Amy was born while I was in veterinary school. In fact, she was the first birth in our class. After she was born, I guess everyone figured if we could do it, so could they. There were many more classmates announcing births in the months and years that followed.
I tried to find a photo of her Halloween costume when she was two years old, but it is buried in a box somewhere, and/or in this computer. But with an older sister who knew what to expect, she was excited. The photo is of Amy (the smaller girl) and Brenda, at about the same time period. Brenda is holding our new guinea pig, named George Washington.
Just a couple of months earlier we had moved out of Aggie Village, the married student apartments at Colorado State University. We were in an apartment on Emigh Street, on the eastern edge of Fort Collins.
The girls got into their costumes after dinner and we waited until it was almost dark before heading out to trick or treat. Brenda was excited and Amy shared that excitement, even if she didn’t really know what to expect.
Sandy stayed home with our youngest daughter, Dee. She was only two months old. When we got to the street, I decided the best place to start was an apartment across the street where a young student lived. We were casually acquainted with her and I was pretty sure she would be a fun start for the girls.
We climbed the steps and knocked on the door. I was holding Amy and Brenda was by our side. The minute we knocked, the music started. It sounded like a haunted house.
When the young lady opened the door, the house was had only a couple of dim lights, cobwebs hung from the ceiling with a large rubber spider in the middle. The young lady was dressed in a very realistic witches costume.
Amy kicked and buried her face in my neck. She was done. Brenda hurriedly collected her treats and we excused ourselves. Amy wanted to go home.
So we went back to house and Amy stayed with Sandy and Dee while I took Brenda on down the street.
Marge was standing at the exam table trying to comfort an old Dachshund when in entered the exam room. The old Dachshund, sitting on his rear end, unable to stand on his hind legs.
“This is Hank,” Marge said. “When we got him as a pup, I named him Henry. My husband, George, dead now, immediately shortened it to Hank. My father had been named Henry. He was a crotchety old German, and he hated it when anybody called him Hank. He didn’t much of George. I think George felt the same way.
I patted Hank on his head. This was the first time I had seen Marge and Hank. He looked like he had been through his share of battles. The grey on his muzzle told of his years, along with the cataracts in his eye. He was obviously uncomfortable with his situation but not obviously painful.
“He hasn’t been able to stand for a couple of days,” Marge said. “The same thing happened a year or two ago, and he got better with some pills. I was hoping he was going to get better on his own, but it doesn’t look like it.”
I pinched a couple of toe on his feet. There was no response to the pain, just a withdrawal response. I pinched harder, but still no response. I picked up a forceps from the counter and squeezed a toe nail hard enough to make me worry about crushing the nail. There was still no response from Hank.
“Hank has no deep pain response,” I said. “That means that Hank has a major spinal cord injury. We should start with some x-rays to see what his back looks like.”
“Hank was George’s dog,” Marge said. “When this happened a few years ago, we spent a small fortune on treatment. Since then, George up and died, and Hank has gotten a lot older. I am not planning to spend another small fortune on him again.”
“To be honest, if Hank has been like this for a couple of days, there is not much that can be done that will help him,” I said. “Surgery is helpful in these cases if done in the first 24 hours. After that, the spinal injury is likely permanent. Sometimes with rest and steroids, we will see return to function, but that is probably by God’s hands, not the surgeon’s.
“I think I would like to talk about putting Hank to sleep,” Marge said. “How do you do that?”
“That might be a good choice for Hank,” I said. “Otherwise, we are going to be putting him through a lot of pain and suffering with an unfavorable outcome being likely.”
“Yes, I agree,” Marge said. “But how do you put him to sleep?”
“We can do things however you would like,” I said. “But, I’m a farm boy, and I learned many years ago that if you have an unpleasant tack to perform it is best just to get it done. I usually just give an injection in the vein on his front leg. He is gone before the needle is out.”
“How do we know that he is dead?” Marge asked,
“Trust me, when I give him this injection he is dead,” I said. “There is no second thoughts, there is no reviving him.”
“Will, my son is a real doctor, and we had him put our previous dog to sleep for us,” Marge said. “And that dog woke up!”
“Maybe that’s why your son is a real doctor and not a veterinarian,” I said.
Marge gave some thought to that response. I could tell that she was thinking hard about her decision.
“Okay, let’s do it,” Marge said, with a stern voice I had not heard from her before. “Do you want me to stay?”
“That’s your choice, Marge,” I said. “You can stay with Hank during the injection if you want, or you can wait out front, and check him after it is over. With your concerns about him being dead, I would not suggest you leave, but it is all your choice.”
“Which do you prefer?” Marge asked.
“I really have don’t care, it is your choice,” I said. “I know a lot of people like to stay. Some like to hold the pet. Actually, I thick that is not calming like they believe, but instead, it transmits their anxiety to the pet.”
“That make since,” Marge said. “I’ll wait out front. And can you cremate him and return the ashes to me?”
“Yes, and if you would like the ashes in a special urn, Sandy has all that information for you,” I said.
Marge left the room and closed the door behind her
“Wow, that was a hard decision for her,” Marilyn said as she cradled Hank in her arms.
“The episode with the last dog waking up was probably pretty traumatic for her,” I said. “Her son didn’t do her any favors.”
“What do you suppose went on there?” Marilyn asked.
“I would guess her son used phenobarbital,” I said. “It is probably the only thing he hav access to. We use pentobarbital, which is rapid acting and much more profound. But the DEA is restricting the availability of pentobarbital more all the time. That is due to its abuse potential and how dangerous it is if people abuse it.”
“Could he have done anything differently?” Marilyn asked.
“When I was in school, if a student did a euthanasia without a professor at hand, we had to open the chest afterwards,” I said. “That way if a mistake was made, a vein missed or a dose miscalculated, and the animal started to recovered, it would have a pneumothorax and not be able to breathe so it could not recover. That was just a double check for students. I don’t think doing that with phenobarbital would be considered an ethical euthanasia.”
I place a rubber band tourniquet on Hank’s right front leg. The cephalic vein popped up, I slipped the needle into the vein, Hank did not respond. I delivered five ccs of pentobarbital, Hank was gone before the injection was complete. The calculated dose for Hank was two ccs, with Marge’s concerns, I wanted no questions.
I opened the exam room door and motioned for Marge to come inside. Marilyn had placed Hank on a kennel fleece on the table. Marge patted him. I held out my stethoscope for her use, but she just smiled.
“Thank you, Doctor Larsen. Sandy said you would call when the ashes were ready,” Marge said as she was leaving.
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.
Photo Credit: Sp 4 Clarence Nishihara, South Korea, 1967
