The True Nature of Things

By guest author John Marble

If you are going to be successful running a small business in a small town, especially a small town that you weren’t born in, you had better be able to get along with the locals. In Doc Larsen’s case, of course, this meant not only getting along with the cats and dogs and cattle, but being able to sooth the humans. Dave’s bedside manner was based partly on distraction. If a gal came in with a broken-legged dog, Doc would soon have her talking about her high school graduation party. A fellow whose favorite cat was dying of kidney failure? “Gosh, I see your grandson’s doing pretty well on the wrestling mat this season.” With me, he always talked about fishing.

And so, toward the end of cleaning up a nasty prolapse on a recalcitrant cow, I wasn’t really surprised when the Doc mentioned that he’d been spending some time up at Lost Lake, dragging in fat trout just for fun. He began to give a short lecture about the nature of catch and release as a management tool, but I cut him off. Knowing that Thursday afternoon was his traditional off-time, I jumped right in:

“How ‘bout we just run up there on Thursday and catch some fish?”

The presentation was perfect, I guess, and the hook was set.

“Uh, OK.”

On Thursday we slipped the boat into the water and made our way out to the deep hole. We were casting Wooly Boogers: heavy wet-flies made of hair and feathers and wire, designed to sink to the bottom and look like immature insects. I had learned about wet fly fishing from my father-in-law, a highly-skilled fisherman. Unfortunately, he wasn’t much of a talker or a teacher. I knew that you could catch a lot of fish on wet flies, but I never knew why. All I knew was that fishing wet flies required a much greater degree of focus and maturity than dry fly fishing did. There’s just something exciting about a rising fish breaking water and grabbing a fly. It’s like a shiny piece of aluminum to a raven. It just gets your attention.

Doc and I were pretty busy dragging in big fat trout with those ugly-bug flies, but I couldn’t help but notice that fish were rising occasionally, taking flies off of the surface.

Cast, cast, cast.

“So, Doc, how come we’re fishing wet flies when there appears to be a pretty good hatch going on?”

Cast, cast, cast.

“Well, it has to do with the bugs: they spend 99% of their time on the bottom, or making their way toward the surface. Doesn’t it make sense than that we should imitate them as wet flies, rather than the few seconds that they spend fluttering around on the surface? It’s just the true nature of things.”

Cast, cast, cast.

“Well, Doc, speaking about the true nature of things, I have a question for you on a completely different topic. And I’m afraid it is one that might be a little close to home.”

Cast, cast, cast.

“Alright. Shoot.”

(Here I should probably pause to remind folks that at this point, Dave Larsen was working his way up the ladder in Sweet Home hierarchy. He was a local businessman, a Rotarian, he was on the School Board and he did business with nearly every person in town. He had the pulse of the community, and that’s why I wanted his opinion.)

Cast, cast, cast.

“So, Doc, this “Golden Boy”, the one who’s in the paper every week, the one with all these big plans for developing Sweet Home into a tourist mecca, the one who’s leasing all of these properties down by the river…you know who I’m talking about?”

“Oh, yes. I know exactly who you mean.”

Cast, cast, cast.

“Well, do you think that guy is for real?”

Dave glanced my way for just a fraction of a second.

“Oh, hell no he’s not for real. I don’t know exactly everything he’s up to, but this whole thing is going to wind up blowing up in Sweet Home’s face. And it probably won’t take too long. And some people are going to lose a bunch of money”

Cast, cast, cast.

“So, why do you suppose he’s doing all this? And why are people so excited about the whole story?”

“Well, it’s just like these flies. They look kind of like the real thing. This guy is a great story-teller, and people in Sweet Home are hungry for a good story. In fact, they’re just starving for a good story.”

With that, Dave cast out again, then turned to me and peered over the top of his glasses.

“It’s just the true nature of things.”

And that, right there, was a fine teaching moment.

John Marble

Hallowed Ground, Prefaced

Preface

  I have posted this story before on this blog, but it is the most fitting story I have for a Memorial Day post. It speaks to the tremendous sacrifice suffered from a small group of farm families living along the banks of Catching Creek, a small tributary to the Coquille River.

I grew up in Oregon’s Coquille River Valley in the 1940s and 1950s. After a stretch in the US Army from 1965 to 1969, I returned to school and graduated from Colorado State University School of Veterinary Medicine in 1975. I practiced in the foothills of the Oregon Cascade Mountains for 40 years.

The loss of my close childhood friend, Don Miller, was the driving force for my return to school following my tour in the US Army.

             Dave Larsen

Hallowed Ground

D. E. Larsen, DVM

  We hurried across the cow bridge at the upper end of Uncle Dutch’s farm. We were in a hurry because we planned to hunt up to the Bartlett farm this afternoon. This would require us to cross Catching Creek one more time, and that crossing would have no bridge. Don Miller and I were in the fall of our 8th-grade year. Living on neighboring farms out of Myrtle Point, we hunted ducks and anything else along the creek as often as we could.

  Don was a little smaller than I, but we were both stout young men and growing as we hurried along. I had on pair of hand-me-down hip boots. Don was in tennis shoes. That meant that I would have to carry Don across the creek piggyback. 

 As we rushed across the field toward Bartlett’s lower ground, a ruffed grouse sprang from the creek bank. We generally collected several wood ducks on these evening hunts. Occasionally, we would run into a flock of mallards. If we were lucky, a China rooster would cross our path. But this grouse was an unexpected surprise, and he was quickly dispatched.

  We had been hunting the creek for a couple of seasons now, and we were crack shots with our shotguns. We knew every riffle in the stream, and we knew where we could expect ducks. Most of the time, we didn’t have enough time to get this far up the creek. We would have to hurry to get back to our fields to shot ducks as they came back down the creek heading to roost in the swamp near town.

  When we came to the creek crossing, I pulled my boots up, and Don jumped on my back. With Don holding both shotguns, we crossed the creek with no problems. We had worried about this ford when we were planning to hunt higher in the creek. We hunted along the creek in Bartlett’s lower field, jumping a group of mallards. Don and I both added a large mallard drake to our bag. This was a great addition to our typical hunt.

  As we headed back down the creek, I stumbled while carrying Don across the ford. We came close to ending up in the water. I did recover my balance and ran the last few steps to the far bank. We sat and rested and laughed at the near disaster. We knew it would have made the trip down the creek a chilly walk.

  We had about a mile to go. We didn’t need to follow the creek going down. We had jumped all the ducks on the way up the creek. We just wanted to get to our field at the base of the Cowhorn (our field was named for its shape, the Cowhorn on our side of the creek, and Horseshoe Bend on Uncle Dutch’s side). The ducks flying down the creek in the evening would cross this field every evening. We seldom hit a duck here. They were high and flying fast, but it gave us a lot of fun shooting, and just maybe we would get one.

  As we reached the field, we had to follow the creek a short distance to reach our shooting area. We both stopped at the same time. There were riffles, many of them, in a quiet area of the creek. This had to mean a whole flock of ducks. We spread apart, crouched a little, and snuck along the creek bank. Expecting to see the sky fill with ducks, we burst into an open grassy area of the bank, guns at the ready.

  There were no ducks. A cow was floundering in the water. She seemed unable to recover her footing and was struggling to keep her head above water. I laid my shotgun and game bag down, pulled up my boots, and entered the creek to hold her head.

  “Don, run over to Lundy’s and call Dad,” I shouted to Don.

  He dropped his gear and took off like a shot. 

  The cow settled down a little with me holding her head. It was going to be 20 or maybe 30 minutes before anybody got here. I was glad I had my hip boots.

  The first to arrive was Vern Lundy and Don. They drove in Vern’s old pickup. Dad was on his way with the tractor, an old Ferguson, a small but function tractor. Next to arrive was Uncle Dutch and Grandpa. They stopped and tended the gate while Dad drove the tractor through the gate and up to the creek bank.

  Dad came into the water with me, standing on the other side of the cows head. He had a large cotton tow-rope.

  “We are going to tie this around her neck and pull her out with the tractor,” he said.

 “Won’t that break her neck?” I asked.

  “Not if we do it right, now you watch. We are going to tie a bowline with the knot placed under her chin. The rope will be tight against the back of her head,” he said as demonstrated the knot and the placement of the rope. 

  When he was done, he looked at me and said, “Savvy?”

  “Savvy!” I replied

  “Now you do it,” he said as he undid his knot and handed me the rope.

  With little problem, I wrapped the rope and around her neck, pulled it tight against the back of her head and ears, and tied a bowline that fit under her chin.

  “Good,” Dad said, “Now, hold her head until I start pulling her, then you move out of the way, so you are not in the bite of the rope in case it breaks or something.”

  With the rope secured to the tractor, Dad started pulling the cow, I moved away, and the tractor pulled the cow up the grassy bank and up to a level spot in the field. The men were quick to untie her and help position her half sitting up. I waded to shore, still thankful that I was dry. 

  “The vet is on his way, he should be here before too long,” Grandpa said.

  “I have to get heading for home, or it will be dark by the time I get there,” Don said as he picked up his shotgun and ducks.

  I watched as Don started across the Cowhorn, headed for Felcher Lane, that would lead him to his house. We both knew that we hunted and fished on hallowed ground. Less than 20 years before, this same ground was covered by Phil Bartlett, who was lost when he crashed his Navy fighter plane into a mountain on a night mission in the Pacific. Stan Felcher also covered this same ground, he died in the Batan Death March. Bayoneted by a Japanese soldier while on a detail to gather firewood. Bob Lundy was decorated for his service on a flight crew in the Pacific, and my Uncle Ernie was a bomber pilot. I had several cousins who fought in Korea, a couple of them in the thick of things. 

  What we did not know was that Don had but 7 years left to live. He would be killed by a 50 caliber round in a friendly fire misadventure in Vietnam. I received that news in a letter from Mom while I was stationed in Korea. This was, indeed, hallowed ground. A tremendous sacrifice of young men from such a small area of close-knit farm families.

  Dr. Haug, the veterinarian, arrived shortly. He hurried through a quick exam and started an IV, I guessed he probably had dinner waiting. When Dad asked him what he thought about the cow being in the creek, he was pretty brief. “The creek just got in her way as she was going down, this cow has milk fever,” he said.

  Dr. Haug finished the second bottle and put his stuff away. Slapping the cow on her back, she was quick to right herself and get to her feet. Everybody was relieved.

  “It probably would be a good idea to put her in the barn tonight, that will help her warm-up. It is unlikely that she will go down again, but if she does, there won’t be any duck hunters to find her tonight,” Dr. Haug said, glancing at me with a smile.

  Dad and Uncle Dutch started the cow toward the barn, I knew I would be expected to finish the job. I picked up my shotgun and game bag, and as I passed Dr. Haug, I asked, “Which do you want, the mallard drake or the ruffed grouse.”

  He was quick to take the grouse, smiled, and said, “Thanks,” as he got into his truck and headed to the gate. I hurried to catch up to the cow.

My First Foal Delivery

D. E. Larsen, DVM

“Doc, this is Sid, Stan’s brother,” Sid said into the phone. “I have to go to work, but I have a mare down in the middle of the field, just over the little creek. She has a foal stuck. I don’t know how long she has been at it, I just noticed her as I was leaving the house. I would sure be grateful if you could get out here and take care of her. My place is on Wiley Creek, the first driveway past Whiskey Butte. I don’t think you will have any problems with her since she is down. She is a gentle old gal. I will stop by your office when I get off this afternoon.”

I hated these 5:00 AM phone calls. I didn’t know Sid, but if he was Stan’s brother, he was probably okay.

“Okay, Sid, I will get out there shortly, so it doesn’t disrupt my day,” I said. “Some times, when a stranger comes, a down animal will get up and run. I am not going to chase her around a pasture if that happens.”

“That’s okay, Doc, I understand, just do what you can,” Sid said.

“Sometimes, when a mare is having some birthing problems, it is a major undertaking to get the foal out,” I said. “That could run up a large bill.”

“This is an old mare, I don’t want to have to sell the farm for her,” Sid said. “If it is going to be a big bill, you call Stan, and he can come out and shoot her.”

With that, I rolled out of bed and dressed quickly. I was hoping I could do this quick and get home for a shower before I had to be in the office. 

This is going to be the first time I have seen a mare in labor. I have been in practice for nearly 4 years. I had seen movies in school, but birthing difficulty (Dystocia) in the mare is rare. I had heard my share of war stories about disasters in the delivery of a foal. The mare’s contraction is so powerful there are stories of veterinarians breaking their arm when the mare contracted.

One night at a local veterinary meeting, I talked with one of the horse vets. I asked him what he did with a mare in difficulty.

“I call one of you cow doctors,” he said. “You guys are the ones who do a lot of delivery work.”

That gave me more confidence for this morning. I knew it would come one day. I just thought it would be for an audience. This morning will be like getting a hole in one when you are playing golf by yourself.

Sid’s place was not far from our house, one creek to the east. I knew the place, but I had not been on it before.

When I pulled up the driveway, I could see the mare out in the middle of the field.  Not even a fence post close to her.  And the ground was too wet for the truck, if she gets up, the call is over. She was a large, black mare. Probably a Percheron, just what I needed. This foal will be a big one.

I loaded everything I could think I might need in the bucket, added some water and picked up my calf jack, a Frank’s Fetal Extractor, and headed out to the mare. This was like doing a plumbing job, I will be two hundred yards from the truck, and there will be something I forgot.

Sid was correct about the mare. She raised her head to glance at me and then laid it back down. My guess was she had been pushing for some time and was exhausted.

I wrapped her tail with some VetWrap and scrubbed her rear end well. I could see a nose, and both hooves poking out of the vulva. The hooves were massive. This was a large foal.

I attached nylon OB straps on each hoof. My thinking was this guy had an elbow lock. The elbows get bunched up against the pelvic brim and prevent the mare from pushing the foal out. It is usually readily corrected. I pulled on one hoof and could feel the elbow pop up over the pelvic brim, and the leg was over a foot ahead of the other foot. I pulled the second hoof, and then we were ready to go. I hooked up the calf jack and started pulling the guy out of there. 

The head came out with no problem. I don’t know how long momma had been pushing on this guy. He was alive but not by much. A couple of more jacks on the handle and I was at the end of the bar. I don’t think I had ever been at the end of the bar when pulling a calf. And this foal has just popped his elbows out of the vulva. 

I moved the OB straps up to his elbows and started jacking again. This guy just kept coming. I was at the end of the bar again, and his hips were not through the pelvis yet. I was lucky that I had brought my long strap. I placed it around his chest and started again. Finally, his hips popped through the pelvis. 

I set the calf jack aside and pulled him the rest of the way out. What a foal, long, and as black as his mother. He was just as tired as his mother. He shook his head as I was trying to clear mucus from his nose. I would pick a calf up by their heels and swing them. There was no way I could do that with this foal. Not only was he too heavy for me to lift, but I would have to be on a stepladder to get his nose off the ground.

After treating his navel with iodine and giving him an E-Se injection, I turned my attention to the mare. I gave a soft tug on the fetal membranes, and they slipped out with no problem. They were intact, and there was no other trauma to the vulva and vagina. I gave her a dose of Oxytocin to get the uterus contracting and a dose of long-acting Penicillin. Then I removed the tail wrap.

She rolled herself up on her sternum and then jumped up. I think she was very relieved. This foal must have been a real weight to carry around. She immediately turns her attention to the foal. If I had a little help, I would try to get some milk out of her to give a mouthful to the foal. There was no way I was going to try that with a free-standing mare. 

I gathered my stuff up and headed for the shower, thinking this foal delivery stuff wasn’t so bad, after all.

At noon, I drove back to Sid’s place. The foal was up and chasing Mom around the pasture.


Photo credits to Jan Laugesen, https://www.pexels.com/@jan-laugesen-205071