM

I read the question again, this time carefully. 

This was a typical multiple-choice test that we had in Dr. Cheney’s Parasitology class. There was a question and usually five answers. You were to select all the correct choices. One incorrect selection, or failing to choose a correct choice, and the entire question was marked wrong.

They always seemed to throw a negative in the mix somewhere. The negatives were my downfall. For some reason, my mind would not read a negative. I assumed that it was because I lived with a positive attitude. 

My test-taking strategy was to go as fast as possible. My first impression was always the most reliable, and I never looked back over my answers. 

I suffered for that when there were negatives in the question or the answers. To me, that was just the cost of keeping my stress level low. Finish the test quickly, and then go have a cup of coffee while the rest of the class struggles. In four years, I was always the first one done with any test.

“Where are the likely locations you will find fleas?” That was the question. I am not sure I remember all the choices, but most were in the house. Like on the carpet, along the baseboards, on the dog’s back. And then there was the stickler, outside in the grass.

Now, you should know that I grew up in the Pacific Northwest. Veterinary school was located in Fort Collins, Colorado. I had been around fleas my entire life. And if you looked really hard, you might find a flea in Fort Collins, but not many more than that single flea.

If you remember those flea collars that were said to be effective for six months. I have little doubt but that the testing to certify those six months of effectiveness was done in Denver. Of course, like Fort Collins, there are very few fleas in Denver.

I read the question one more time time. I remembered Dr. Cheney stressing in his lecture that the flea resided in the house. I never spent this much time on a single question before. I made my selection, including outside in the grass, and moved on.

Again, I was the first to turn in my paper and leave the room, but it didn’t take long for others to follow. I had spent too much time on that one question. But that was over now, hopefully never to be discussed again, certainly, not over this cup of coffee.

***

First thing Monday afternoon in Parasitology class, Dr. Cheney handed out the corrected tests and asked if there were any questions or discussion.

I scanned the results quickly. Sure enough, my answer on the location of fleas was marked wrong. I always hated listening to some of the class nerds argue over a test question. After all, one question, right or wrong, was not going to influence my grade one bit. But this needed some discussion. I raised my hand.

“You have a question, Mr. Larsen?” Dr. Cheney asked.

“Yes, why is my answer to question fourteen marked wrong?” I asked.

“If you had taken adequate notes, you would have learned that fleas reside on the animal or in the house, not outside,” Dr. Cheney said.

“That may be the case in Colorado, but that is not the case in Oregon,” I said.

“Can you show me a reference to that fact?” Dr. Cheney asked.

“Over twenty years of life experience,” I said.

One classmate, also from Oregon, raised his hand. Dr. Cheney pointed at him.

“I agree with Dave,” Chuck said. “There is ample evidence of fleas living outside in the grass in Western Oregon.”

“I’m sorry, your answers are both wrong,” Dr. Cheney said as he continued with the class discussion.

***

It was several years later, during a very hot and dry summer in Sweet Home, when the flea problems became almost insurmountable.

Dogs, along with a few cats, with flea allergy dermatitis, consumed over half of my clinic time. The biggest hurdle in solving the problem often involved convincing the owner that the dog had fleas. Then the hassle we had to go through in those years to get the flea population under control was expensive and arduous.

I started discussing my flea control recommendations with one client early in my practice in Sweet Home. Most clients were reluctant to jump through all the hoops necessary. They want a quick fix.

“You have to do more than just a flea collar,” I said. “Flea collars work great in Denver, but there are few, if any, fleas in Denver. When I was in school at Colorado State, I never saw a single case of flea allergy dermatitis. Around here, that little cloud of protection that the flea collar is supposed to provide is usually two feet behind the dog.”

“Doc, you don’t have to convince me about flea control,” George said. “We moved here from New Zealand. In New Zealand, many people would wear flea collars around their ankles to keep from picking up fleas when they were outside.”

“I have heard similar stories around here,” I said. “That is a little drastic, but the important thing is to follow a program to eliminate fleas from the pet’s environment. That usually means using a flea bomb in the house after vacuuming and repeating the process in two weeks. The vacuum stimulates the eggs to hatch; the bomb will kill the fleas and larvae, but not the eggs. That is why you have to do it twice. At the same time, you have to treat the pet with a shampoo and dip, or a good spray. And you have to spray the yard also.”

“That adds up to a little expense,” George said. 

“Yes, but it is cheaper than dealing with a constant flea exposure when you have an allergic pet,” I said.

***

A couple of weeks after that conversation, Fred Briggs visited the clinic on his monthly rounds. Fred was my favorite salesman.

“I have a new product line that will make your job a little easier, Doc,” Fred said. “Vet-Kim has come out with a complete line of flea control products. Everything is well labeled, and the program for flea control is well explained with a handout.”

“That sounds good,” I said. “I spend a lot of time explaining flea control. If we can shift that to the front desk, it will help me out a lot. Let’s look at the products.”

Fred set out his display. I picked up a large spray bottle that caught my eye.

“Yard and Kennel Spray,” I said under my breath.

“Yes,” Fred said. “It comes with a good explanation sheet.”

“Do you suppose I could have you send one of these to Dr. Cheney at Colorado State?” I asked.

“I know the salesman who calls on the vet school there,” Fred said. “I bet I could get him to hand a bottle to this Dr. Cheney. What’s the deal?”

“It goes back to a test question, years ago,” I said. “If you can get it done, that would be great. Just add it to my account.”

“Do you want your name on it, so he will know who sent it?” Fred asked.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said. “If Dr. Cheney has a good memory, he will know. If he doesn’t remember, it doesn’t matter.”

***

It was three weeks later when Fred called and asked to speak with me.

“I just wanted to let you know my friend delivered the spray to Dr. Cheney,” Fred said. “He said that it took a few minutes, but Dr. Cheney was able to tell him the whole story. It seemed to be the only time a student had told him he was wrong. “

***

Epilogue: With the advent of the new array of flea control products, the old regimen is long gone and faded from most memories. I doubt that you can purchase a flea bomb for the house today.

Photo Credit: Arthur Uzoagba on pexels.com

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I was in the back room cleaning up from my morning farm calls. I had been in Enumclaw for a little over a year, and my portion of the practice was steadily growing. Today was a fairly typical Monday. The morning was spent on herd health work with two or three dairy herds, followed by a full afternoon schedule of office calls at the clinic.

I was hoping to have time today to run home for a quick lunch with Sandy and the girls. Sandy was over seven months pregnant, and I liked to be able to check on her during the day.

Just as I was pulling my shirt back on, Kathy popped her head through the door from the front of the clinic.

“Oh, good,” She said. “I see you’re ready to go to work.”

“I was hoping I had time to get a quick lunch,” I said.

“No such luck, Cheryl is on her way with her young tomcat,” Kathy said. “You should remember her. She is the one you tried to convince to have her cat neutered. He was that young orange tomcat you gave vaccines to a few months ago.”

“Yes, I remember, she was a pleasant young gal,” I said. “But sort of stubborn, I guess the cat still isn’t neutered.”

“That’s the one,” Kathy said. “She is pretty excited. I think Leo must be pretty sick.”

Kathy was right. Just as I stepped into the front of the clinic, Cheryl pulled into the parking lot. I watched as she rushed around and wrestled a large cardboard box out of the back seat. Plastic cat carriers were not common in 1976.

Cheryl was out of breath when she pushed through the front door.

“I think he is almost gone,” Cheryl said, as Kathy took the box from her. She followed us into the exam room.

Kathy placed a fleece pad on the exam table, and I lifted Leo out of the box and placed him on the padded table top. He was limp as a dishrag.

The instant he hit the table, he went into a seizure, and then he was gone.

Cheryl watched, horrified. “Oh, my gosh, what could have happened to him?” Cheryl asked. “He seemed fine yesterday.”

I raised Leo’s lip and then opened his mouth. His membranes were ghost white. Running my hands over his body, there was no evidence of any trauma.

“He has been in the house the last few days,” Cheryl said. “He couldn’t have been injured.”

“Give me a few minutes,” I said. “I will get a drop or two of blood and get a look at it. You can wait out front if you like.”

The Clinic in Enumclaw was not really set up to accommodate small animal clients. Historically, it was a dairy practice that took care of dogs and cats as an afterthought. After my arrival, the small animal practice began to expand a bit. Some of that was because I made an effort to be available in the afternoons. Being part of a younger generation in veterinary medicine may have also influenced the practice’s growth.

As soon as Cheryl left the exam room, I drew a small sample of blood from Leo’s jugular vein. It looked like red water. I was certain this was a Feline Leukemia death.

Sure enough, Leo’s blood showed a packed cell volume (PCV) of 6%, not compatible with life, and the blood slide was covered with abnormal lymphocytes. Quick chair-side diagnostics for feline leukemia were not available in 1976, but this was all I needed for the diagnosis in a dead cat.

I stepped out and motioned for Cheryl to return to the exam room.

“Leo died of Feline Leukemia,” I said.

“I feel so guilty,” Cheryl said. “Could we have done something for him if I had gotten him here earlier?”

“Cheryl, this disease is killing a lot of cats these days,” I said. “We lose cats every week. Had we seen him yesterday or the day before, we might have bought him some time with a blood transfusion and some medication. But the outcome would not have changed, and the transfusion only would have bought him a few weeks or a month or two at best.”

Cheryl carefully loaded Leo back into his box.

“At least I can take him home and bury him under his favorite tree,” Cheryl said as she headed out the door.

“That’s so sad,” Kathy said. “I wish there was something that could be done for these cats.”

“They’re working on it,” I said. “But it will be while.”

***

It was late in the day on Wednesday when I noticed Kathy hang up the phone and look at me with concern all over her face.

“That was a new client,” Kathy said. “She is on her way, she said five minutes. It sounds just like another Leo.”

It was less than three minutes when Marie came through the door with a cat carrier. She was in tears.

“I think he just died,” Marie said, the tears streaming down her face. “It happened so fast. He seemed fine this morning, and when I got home from work, he was stretched out on the front steps, unable to move. He had a seizure or something just as I pulled into the parking lot. There was a terrible ruckus in the carrier. And he looks dead to me.”

Kathy placed the carrier on the exam table, and I removed the cat.  A young orange tomcat. Sure enough, he was dead. One didn’t need a degree to determine that. I opened his mouth; no color to his membranes. There was no evidence of any other injury.

“He even looks just like Leo,” Kathy said.

“What do you think happened to Nacho, Doctor?” Marie asked.

“I could do some blood tests if you want, just to be more accurate in my guess, but I would I would guess he has feline leukemia,” I said.

“How did he get something like that?” Marie asked.

“It is caused by a virus. It is a common problem around here,” I said. “A young tomcat like Nacho could have easily gotten it from a bite wound from an infected cat. Sometimes the virus is passed from an infected mother to her kittens, either before or after birth. Some cats will live a long time with the virus, others, like Nacho here, not so long.”

“Could you have helped him if I had brought him in this morning?” Marie asked.

“We could have bought him some time,” I said. “Not much, maybe a week or two. Do you want me to do some blood work on him now?”

“No, I don’t need to be spending any more money on a dead cat,” Marie said as she placed Nacho back into her carrier. “Thank you for your information.”

Marie paid her bill and left with Nacho. I don’t think I saw her again.

***

Early Friday afternoon, the scene repeated itself one more time. Three leukemia cats in one week seemed a bit much. This time, it was a good client, Ellen, with Sunshine, whom we had seen many times in the last year.

Ellen came flying through the door carrying Sunshine wrapped in a towel. 

“I didn’t have time to call,” Ellen said. “Sunshine was flat out on the kitchen floor when I got home a few minutes ago. I think he is dying.”

We directed Ellen and Sunshine into the surgery room where we had an open table. She carefully laid him down on the table.

“I have been sick with worry all week,” Ellen said. “I talked with Cheryl on Monday, and then Marie called me last night. Leo and Nacho are both brothers of Sunshine, all from the same litter. Then I called Mrs. Wilson. She said her momma cat seems to have kittens that don’t live very long. Cheryl said you told her Leo could have gotten the virus from his mother. I am just sick over all of this.”

I carefully looked at Sunshine. I had vaccinated him as a kitten, neutered him at six months of age, and then saw him for his annual exam. He was a friendly, neutered male cat. It was easy to recognize why Ellen was so distressed by his pending death.

I opened Sunshine’s mouth. His membranes had no color. I tried to respond as I stroked his head and back, but he did not have the strength to raise his head off the table. I was as gentle as possible, trying hard to keep from inducing a seizure that would end his life.

I clipped a foreleg and prepped it so I could place a catheter.

“Ellen, I am going to place a catheter in his leg,” I said. “That is going to allow me to collect a blood sample, and if we are lucky, we will be able to give Sunshine some blood. There is a risk here. Sunshine is very fragile right now; he could die at any moment. If he struggles at all, he could die.”

“I understand, Doctor,” Ellen said. “Cheryl told me her story. It must have been horrible to watch.”

“You are welcome to wait out front,” I said. “This is going to take some time. If I can place the catheter, and if the blood shows what I suspect, then I will collect some blood from our donor cat. This might take half an hour.”

“That’s fine, Doc,” Ellen said. “Sunshine will rest better if I am here with him.”

“If I can get some blood into him, his response will look like a miracle to you,” I said. “But you have to understand, this is only going to buy him a few weeks. Maybe a month or two if we load him up with some medication.”

“I will make those weeks the best weeks of his life,” Ellen said. “I can promise you that, Doc. Go ahead and try, we will take any time you can buy.”

With Ellen petting Sunshine and murmuring into his ear, I was able to place the catheter and collect a small sample of very watery-looking blood.

Sunshine’s PCV was 8%, which may be why he was still alive, but it was still marginal. There were many abnormal cells on the blood slide. I headed to the back to retrieve our donor cat.

I sedated the donor and collected just over a hundred ccs of blood in two heparinized syringes.

“How long is it going to take to give him that blood?” Ellen asked.

“Sunshine does have time to have it dripped into his vein,” I said. “I am going to give it out of the syringe, as a push. It will only take a few minutes. Prepare yourself for a miracle.”

I started with the smaller syringe, pushing the plunger of the thirty-five cc syringe at a slow, steady pace until it was empty. Sunshine blinked his eyes and shook his head. Then, with Ellen’s help, he righted himself to his sternum.

I started with the larger syringe of seventy ccs. By the time that syringe was empty, Sunshine was licking at his catheter and Ellen’s hands. Now the tears came, Ellen gave me a hug, and sobbed out a thank you.

I gave Sunshine a large dose of dexamethasone and removed his catheter. 

“Okay, remember what I said, this is only going to last a few weeks,” I said. “Let me look at him on Monday.

Ellen wrapped Sunshine in his towel and put him on her shoulder, wiped her tears away, and worked her way through the now crowded waiting room.

“We will see you on Monday, Doc,” Ellen said as she exited.

***

It was almost three weeks to the day when Ellen returned with Sunshine and requested euthanasia.

“He had a great three weeks,” Ellen said. “But I can tell it is time, he hasn’t moved from his bed for two days now. We want to thank you again for that extra time.”

Photo Credit: Daniil Kondrashin on Pexels.

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Dee, actually DeLaine, was our third daughter. Her first-grade teacher was Mrs. Looney at Hawthorne School in Sweet Home.

During the summer between her first and second grade, we moved to a different house on the eastern side of Sweet Home, a short distance from the city limits. That meant the kids had to change schools to Foster School.

But the change was a little easier for Dee since her second-grade teacher was Mr. Looney. I was on the school board at the time, which allowed me to exert some subtle pressure on teacher selection. 

Anyway, it was an easy transition for all the kids. Our oldest daughter, Brenda, was in Junior High School, so she was not affected by the move. Amy, our middle daughter, was a very good student, and the change caused her no problems. Good students do well under any circumstances. Our son, Derek, was not in school yet.

The school year started, and things seemed to be going pretty well. The clinic was busy, and I probably didn’t pay much attention to the goings on at school. Foster was considered to be one of the better elementary schools in the district, if not the best.

Then came our first parent-teacher conference. For the most part, these were pretty routine. The kids were always at the top of their class, an asset to have in the classroom, and there was nothing else to say.

But our conference with Mr. Looney was a bit different this time. 

“Dee is doing well,” Mr Looney said. “That is everywhere except in her reading group. I have her in the highest group, but she is lagging a bit, and I am considering moving her to the next group down. What do you think of that idea?”

Sandy and I exchanged glances. This was new to us. We had never had to make any decisions about the girls’ education before.

“Just what does that mean?’ I asked, with some concern in my voice.

“It’s not a major change,” Mr. Looney assured us. “The second group is still pretty good readers; they just seem to read at a slower pace.”

“How close are you to making that change? I asked.

“There is no urgency. I just want to do what is best for Dee.” Mr. Looney said.

I scratched my chin and glanced at Sandy again.

“Give us a couple of weeks, and let me see is get her a little more involved,” I said. “Do you have any competition within the groups?

“I keep track of where they are in their assignments,” Mr. Looney said. “It is not a real competition, but the kids can check their standings if they want. Right now, Dee is the lowest in the group of eight students.”

“Okay, I’ll check back with you in a couple of weeks,” I said as we stood up to leave.

Sandy looked at me as I started out to the car. 

“What are you thinking?” Sandy asked.

“I’m thinking that Dee will do better if she is in competition with the rest of her group,” I said.

“How do you instill competition in Mr. Looney’s classroom without his help?” Sandy asked.

“I’ll have a plan worked out in my mind when I talk with Dee,” I said.

The following evening, after dinner, I started a discussion with Dee.

“Mr. Looney said you are at the bottom of your reading group,” I said. “Do you have trouble with your reading?”

“It’s no big deal,” Dee said. “Bobby is the best reader, and he brags about it all the time. I doesn’t matter to me.”

“So, I have a deal for you,” I said. “You get to the top of your reading group, and I will give you twenty dollars. But here is the rest of the deal. You can’t tell anyone about our deal. Not Mr. Looney, and not anyone else in the class.”

Twenty dollars was a lot of money for a second grader in 1980. I could see the wheels turning in Dee’s head.

“A twenty-dollar bill?” Dee asked.

“Yes, but the deal is off if you tell anyone,” I said.

Sandy was not impressed with my deal. If we had any disagreements about raising the kids, it was typically of this nature. Sandy strongly believed that everything should be balanced between the kids. If you give something to one, you give it to all. I believed that you gave a push to whoever needed it.

Most of the time, I gave in to Sandy’s thinking, but this time I stood firm.

***

I was in Foster school a couple of weeks later and bumped into Mr. Looney in the hall.

“I don’t know what you did, but Dee is doing a whole lot better in her reading,” Mr. Looney said.Ω

“So you are going to leave her in the top group for now?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, she is in the middle of the group,” Mr Looney said.

It was a few weeks later when I talked with Dee about her reading.

“Mr. Looney said you were doing better in your reading group,” I said.

“Yes, I have almost caught up to Bobby<“ Dee said. “He is getting worried.”

***

A few weeks later, Dee was at the top of her reading group. I stopped in to see Mr. Looney, not to double-check on Dee’s standing, but to see what he thought of the tactic.

“Dee was tickled when she made it to the top of the group,” Mr Looney said. “I was wondering what was going on. Last week, she was checking the standings every day. When she made it to number one, she said, ‘Great, I get twenty bucks!’”

“What do you think of how that happened?” I asked.

“Whatever works, I guess,” Mr. Looney said. “Now that I look back on it, the competition between the kids got everyone doing better. I am thinking that I am going to have to come up with a plan to try to keep the competition going.”

***

Once Dee experienced being at the top, she never looked back. All our kids were highly successful in school. Sort of making their father look like a dunce when you compared records.

Dee graduated from High School as the salutatorian  of her class. She got a B in typing. She typed 110 words a minute after the first semester, and never improved on that during the second semester. The teacher graded on improvement, so Dee got her B.

At Oregon State, she was named to the Pac-12 Scholar-Athlete Team in rowing. She earned a BS and then a Master’s degree in genetics. Ultimately, she earned a PhD in Neuroscience from the University of California, San Diego.

Not a bad purchase for twenty bucks.    

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