Saved by Daisy

D. E. Larsen, DVM

“I just don’t know what is wrong with her, David,” Violet said. “She won’t jump up on the bed, and she cries if I try to pick her up.”

Violet was one of my older clients. She was a tiny lady with snow-white hair, in her nineties, she was still very spry. She still lived by herself, and her sole companion was a Shih Tzu with a dirty white hair coat. Daisy was at the center of her activities.

I had noticed that Daisy was walking very carefully this morning. She was usually bouncing around when Violet would come into the clinic. Daisy tensed when I reached down to pick her up. She whimpered as I placed her on the exam table.

“She is really sore, Violet,” I said. “How long has this been going on?”

“I noticed her moving slowly yesterday, and then she would not jump up on the bed last night,” Violet said. “She didn’t say anything when I put her on the bed last night, but this morning she cried when I lifted her down.”

Daisy tensed under my slightest touch. I ran my hands over her body, looking for a sore spot. I started with some gentle palpation of her abdomen first, then down her spinal column. She cried out as I came to the middle of her spinal column. I repeated the procedure, and she cried out again.

“Violet, she has hurt her back,” I said. “Most likely she has a herniated disk, right in the middle of her back. That is a common location for a middle-aged Shih Tzu.”

“Is she going to be alright?” Violet asked. “I just don’t know what I will do if I lose her.”

“Usually, there is little or no progression of signs as long as we get some anti-inflammatory medication on board,” I explained. “But I should get a set of pictures, just to make sure there isn’t anything else.”

“David, I just can’t afford to spend a lot of money today,” Violet said. “You know, Social Security just doesn’t pay an old lady much these days. And I have just about outlived my savings account.”

“I’ll get a set of x-rays,” I said. “And I will worry about how to pay for them. We keep a little slush fund for just such an occasion. But you have to understand, x-rays often don’t show a lot on a case like this where there is no nerve disfunction.”

“Then why do you want to take them?” Violet asked.

“I just want you to know what we can expect tomorrow and next month,” I said. “It really doesn’t matter what the x-rays show us. Daisy is not a candidate for surgery, and she will have to have some lifestyle changes.”

“Lifestyle changes!” Violet says. “Now really, David, she lives with this old lady, we don’t have much of a lifestyle.”

“Little changes,” I said with a chuckle. “Things like no jumping and no stairs, keeping four feet on the ground. Making her a bed on the floor and maybe losing a little weight.”

“We don’t have any stairs. Keeping four feet on the ground might be a challenge as Daisy likes to stand up for treats,” Violet said. “Making her a bed on the floor will be difficult for both of us.”

“The bed on the floor might be the most important,” I said. “We will see what her back looks like on x-rays, but just one jump off the bed, and she could end up paralyzed.”

The x-rays didn’t show much. That is often the case with middle-aged Shih Tzus. There was just some narrowing of one intervertebral disk space in the middle of her back.

“This is just what I expected,” I said as I reviewed the x-rays with Violet. “Daisy is going to do well. We will put her on some anti-inflammatory medication for a few days and provide her with some cage rest while on medication. We can keep her here for the cage rest if you would like.”

“I most certainly would not like, David!” Violet said with a stern voice. “I could not live without her for those 3 days. My daughter has a kennel, and if she doesn’t, I am sure my neighbor does.”

So Daisy went home with Violet. I would have felt better if she had some help at home, as we loaned her a kennel for the trip to her house.

“You need to call your neighbor and have her help you get Daisy into the house,” I said.

“Yes, David, I will give her a call as soon as I get home,” Violet said. “I will have a lot to talk to her about, with all of Daisy’s problems.”

Violet’s neighbor was most helpful, indeed. She got Daisy into the house for Violet and loaned her a large kennel. Then she bought the small kennel we had loaned Violet back to the clinic. We made sure that she knew everything that was to be done over the next few days.

We expected things to be uneventful for Violet as Daisy mended her back. Nothing could be further from the truth.

The following morning Violet made an early morning call to her neighbor. Violet complained about not sleeping with Daisy on the floor, and Daisy whined all night because she was not on the bed with Violet.

Then the unexpected happened. Violet passed out in the middle of the conversation, her neighbor heard her hit the floor, and she hung up and dialed 911. Then she rushed over to Violet’s house to find Violet completely unresponsive on the kitchen floor. 

The EMT’s were there within minutes. Violet was in cardiac arrest. A couple shocks with the paddles, and she was revived. The neighbor took Daisy to her house, and Violet spent several days in the hospital. But she did return home where she lived several more years.

Numerous studies show pet ownership is a big plus for older people. People with pets tend to have fewer medical problems themselves and, in general, live longer than their non-pet owning peers.

In Violet’s case, it was undeniable that Daisy was instrumental in her living longer. Had Violet not been on the telephone to her neighbor that morning, they would have found her dead on the kitchen floor.

Photo by Dominic Buccilli from Pexels

The Bite of the Chigger

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I came to the end of the gravel on this side road off of Pleasant Valley Road. There was just a dirt path in front of me. I say path because it would probably not meet any criteria to qualify as a road. I took a deep breath and continued on, finally breaking out into a pasture whittled out of the young forest. 

On the far corner were several ramshackle travel trailers that served as the family living quarters. I pulled up to these trailers. Kids and chickens were running everywhere. Finally, Annie stepped out of the far trailer.

“I am glad you found us,” Annie said. “We are moving back to Missouri, and we have this little heifer that needs a health certificate to make the trip.”

“You are sort of hidden back in these trees,” I said. “It must have taken a little work to clear this pasture.” 

“It was done before we came,” Annie said. “We have lived here a couple of years, but can’t make a go of it. Time to go home, I guess.”

“Let’s look at this heifer,” I said. “I have to give her a brucellosis vaccine and a quick exam. The rest is just paperwork. Do you want any other vaccines for her?”

“No, we just want that piece of paper,” Annie said.

Annie and her family group left Sweet Home not long after that visit. They faded into my memory like so many others. And it was several years later that events reawakened my memory of that day.

Marilyn had Tiger in the clinic for a routine exam. Marilyn had quite a group of cats, indoor-only cats, and outdoor cats, and then a small group of cats that were allowed to come in and out of the house. Tiger was one of those cats that came in and out of the house as he pleased. Marilyn lived on another road system, but her home was not far up the hill from Annie’s settlement.

As I worked through the exam, I noticed a row of little white bugs attached to Tiger’s ear margins. I looked closely at these bugs and scraped a couple of them onto a microscope slide.

“I have noticed those every Spring for the last couple of years,” Marilyn said. “They only seem to be on the outdoor cats, and they don’t seem to cause much of a problem.”

“Maybe we should send them to the lab and find out what they are,” I suggested. 

“I don’t think so,” Marilyn said. “They will be gone in a few weeks, and they don’t seem to cause much of a problem. I would rather not spend the money on the lab.”

Over the next couple of years, I would see other cats with these bugs on their ear margins. They all seemed to come from the Pleasant Valley area.

Finally, Susan came in with Rudy, a large black cat. The white bugs on his ear margins really stood out against his black hair. 

“Doc, I have noticed these things on his ears for several years,” Susan said. “This year, there are a lot of them, and they are bothering him.”

“I can put some ear mite ointment on them,” I said. “That will take care of the problem for now. But I have seen several cats from your area with this same problem. Maybe we should send some of these little guys to the lab and find out what we are dealing with.”

“Yes, that would be good,” Susan said. “Even if we can’t do anything with them other than treat them, it would be good to know what they are.”

I scraped most of the bugs off one ear into a blood vial to send to the lab. Then I applied some ear mite lotion to the ear flaps. Ruddy’s ear margins were a little eroded, but with the bugs gone, that should resolve in short order.

The diagnostic lab called when they received my sample.

“We are going to send these critters over to Oregon State’s Entomology Department for identification,” the secretary said. “It is hard to say how long it will be before you have any results.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “There is no urgent situation here.”

Surprisingly, it was just two days later that I got a call from Randy. Randy was a graduate student in the Entomology Department.

“Doctor Larsen, I am looking at your sample that you sent to the Diagnostic Lab a couple of days ago,” Randy said. “This is exciting stuff. Can you give me any background on Ruddy, the cat that you collected these from.”

“Not much, Ruddy is a pretty typical cat, indoors and outdoors, at his choosing,” I said. “I see these bugs on the ear margin of outdoor cats, most of them from the Pleasant Valley area, every spring for the last few years.”

“These bugs, as you call them, are larval chiggers,” Randy said. “What is interesting here is that chiggers of this species are rarely reported in Oregon. I would like to write this case up for publication if that is okay with you. I could give you credit in the paper.”

“That’s fine with me,” I said. “I really have no need for any credits, I won’t be doing any research in my career. You are free to use any information on the lab request. And if you need more information, just call.”

The fact that I was just now seeing chiggers and in an area associated with Annie’s settlement, makes one wonder if they were the source. Missouri is a hotbed for chiggers.

Photo Credit: Photo by Lisa Fotios from Pexels

Information Link:   https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trombiculidae

Fort Dix Transfer Company, December 1967

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I set my B-4 bag down on the walkway while I adjusted my collar and straightened my tie. I buttoned my coat. My uniform didn’t fit well after gaining 15 pounds on my 45 day leave at home following Korea. With a deep breath, I climbed the steps and entered the orderly room. There was a whole crew working on records in the back of the room, only the First Sergeant was at the front desk. 

The First Sergeant was older and looked like he ate nails for lunch. He was about my height, five-eight, thin, and his rough complexion told of a life of hardship, and many hours in the sun.

“Boy, am I glad to see you, Larsen,” the First Sergeant said. He was practiced at reading name tags.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” I said. “I am here to report for duty and transfer to Germany.” I extended my hand with my orders. “You act like you knew I was coming.”

“I knew an E-5 would walk through that door sooner or later,” the First Sergeant said. “I have an important job for you today. I want you to go get settled into the barracks and change into your fatigues. As an E-5, working for me today, you get a squad room in the barracks. Do you have a combination lock for the door?”

“Thank you, that will make my stay better,” I said. “And yes, I have a couple of locks in my bag.”

“You can lock your room, and your stuff will be secure,” the First Sergeant said. “Once you have changed, you hurry back over here, and we will discuss your job.”

This company was housed in a group of older World War 2 buildings. They were neat and well maintained, but older. Having a squad room would provide me some privacy. I had not lived in an open bay in a barracks since my early days in the Army. 

This company gathered troops for transport to Germany. They would assemble a planeload of soldiers over several days. Then make sure everyone got on the plane. Hopefully, my stay here would be a short one.

With my fatigues and combat boots on and a field jacket to give me some protection from the New Jersey December air’s chill, I headed back to the First Sergeant..

“Larsen, you are going over to the stockade and process Private Jones out of there and bring him back to me,” the First Sergeant said. “This kid is a deserter, he is a piece of scum, but my job is to put him on the plane tomorrow.”

The First Sergeant hands me a folder of paperwork and then reaches into the cabinet behind him and hands me a 45 with a belt and holster. 

“You put this on and sign for it over at the orderly desk,” the First Sergeant said.

I buckled the 45 on my hip, adjusted the fit, and found the paperwork to sign on the orderly’s desk. I picked up the folder and turned to head out the door.

“Do you want directions to the stockade?” the First Sergeant asked. 

“Yes, I guess that would be something I should know,” I said. 

“You walk out this door and turn right, the stockade is down that street about a half-mile, you can’t miss it,” the First Sergeant said.

I turned and started for the door again.

“And Larsen, this jerk has run before, if he runs, you shoot him,” the First Sergeant said. “That is why you have that 45. Do you understand.”

“Yes, Sergeant, I understand,” I replied as I walked out into the December air.

The walk to the stockade was just what I needed after the overnight flight I had from Portland. I am sure that my face was flushed when I stepped through the door to the stockade orderly room. I was one of several NCOs there to pick up an inmate. I handed my paperwork through the screened enclosure to the Sergeant on duty. 

One of the other guys noticed the Eighth Army patch on my field jacket and commented.

“How lucky does a guy get in this man’s army?” he asked. “Coming from Korea and going to Germany, how does that happen in today’s Army?”

“I guess I was in the right place at the right time,” I said. “I just asked for the assignment, and some clerk must have felt like doing a good deed that day. It is the clerks in personnel that run this Army.”

“For an E-5, you seem to have this Army figured out,” the guy said. “

“First Sergeant Scagliotti told me that when I was at Fort Devens,” I said.

The rest of the day was consumed with processing Private Jones out of the stockade. I had planned to sign a paper of two and take him back to the First Sergeant—no such luck. The out-processing was part of making these guys hope they were never returning to one of these places.

Private Jones was assigned a Drill Instructor to help him out process. There was a checklist that filled a full page, and the DI was on his ass the whole time. Private Jones was not allowed to walk anywhere. He had to run the entire time. From one station to the next, usually separated by a couple of buildings, we would run. Pick up is personal items, pack his clothes in his duffle bag. Then carry the duffle bag and run to the next building.

Finally, we were back in the stockade orderly room, and I finally had to sign for his release. I had begun worry that I would miss dinner, but there was just one signature here, and we started out the door.

The Sergeant in the orderly cage reminded me as I opened the door.

“Larsen, this scum has run before. If he runs, you shoot him,” the Sergeant said.

Private Jones was a little guy. Size-wise, he reminded me a bit of Don Miller, my friend who was killed in Vietnam in April. As we walked away from the stockade, he began to talk, and I don’t think he ever stopped. 

“They are going to send me to Germany to be in an infantry unit,” Jones said. “Look at me, I am too small to be in the infantry.”

“I would say you are pretty darn lucky,” I said. “You could be going to Vietnam to be in an infantry unit.”

And on and on it continued. The half-mile walk to the First Sergeant’s office seemed like 3 miles. We were finally there, and I opened the door and shuffled Jones into the office.

“Good job, Larsen,” the First Sergeant said. “Now you take Jones over to the mess hall and get dinner. You are both probably hungry.”

So, here I go, over to the mess hall with this little jerk who won’t shut up. We go through and fill our dinner trays. I realize how hungry I am. I had a couple of bites at the airport when I got off the plane early this morning.

After dinner, we return to the First Sergeant’s office.

“Okay, Larsen, you two are going to be on the same plane tomorrow,” the First Sergeant said. “Why don’t you keep track of him tonight. I will give you a set of handcuffs so you can cuff him to his bunk,”

“Now come on, Sergeant,” I said. “I think I have done enough, I am not going to sleep with this little chatterbox.”

“Okay, I will get somebody else to keep track of him tonight,” the First Sergeant said. “You have done more than could be expected. You turn in that 45 to the orderly desk, and I will see you tomorrow at roll call.”

The orderly gave me my travel orders when I turned in the 45. The flight was not leaving until late afternoon, and the roll call was at 2:00 PM. I was duty-free tomorrow morning. I could eat an early breakfast and rest in my room until lunch. Then I should be rested for the overnight flight to Germany.

Roll call was held in a large multipurpose room across the street from the First Sergeant’s office. They had us pretty much lined up by rank, in 4 columns. The room was full.

The Duty Sergeant would call a name from the list and wait for a “Yo!” When they came to Private Jones, there was no reply. The Duty Sergeant paused, then called the name again, still no response. 

As he called the name a third time, the First Sergeant came up and stood beside me. “Larsen, that little bastard ran again,” he said. “I should have made you keep track of him.”

“I’m not sure he would have been worth the bullet,” I said. “I sure wouldn’t want him in my squad if there was any fighting to be done.”

“I know,” the First Sergeant said. “But he needs to spend some time in that stockade before they wash him out of this man’s Army.”

After roll call, we loaded on a bus to the airport, then filed onto the troop plane for a flight to Germany. We had one stop in England and then flew on to Frankfurt. 

At the receiving station, they handed me a train ticket to Kassel and a bus ticket to the train station. No real instructions and I didn’t know a word of German. It was going to be a fun trip.