One Twist Deserves Another

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I ran my hand into Rosie’s vagina a second time. It still ran into a blind pouch. Rosie was a prized Jersey cow that supplied milk to a lot of neighbors.

“What the heck is going on?” I asked myself. “I had never had a dystocia in a Jersey before unless it was associated with milk fever.”

I explored the pouch with my fingertips. Then the light finally flashed on. This was a full uterine torsion. Partial torsions were common. In fact, I sort of prided myself at being able to untwist a uterus that was half rotated. 

I used my left arm’s strength, I would rock the calf a little, and then, with a strong flip, I would turn it upright. The narrowed twisted vagina would open completely, and delivery would be a snap after the correction. This was a full 360-degree torsion. The vagina was twisted closed like the top of a plastic bag. I tried to advance my hand through the twisted vagina, to no avail.

My thought was to get my hand into the uterus with a detorsion rod and hook the feet to the rod. Then with a bar through the other end of the detorsion rod, I could untwist the uterus with a strong crank. But that wasn’t going to happen. I could not begin to advance my hand through the twisted vagina.

“Carol, there is full 360-degree uterine torsion,” I said. “I can’t get my hand through it. That means we are probably going to have to do a C-Section.”

There was a gathering crowd in this small backyard barn lot. It seemed that half of Crawfordsville was watching.

“Is that the only option,” John asked.

I started to reply, but the question had started the wheels turning in my memory bank.

“I am sort of short on tricks,” I said. “But there is one that we could try. I have never done it. In fact, I have never seen it done. It might be worth a try. I will need 2 by 12 plank, about 12 feet long.”

“We just happen to have one of those,” Carol said. “Over in that lumber pile.”

A couple of guys pulled the plank out of the lumber pile and had it beside Rosie in no time. I had everyone’s full attention now. Nobody had any idea what I was up to.

“This is the plan,” I explained. “We lay Rosie on her side, lay this plank across her belly, with the plank’s midpoint on her belly. Then we roll Rosie to her other side while some brave soul stands on the plank. The plank holds the calf while the Rosie turns, thus undoing the uterine torsion. The only trick is to make sure you roll her the right way.”

“And just how are you going to lay her down on her side?” Bill asked. “I suppose you just ask her.”

“That’s another trick that I use all the time,” I said. “It’s called the Flying W. If you haven’t seen it, you will be impressed.”

I got my large cotton rope and placed the middle of the rope over Rosie’s neck. I crossed the rope between her front legs and brought it up each side, crossing again in the middle of her back. Then I bring both ends out between her hind legs, on each side of her udder, the application was complete. A slight pull, and Rosie fell to her right side.

“I’ll be darned,” Bill said.

I positioned the plank across Rosie’s belly. With the midpoint in the middle of Rosie’s belly. This would be enough plank to make a full turn for Rosie. The plank was at about a 45-degree angle with the ground. It might take an agile person to ride it for the entire arc.

I looked around at the crowd.

“I can stand on the plank,” Carol said. “She is my cow, and there was a day that I was somewhat of a gymnast.”

I positioned Carol on the plank, about four feet up the plank from the ground. I had a couple of guys on each rope tied to both the front and hind feet.

“Now, we are going to go very slow,” I said. “I need to have my hand in her vagina to make sure we are turning the correct way. I tend to be a little dyslexic, and I have trouble figuring this out.”

With my hand in the vagina, I had the guys start lifting on the feet. Sure enough, the twist was tightening.

“Okay, all stop,” I said. “We are going the wrong way. We have to start all over with Rosie on her left side.”

It only took a couple of minutes to untie Rosie’s feet and remove the plank. I didn’t have to do much. The whole crew knew what was up and what needed to be done.

With Rosie on her feet, Bill quickly grabbed the ends of the ropes on the Flying W. He wanted to feel just how easy it worked.

“Now, we want her to fall on the left side,” I said. “So when you pull, you want to lean left and put all the pressure in that direction.”

Bill pulled, leaned left, and Rosie flopped to her left side. Bill had a big smile on his face.

“That was so easy, I can’t believe it,” Bill said.

“If you are throwing a big bull, or an ornery steer, it might take a couple of guys on each rope,” I said. “But I have never seen it fail.”

The rest of the crew had Rosie’s feet tied and the plank in place in no time. Carol jumped on the plank, and we rolled Rosie.

After standing Rosie up, I washed her up one more time. I ran my hand it into a normal birth canal. I didn’t let on, but I was almost as amazed as was the crowd watching. I grabbed both front feet of the calf and pulled them into the birth canal. As I turned to my bucket for my OB straps, Rosie strained, and out popped the head. One more strain, and both John and I caught the calf before it fell to the ground.

“That was easy,” John said.

“Jersey cows have the easiest deliveries of all the breeds,” I said.

We turned Rosie loose, and she turned her attentions to the little heifer calf, utterly oblivious to the crowd watching.

Photo by Tom Swinnen from Pexels

Ageless Ida and Kitty

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Ida was sitting beside her daughter, waiting patiently, with Kitty nestled in her lap. Ida was my oldest client, a tiny, frail old lady with snow-white hair. She lived by herself, but her daughter, Lila, was close at hand. Lila was no spring chicken herself.

Ida drove until a couple of years ago. She had expressed her disappointment to me when they took her driver’s license away. She was fiercely independent, and she hated to have to impose herself on her daughter.

Kitty was an old tabby cat with a white blaze and a white chest. The record did not have a birth date for Kitty. That meant the girls probably disagreed with Ida’s guess. Maybe I should resolve that issue today.

Ida slapped at her daughter when Lila tried to help her stand up with Kitty. She also refused the helping hand offered by the girl showing her to the exam room. She ambled toward the exam room with measured steps and cradled Kitty in her arms.

“Kitty’s has not been feeling well for several days,” Ida said as she carefully positioned her on the exam table. “I had to crawl under my bed to get her this morning.”

I had to take a moment to process that statement. I am not sure I could crawl under a bed to retrieve a cat, and I am a young man. Imagining this frail little lady crawling under her bed was difficult to conjure up in my mind.

“Ida, you shouldn’t be doing that at your age,” I said. “You should get one of your grandsons to help.”

“They are always busy, and Lila is in worse shape than I am,” Ida said. “Besides, if you quit doing things for yourself, pretty soon, they stick you in one of those prisons that they call all sorts of fancy names today.”

“That’s pretty good advice,” I said. “Let’s look and see if I can find out what is wrong with Kitty.”

“Kitty is very old, she is 26 years old now,” Ida said.

“That is pretty old for a cat, are you sure of the date?” I asked.

“David, I got her as a kitten for my 70th birthday,” Ida said. “I should know her age. I named her Kitty because cats never pay attention to a name but always come when you call kitty.”

“I had no idea she was that old,” I said. “I don’t think I have seen another cat near that age. I did have a client who moved here from California with a 17-year-old cat. That cat aged 2 years every 3 months, according to the owner. It was 25 when he died a year later.”

“I have a picture of Kitty and myself at my birthday party,” Ida said. “That was the last birthday party I allowed Lila to give for me. They are sort of silly for old folks. They just use them as an excuse to take their picture with you. Just because you might not be around next year.”

Kitty was lying on the exam table, unmoving through all this discussion. I petted her head and then ran my hand down the length of her body. There was a bump when I cross her abdomen. I felt closer. It was a tumor, the size of an orange.

I looked at Ida, and she had a tear on her cheek.

“I felt it last week,” she said. “I prayed it would go away, but that didn’t help.”

“Sometimes, we can remove these with surgery,” I said. “That might be difficult at Kitty’s age.”

“No, I told her I wouldn’t let you do any of that to her,” Ida said, tears streaming down her cheeks now. “I don’t know what I am going to do without her, Doctor. She is all I have to talk with now, all my friends are long gone.”

Ida was purposely avoiding the discussion of euthanasia. I knew it had to be discussed, but I wanted her to bring it up. Maybe that wasn’t going to happen.

“You should get a new cat,” I said. “We could find you a kitten.”

“That wouldn’t be fair to the kitten, David,” Ida said. “I am not going to be around forever, you know.”

“You could have your Granddaughter help pick her out,” I said. “She could know that it would be her responsibility when the time came.”

“That might be a thought,” Ida said. “But what are we going to do with Kitty? I don’t want her to suffer.”

“Is she eating at all?” I asked.

“She has been under my bed for 3 days,” Ida said. “That is why I had to crawl under there to get her.”

“I think she waiting to die,” I said. “Maybe it is time we talk about making that an easy process for her.”

“Yes, I think that is what I thought when I called Lila this morning,” Ida said. “Then, I can take her home and bury her beside her favorite place in the back yard.”

“You should get one of your grandsons to help you with that chore,” I said.

“The ground is still soft, David,” Ida said. “I am not helpless. That is something I would like to do privately.”

“It will only take a moment for me to put her to sleep,” I said. “You can wait out front if you like, and we can bring her out in a small box.”

“I think she will like to be looking into my eyes when she goes, I will wait right here,” Ida said. “And I will take her home wrapped in her blanket. She would like it that way.”

And that is precisely how it was done. Ida carefully wrapped Kitty in her blanket and wiped a tear from her eye before gathering her into her arms.

“Thank you, David,” Ida said. “I will think about that kitten.”

I watched as Lila helped her mother out the door. Ida slapping at her as she tried to hold Kitty.

That was the last time I saw Ida. Her obituary was in the paper a few months later.

Photo by Belén Rubio from Pexels

The Coffee Shop Doctors

D. E. Larsen, DVM

“I ain’t doing so good this morning, Guys,” Floyd said as he positioned himself at the table in Mollie’s Bakery. “Tiger is over at the Vet Clinic.”

Tiger is Floyd’s sole companion since Ella died from bladder cancer a few years ago. Floyd is in his early 80s, and his nickname of Red doesn’t fit well with thinning hair that is more grey than red nowadays.

“What’s up with Tiger?” Ed asked. Everyone at the table knew Tiger was a constant companion for Floyd.

“Doc says he has a herniated disk,” Floyd says. “He can’t use his hind legs right now. Doc says that if we give him a few days, he might get better.”

“Floyd, don’t let them send you to some specialist,” Bob said. “They will charge you thousands of dollars, and he will still never walk.”

“Yes, that is what happened to my sister’s dog,” George said. “She lives in Portland. Took her little wiener dog to see a specialist, and he told her he could fix the little dog. Cost $6000, and the damn dog never walked again. Then they fixed her up with one of those carts. Worst thing ever, my sister spent most of her time picking up poop behind the dog. Finally, she had her put to sleep. She would have saved herself a lot of money and grief if she had done that at the start.”

“I think George is right,” Ed said. “Tiger is no spring chicken, you know. They will slice him up, put him through misery, spend a lot of your money, and he will never be the old Tiger. Hard as it may be, I think you should put him sleep now.”

“Well, Doc isn’t sending me to a specialist,” Floyd said. “I am not one of those public employee guys with a big pension. My Social Security will only pay for the basics.”

“The dollar amount don’t matter,” Bob said. “If he takes all you have, you are still broke. Then you end up with a dog who can’t walk and no money. You will be far better off to put him to sleep and get a cat. Cats don’t tie you down. You can throw them outside and leave them for a week or two.”

“Ah, you guys don’t understand,” Floyd said. “Tiger is all I have, except for you bunch of jokers. He sleeps on my bed, and he talks to me while I eat breakfast. I mean, sometimes I think he is a better friend than Ella was. He sure doesn’t complain about anything.”

“Sleeping on the bed is probably his problem,” George said. “That is what they told my sister. Little dog jumps off a high bed and bam, there goes his back.”

“You got to think about what you are going be putting him through,” Ed said. “Everything is an adjustment at our age, but we adjust. Make the decision, and you will feel better for it next week.”

“I think that you should listen to Ed,” George said.

“I have listened to you guys long enough,” Floyd said. “I going to go over and check on Tiger and talk with Doc for a change of pace.”

I watched as Floyd came through the door with a bit of a frown on his face.

“Did you come to see Tiger this morning?” I asked. “He is doing better this morning.”

“I need to ask a few questions, Doc,” Floyd says, almost in tears now. “They were giving me a real hard time this morning over at Mollie’s. Most of the guys at coffee think I should have put Tiger to sleep.” Floyd explains. “Darn, I hate to lose him.”

Floyd had brought Tiger in yesterday. Tiger, an older Dachshund, had hind leg paralysis present when Floyd woke up in the morning. The good things were the time since injury was short, and Tiger still had deep pain in his hind legs. The presence of deep pain is a favorable sign, indicating an injured but intact spinal cord.

“Tiger has made significant improvement overnight, Floyd,” I said. “I think any discussion of euthanasia would be way premature.”

“Doc, I can’t afford a lot of treatment, and I can’t afford surgery,” Floyd said.

“Tiger is not a candidate for surgery at this point,” I said. “His back looks like a minefield on x-ray. But we don’t have to talk about surgery at this point. We do have to talk about some lifestyle changes.”

“The guys said that sleeping on the bed is what did this to him,” Floyd said.

“Let me get the x-rays and show you a couple of things,” I said.

With the x-rays on the viewer, I could show Floyd the multiple calcified disk spaces between his vertebra. There was one narrowed space in the middle of his back.

“This space is the culprit this time,” I said, pointing to the narrowed space. “These other spots are sort like a gun held to his head. There is a surgery to reduce the risk, but changing the way Tiger lives his life will be helpful. That means a bed on the floor. No up and down off the furniture. No standing on his hind legs for treats.”

“So is all of that what caused this?” Floyd asked.

“Not really, but now that it is here, we need to reduce the risk,” I said. “All of this sort of reflects on his mother. It is the way Dachshunds are put together, that coupled with their attitude. You know, they are the toughest dog on the block.”

“You don’t think I should put him to sleep, Doctor, do you?” Floyd asks, seeking reassurance.

“No, definitely not at this time. Tiger is on his feet today,” I say. “We need to keep him on some anti-inflammatory medication for a few more days and keep him on cage rest while he is on that medication. That is something you can do at home if you want. The expense is not much. We can loan you a large kennel. You just have to use it. He needs to be in the kennel all the time. You can carry him outside on a leash so he can potty a couple of times a day. Then when he passes his recheck next week, make him a bed on the floor and keep his four feet on the ground at all times. Make him a ramp, so he doesn’t have to go down stairs and keep him skinny.”

“That all sounds like stuff that I can do,” Floyd says. “So, I guess I can take him home.”

“Listen, Floyd, don’t pay any attention to that bunch over at Mollie’s. None of them are so tough when they are over here with a pet.” I assure him. “The truth is they are not the one who has to go home to an empty house. They don’t have to be eighty years old and get out of bed in the morning and have nothing to do. It’s easy for them to talk tough over coffee and embarrass a guy.”

“I know, Doc,” Floyd said. “But, I have to talk with somebody.”

“Tiger is no spring chicken,” I said. “There will come a day when we will have to say goodby. But hopefully, that day is a few years from now.”

“I hope you’re correct,” Floyd says.

“Life doesn’t come with many guarantees, Floyd,” I said. “But there is an excellent chance Tiger will return completely to normal in a couple of weeks. We can always put him to sleep tomorrow, whenever tomorrow comes. Once we do it, there is no going back.”

Tiger went on to live out his life with no additional back problems. He didn’t outlive Floyd, and saying goodbye was difficult. But that is the nature of most of our pets.

Photo by Dominika Roseclay from Pexels