Mixed practice in the 1970s and more
D. E. Larsen, DVM
Those of you who have come accustomed to reading a post on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I will slow down a little and be back to posting new stories on Monday and Friday only.
Hopefully, that will allow me to start compiling a group of these stories into a book format.
Thanks for reading, and I always welcome any feedback or suggestions.
D. E. Larsen, DVM
Life is supposed to get better when the kids are grown and have families of their own. When you more or less retire and enjoy the fruits of your labors. That was what Billie envisioned.
Then her son and his buddy bought a mule, and they needed a place to keep it. That was an easy decision to make since Mom and Dad had a small ranch.
“We can keep it out at the folks,” the son says to his buddy.
It was not an impressive-looking mule. It may have been a hinny, but they believed it was a mule. It was small in stature compared to most mules that I have known. But it had a good history as a pack animal.
They purchased it just for that purpose, to use as a pack animal for their hunting trips. So, it had nothing to do for 11 months of the year except to establish dominance over the cows, which reluctantly shared his pasture.
Everything was fine for the fall and winter. The little mule moved about the farm with no problems. He seemed to get along with the cows fine. He could be observed biting at a cow once in a while to make sure she did what he thought was correct. But other than that occasional bite on a cow to make sure she was doing what the mule expected, there were no issues.
Spring came, and the cows were calving. As the numbers of calves increased, so did the stress on the mule.
“I need Doc to come now!” Billie said into the phone as soon as Sandy answered. And then the line was dead.
Sandy luckily recognized Billie’s voice and tried to return the call but got a busy signal. We had no idea what the emergency was, but it was obviously an emergency. I jumped into the truck and headed toward Pleasant Valley.
When I arrived, Billie was in the driveway to the barn, turning circles with a small shotgun in her hands.
She grabbed me by the arm and rested her forehead on my shoulder, with a big sob, she says, “I am so glad to see you, Doc.”
“What going on, Billie?” I asked.
“That damn little worthless mule has gone berserk,” Billie said. “He has been attacking the calves. Not little nips like he did with the cows. He was picking these calves up by the back of their neck and throwing them in the air. Then he was falling on them with knees. I know he was trying to kill them.”
I glanced out in the field by the barn. All the calves up and moving with their mothers. The cows milling around in wide circles, obviously upset.
“I am here all alone,” Billie said. “I had no idea what to do. I called your office and then decided I needed to shoot the worthless thing. We have a whole house full of guns, and I don’t know a thing about any of them.”
I reached out and took the small shotgun out of her hands. If she didn’t know anything about guns, it would be safer in my hands while she was telling the story.
“I grabbed this gun, and then I didn’t know what shells fit it,” Billie said.
I looked at the gun. It was a single shot 410. I opened the breach, and there was a 30-30 shell in the chamber. It had been fired.
“Is this what you used to shoot at him?” I asked.
“Yes, that is the only thing that I could find the would fit into the thing,” Billie said. “I came out here and pointed it at him and pulled the trigger. I don’t think I hit anything, but he must know a gunshot. He stopped right now. I was trying to decide what to do next when you pulled into the driveway.”
Billie grabbed my arm again, “I was never so happy to see somebody.”
“Billie, this is a rifle cartridge that you shot in a shotgun,” I said. “You are probably lucking this little gun didn’t blow up with you.”
“It was the only thing that I could find that fit,” Bille said.
“I will go out and check the calves,” I said. “I guess I should check the mule also, just to make sure there isn’t a bullet hole in him somewhere.”
“You can look at him, but we are not going to spend any money on him,” Billie said. “The boys are just going have to find another home him. He is done at this place.”
“I will walk through the calves and just make sure there are no major injuries,” I said. “They all look good from here. I will run the mule into the barn and close the gate. You don’t need to have any more excitement this afternoon. When will Bill be home.”
“Bill is out of town for a couple of days,” Billie said. “I have Larry called, and he will come out when he is off this afternoon. But if you can get that jackass into the barn, I would appreciate it.”
I walked through the calves. The cows were all upset and reluctant to give me much access. Everyone was moving well and looked okay. There were a couple of scrapes on the back of the neck on a couple of calves. There was no way to deal the that this afternoon.
The mule was a sucker for a can of grain, and he followed me into the loafing shed side of the barn. I was able to get the gate closed and latched. He was not happy when he realized that he was trapped in there. He just didn’t understand how lucky he was that Bill wasn’t home. Bill was a crack shot, a marine veteran who fought in the Pacific during WWII. He would not have missed.
“I think the calves are okay,” I said as I returned from the barn. “There are a couple of scrapes, but I think those will heal without any treatment. The mule is secured. He might need some water. You might have Larry check that when he gets here.”
“It is the other boys who I am going to call right now,” Billie said. “They are going have to be out here tonight or tomorrow and move that guy somewhere. His welcome here has expired.”
Photo by Julissa Helmuth from Pexels
D. E. Larsen, DVM
When I first started practice in Enumclaw, Joyce was a frequent visitor at the clinic. She was an attractive young lady who was a client but usually just visited with the girls in the office. When I had free time, she always seemed to want to talk with me about a whole range of topics.
“Doc, I have a problem, and I am at a loss to know what to do,” Joyce said.
“I’m not much good at advice for young ladies,” I said.
“Oh, it is not anything personal,” Joyce said. “The church has a big bazaar every summer. I mean, it is probably the main fund raising event of the year for the congregation. This year, I volunteered to run the quilt contest.”
“So that sounds good,” I said. “What can be the problem with that?”
“You don’t know Quilters,” Joyce said. “This is a big contest, and it is deadly serious with these ladies. The problem is every year, they give the winner of the contest a quilt that is made by the winner of the previous year’s contest.”
“I haven’t seen a problem yet,” I said.
“The problem is that last year’s winner died,” Joyce said with tears welling up in her eyes.
“So, can you get her family to donate a quilt from her collection?” I asked. “Most of these gals have a bunch of them.”
“I thought about that, but her husband died a couple of years earlier,” Joyce said. “The kids cleaned out the house and sold it. They don’t live around here, so that is not an option.”
“I would suggest that you beat the bushes,” I said. “There must be a couple of ladies in the church who would love to make the prize quilt. Or maybe you could make it.”
“Well, trying to find someone or a group of ladies to make it might be an option,” Joyce said. “For me to make it is not an option. I don’t sew.”
That was the last I heard about Joyce’s dilemma for several weeks. I hardly remembered the conversation when she visited the clinic on a Wednesday afternoon. It was a slow day, and I was resting on the couch in the back of the clinic.
“Doc, I am really between a rock and a hard place now,” Joyce said as she sat down beside me. “I can’t find anyone willing to make the prize quilt, and now the time is probably too short for anyone to get one completed before the bazaar. I just am at a loss as to what to do.”
“Go to the mall in South Center and buy the best looking quilt you can find,” I suggested. “Just don’t tell anyone, take the tags off, and they will be pleased.”
“Do you think I would get away with that sort of a thing,” Joyce said.
“Sure, a quilt is a quilt,” I said. “They probably have some handmade quilts for sale. It might cost you a little, but just figure you are buying your way out of a problem.”
“I might have to take your advice,” Joyce said. “But, I am not sure you understand how these ladies think about their quilting.”
Again it was a few weeks since I had visited with Joyce. I did notice a big banner as I passed the church on the way to the clinic.
“This must be the week of the bazaar and Joyce’s quilt show,” I thought to myself.
Then on Saturday, I was on emergency duty. I pulled into the clinic parking lot to take care of a couple of patients in the clinic for the weekend. Joyce pulled into the lot beside me.
“Doc, now I have a major problem,” Joyce said.
“You didn’t get a quilt?” I guessed.
“No, I took your advice,” Joyce said. “I went to South Center and shopped through all the stores. I found a beautiful quilt that was hand made in the Philippines. It actually didn’t have any tags sewn into it, and I could afford to buy it.”
“Here we are again,” I said. “I don’t see your problem.”
“So I took it into the church last night when they were judging all the quilt entries. I just left it on the shelf reserved for it. The ladies doing the judging marveled over it. After I left, they decided that they would enter that quilt into the contest.”
“Where is the problem?” I said.
“The problem is the quilt that I purchased for the prize, won the contest,” Joyce said. “Now, what am I going to do tonight when they have their presentation.”
“Joyce, there comes a time when silence becomes golden,” I said. “You don’t want to say anything. Just say that the prize quilt can’t be the winner. But the fact that it is the winner makes it a better prize. Whatever you do, do not tell anyone that you purchased that quilt. I have a Top Secret security clearance, I know how to take a secret to the grave. Now you have to do just that, you have to take this secret to the grave with you.”
“But I feel so dishonest,” Joyce said.
“You said it was handmade,” I said. “The fact that the little old lady who made it lived in the Philippines doesn’t change that fact. She could have been your sister’s mother-in-law.”
“Doc, you seem to make things sound so simple,” Joyce said.
“And another bit of Army advice I can give you, next year when it comes time to volunteer, you want to be busy,” I said.
Photo by Viktoria B. from Pexels
Memoirs of a Country Vet