A Quilter’s Quilt

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

Another Witch, Another February

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I turned into the old farm’s long driveway off of Cochran Creek Road, north of Brownsville. I had been here only a couple of times before. The farm did have some character, with an old barn nestled up against a hillside, and an old trailer not far from the barn that served as the living quarters.

Duane had lost his wife some years ago and lived by himself now. They had planned to build a house, but I think Duane was content to live in the trailer for now. He was a well-built guy whose black hair was accented by patches of gray at both temples.

This February has been particularly wet, with heavy rains almost every day. Massive dark clouds filled the sky this afternoon.

Duane had called about a cow with some sort of a prolapse. But he didn’t leave any instructions about where he had the cow. We stopped at the corral that was out by the main road. We had worked cows in this corral before.

“I hope she’s not in this corral, it looks like it is a sea of mud from the rains,” I said more to myself than to Joleen. “At least it is not freezing.”

“Oh no,” Joleen said as we pulled up to the corral. “That mud must be a foot deep. The good thing is there is no cow, and I don’t see Duane.”

“Let’s go on up to the barn,” I said. “I don’t know if he uses it except for picture taking, but if he does, we might be undercover if these clouds decide to dump buckets on us.”

At one time, it had been a functional barn. Now it was picturesque but aged almost beyond use. Himalayan briers reached high on the sides of the barn. There were a few openings through the vines that were kept open by foot traffic. There were multiple holes visible in the roof from missing shingles, and the barn wood was weathered by time to a delicate steel gray. The barn looked like it should grace a canvas in someone’s living room.

Duane stepped out from under the barn’s front part and waited for us in a pathway through the berry vines. The barn sat against the hill, and the slope provided enough room under the front of the barn for a small corral. At least we would be dry.

A large Santa Gertrudis cow stood in the middle of the corral. She looked less than happy at all the attention she was getting. There was nowhere for her to go in the cramped space, but the big red cow turned a few circles looking. I slipped a rope over her head.  The only place to tie her was to the support beam in the corral center. 

“I hope she doesn’t pull the barn down on top of us,” Joleen said as I started an exam on the old cow.

She suffered from a problem that I had often seen in these Brahman-Cross breeds. As they approached the calving date, their cervix becomes enlarged and inflamed. Just this distended cervix hung from her vulva.

“This shouldn’t be much of a problem to fix,” I said to Duane. “But you are going to have to watch her close until she delivers.”

I knew from experience that Duane was not one of those guys who called at 3:00 in the morning with a calving problem. I would have to do a closure on this vulva so that it would tear out quickly if she goes into labor.

Joleen sat out the necessary supplies to do an epidural injection for anesthesia to the vulva. I prepped a small area over her spine, where the tail joined the sacrum. The cow was standing quietly. Standing on her right rear, I grasped the tail with my left hand and palpated for the space between the bones that would allow access for the needle into the spinal canal. With a finger of my right hand on the site, I popped a needle into the space.

The cow jumped. Almost in slow motion, I watched her right leg come up and felt her hock brush my left thigh. In younger days, I maybe could have responded to this stimulus. Now I just sort of observed the symmetry of motion. Her lower leg moved across my thigh roughly. Finally, after a brief eternity, her hoof caught my inner thigh. She extended her leg briskly.

Feeling somewhat like a golf ball that flies into the air off the clubface, I am launched in a sloppy cartwheel toward the distant tangle of berry vines. The next thing I know, I’m picking myself up. Joleen, hushed and concerned, is helping me up, unhooking the grasping vines.

“You damn witch!” I say to the cow, picturing a large pile of hamburger. My thigh is throbbing. It takes no small amount of force to knock me ten or twelve feet.

I get another rope and tie the cow a little more securely. I finish the epidural injection and clean and replace the cervix quickly. My only thought is to get ice on my thigh. I throw a quick closure across the vulva using hog rings and small cotton umbilical tape. The hog rings only pinch a small piece of skin, they will easily tear out with a slight push from mamma.

“She should be able to tear this out when she calves, but you need to watch her closely,” I instruct Duane as we hastily throw things back into the truck. I grab an ice pack out of the cooler and set it on my thigh as I start to pull out of the barnyard.

Spotting a cow out in the field with a pair of feet sticking out of the vulva. Jolene opens her window and hollers at Duane.

“How long has she been in labor?”

“Damnit, Joleen, I need to get this leg iced,” I say with a frown.

“You can handle that, can’t you?” I ask Duane. “She probably will pop that out with no problem.”

“Oh sure, that is no problem for me,” Duane says. “I didn’t even know she was close.”

My thigh has turned multiple shades of red by the time we get back to the office in Sweet Home. It is not the first time I’ve been kicked, and probably won’t be the last. It always seems that it is my left thigh. I’ll limp for a few days with this one.

Photo by Helena Lopes from PexelsCopy

The Perfect Shot

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I thumbed through the journal, scanning the pages for something interesting before discarding it onto the pile on my desk. I seldom read anything cover to cover, but I could rapidly review the pages and pick out any interesting articles. Those articles I could quickly scan a little closer in a manner that would allow me to retrieve it later if needed.

This journal was a lessor journal, titled Veterinary Medicine. It occasionally had some practical articles from real practitioners, not just a bunch of university types who had no fundamental concept of what private practice was like.

The article that caught my eye today was on a do it yourself blowgun and dart that you could use to get a capture drug into an otherwise wild critter. Lord knows I seem to have my share of those.

It was relatively easy to make. Using a four-foot piece of PCV pipe for the blowgun and darts fashioned from a couple of 3 cc syringes. The blowgun was nothing to make. The dart took a little time.

The flanges on the back of the syringe were trimmed off, so you had a smooth barrel. One plunger stopper was inserted into the barrel of the syringe. It would deliver the dose when the syringe was loaded, and the chamber between the plungers was charged with air.

  The second plunger was used on the back of the syringe. You used silicone gel to secure a bundle of one-inch long yarn pieces to serve as the fletchings, like the feathers of an arrow. Using a bright color for the yarn may aid in finding a dart that missed the target. This plunger was secured to the syringe’s back by driving a couple of 20 gauge needle through the syringe and clipping them off flush with the edge.

The journal’s plan called for a 16 gauge needle, plugged with superglue at the end, and a side port in the needle. This port was made with a small file close to the end. I found that to be an unnecessary step. I just used a standard 16 gauge needle that was one and a half inches long. Plugs for this needle were fashioned from a strip silicone gel pushed out and allowed to dry in a strip. Cutting a quarter-inch piece and inserting it on the end of the needle would plug the hole, and then it would be pushed up on the needle when the target was struck. This would allow the drug to be delivered.

With a syringe and needle inserted into the chamber between the plungers, you could control the free plunger in the barrel of the syringe dart. Inject air, drive the free plunger to the end of the dart. Insert the dart’s needle into the drug and withdraw air from the chamber, thus drawing the drug’s dose into the dart. Then plug the dart’s needle with a silicone stopper, and inject air into the chamber between the plungers to charge the dart.

I fashioned several darts and even practiced with the blowgun. It worked remarkably well and had a surprising range. With a strong puff of air, I could send the dart for over 30 yards. The dart held its line in the air. The trick was in the elevation. To fly the dart 30 yards, one needed about 30 degrees of elevation. Hitting a target at that distance would take a little luck.

My opportunity to use this dart came only a couple of weeks later. Margery was a client with a small acreage out in the valley. She had lost her husband some years before, and now her son and his family lived with her.

“Doctor, my grandson bought this cow and turned it out in the pasture,” Margery said. “It is wild as can be. He can’t get close to it, and it has an ugly looking eye.”

“Do you have a corral or even a smaller pasture you could run her into?” I asked.

“No, Bob never used that pasture for anything,” Margery said. “It just has a fence around it. And that fence ain’t much, just steel posts and barb wire.”

“It doesn’t sound like I could get a rope on her very easy, and if I did, I probably wouldn’t have anything where I could tie her,” I said.

“I could park the pickup out in the pasture,” Margery said. “That would give you someplace to tie her. It might help you get close to her also. But I can guarantee you she will be running fast.”

“You tie a wild cow to a pickup, and she will swing around on the end of that rope and cave in the side of your truck,” I said. “Maybe both sides before she is done.”

“That would not be good,” Margery said. “Maybe we are just going to have to shoot her. I can’t see just allowing her to suffer from an infected eye.”

“There might be another option,” I said. “I do have a blowgun dart that I could tranquilize her with if I managed to hit the target.”

“That might be worth a try,” Margery said.

“The thing that you have to understand is that if I come out and chase a cow around a pasture for an hour and don’t catch her, you will still have a bill to pay,” I said.

“That is only fair,” Margery said. “But I would like you to try.”

I stood at the gate with Margery’s Grandson, Jason. The brindle cow was at the far end of the pasture, head up, and watch us.

“Jason, this is not much of a fence,” I said. “If we get her really excited, she could go right through it.”

“Grandma is pretty worried about her suffering with this eye,” Jason said. “If we can’t catch her, she is probably going to make me shoot her.”

“We will give it a try,” I said. “But what about next time? You need to build corral up here in the corner so you can get her into a small place and get a hand on her.”

“She wouldn’t go into it,” Jason said.

“You solve that problem by making a fence that funnels her into the corral,” I said. “You get her used to going into it by putting the water in there and a feed rack. This time of the late summer, there is not much food value in this grass. If you had a couple cows, you would need to be feeding them already. I don’t see any hay stored around here. What do you plan on feeding her this winter?”

“I guess I haven’t thought about that,” Jason said. “I was just thinking that I would get a calf out of her and start building a herd.”

“That’s a good plan, but you need to cover all those little bases,” I said. “Let’s go see if we can take care of this eye, and then you can come by the office, and I can give you some ideas on a corral system that won’t break the bank. And I can set you up with a couple of guys who might have some extra hay.”

“How do you want to catch her?” Jason asked. 

“I am going out into the middle of this pasture and have you go out around her,” I said. “If you can walk her down the fence line, I will try to get one of these darts into her. I have 3 darts loaded with a dose of Rompun. If I can hit her with one of them, we will have her.”

“Grandma bought a halter to put on her when we catch her,” Jason said. “She thought it would help next time.”

“We can put it on her, but a corral will be what will help next time,” I said.

“And she is not going to walk down that fence line, she will be running at full speed,” Jason said as he started toward the far end of the pasture.

I walked out to the middle of the pasture, and the cow was watching both of us now. She was turning this way and that way, not sure which way to go. I load a dart into the end of the PCV pipe.

As Jason approached the corner where the cow was standing, she started down the fence line, picking up speed as she came. I raised the blowgun to my mouth and took a deep breath. Pointing it in the air at about a 30-degree angle, I waited as she approached what I guessed was the launch point. She was running full speed now, with one strong puff of air into the pipe, I launched the dart.

The dart flew in a high arc, the cow continued at full speed. I held my breath as I watched the arch of the dart.

Pow! The dart struck her on the side of the neck and stuck. I could not have placed it better if I had been standing by her side. I smiled as I looked at the end of the PCV pipe. Jason came running up to me.

“Wow, that was a good shot,” Jason said.

“Lucky, Jason, lucky is different than good,” I said. “You stand here with me for a couple of minutes. She will settle down and then just lay down. When that happens, I will let you run up to the gate and get my bag and my bucket.”

Rompun is an excellent sedative for cows. It is not ideal because there are times when a patient will appear asleep, but they can still jump up defensively. But this cow was well sedated.

The left eye was ugly looking but did not look like a simple pink eye. There was a large ulcer on the cornea. I lifted the 3rd eyelid with a pair of forceps. There was the problem, two large grass seed awns stuck in the corner of her eye.

I removed the grass seeds. Then I did an injection of Amoxicillin under the upper eyelid and another injection into the space behind her eye. I didn’t think we would be catching this cow again any time soon.

Then I sutured the 3rd eyelid up over the ulcer with a single mattress suture of 00 chromic catgut. That would give enough healing time, and the suture would dissolve on its own. Then we sprayed her face for flies.

By the time I had things put away, the cow was up and acting like she would be okay.

“That eye will heal just fine,” I said. “We should not need to do anything more with it. Now you be sure to come to the office. I won’t hit her with a dart like that in the next 10 tries.”

“So, should I build a corral or just buy one of those that you can set up?” Jason asked.

“It is just dollars and cents,” I said. “The commercial systems are good. And they are fast and easy to set up. You could probably do it cheaper with a few post holes and some posts and lumber.”

“Well, it’s Grandma’s money,” Jason said. “It might be a lot easier if I got a few of those panels and set it up that way.”

“Either way works,” I said. “Sometimes, when you’re a young man, it is better to do things yourself and get a feeling of accomplishment. And, Jason, you should be very careful and thoughtful when you are spending Grandma’s money.

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