D. E. Larsen, DVM

I hated this hole. I was trying to visualize the perfect shot as I placed my ball on the tee. Standing back behind the ball, I took a deep breath. Even with my slice, I could play this hole. I never understood why it bothered me so.

The 8th hole at Pineway Golf Course was straight away and a little downhill, especially on the second shot. The green was elevated and small, but I could play this hole. I just needed a good tee shot. I needed to block those trees out of my mind.

I addressed the ball, checked my alignment, and started my backswing. Then I swung as hard as I could. The ball flew off the tee, cleared the close trees, and faded to the right around the grove of oaks. I was in great shape, just right of the fairway, but only a six iron to the green.

My Thursday afternoon golf game was a closely guarded escape for me. The phone never rang on the golf course. I was never a great player, but I could beat anyone on any one hole. I loved this game, I just wished I could play well enough to beat my Father someday.

I lined up my second shot and set my six iron on the ground behind the ball. I took a peek at my target, and I swung hard. Typically, a large divot flew in the air. The ball was high in the air when I locked onto it visually. It was right on target, high in the air, it should land softly on the green. 

I followed the ball carefully, it landed on the green, left of center, one small bounce and rolled toward the pin on the left-back of the green. I came to rest two feet short of the pin. 

My heart raced, I slammed the six iron back into my bag and started toward the green. Jim was just making his second shot from the middle of the fairway. Partners in a men’s club game, he would be happy that I had a short birdie putt. Jim’s ball came up just short of the green. Hopefully, he could get up and down for par, making my birdie putt a lot less stressful.

I was just setting my golf bag down on the edge of the green when I saw the golf cart speeding down the 9th fairway, heading right for us. Moments later, Woodberry pulls up beside in the cart.

“You have an emergency, Doc,” Woodberry said. “Bill called and said he has a cow who cut her tail off on a sickle mower. He thinks she is bleeding to death.”

“The tail is a long way from the heart,” I said. “All bleeding stops, eventually.”

“Get in, I told the guy I would send you as soon as I could,” Woodberry said, apparently not impressed with my words of wisdom.

“Woodberry, do you how long it has been since I have had a 2-foot putt of a birdie on this hole?” I said.

“Get in, Jim will give you the putt, we have to go,” Woodberry said.

“You can keep my ball, Jim,” I said as I loaded my bag on the cart.

At least Bill’s place was not far and on the way home. I threw my golf bag into the back seat in the truck and jumped in, not bothering to change my golf shoes. That would give Bill the impression that I had hurried.

I could see both Bill and his wife out at the chute. They had the cow in the chute already. I didn’t see any blood squirting, but the cow’s hind legs were covered in blood, and Bill’s teeshirt and pants were also soaked.

“I am glad they could get you,” Bill said as I got out of the truck. “Sorry I had to ruin your game, but I was running these cows out of the barn, and I had this damn tractor parked here with the sickle bar up. This gal must have switched her tail at the wrong time, and that sickle bar just sliced it off in an instant.”

I walked over and looked at what was left of the tail. It was a clean cut, about a foot and a half from the base of the tail. 

“I didn’t know how long you were going to be,” Bill said. “I figured I better get the bleeding under control, that hose clamp a little way up from the cut end did the trick. I just screwed it down until the bleeding stopped.”

“I see, that was pretty good thinking,” I said. “I will close up this wound, and we will be able to remove the clamp.”

I shaved the hair for about 6 inches above the severed end of the tail. Then I gave her an epidural injection of Lidocaine for anesthesia. After scrubbing the wound, I made a bivalve incision of the end of the tail, so I would have two flaps to suture over the cut end. Then I removed enough bone so I could get the skin to close over the bone with no tension.

“I’m going to have you take that clamp off now,” I said. “I will need some bleeding to make sure I can get all the vessels ligated.”

Bill removed the clamp with the screwdriver that was still in his pocket. The blood started squirting. I was able to get a hemostat on the main arteries, and I ligated those, check again, there was just minor bleeding evident now. Suturing the end of the tail with number 2 Dexon, made for a secure closure, and I would not have to come back to take the sutures out. I sprayed her well for flies, and we turned her out. 

“That should heal with no problems,” I said. “But keep an eye on it and let me know if I need to recheck her. The stitches will dissolve, so we don’t have to take those out.”

“I am sure glad you could get here so quick,” Bill said. “And, I apologize again for ruining your game.”

“The worst thing about that is I left a 2-foot putt for a birdie on the 8th hole,” I said. “I guess I will just have to add that onto your bill.”

“Well, damn! Now I am sorry, I hear a lot of guys complaining about that hole,” Bill said. “I never play the game myself.”

Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash

D. E. Larsen, DVM

“You need to hurry, your flight is boarding now,” the airline attendant said as he took our bags. “If your bags don’t make your flight, they will be on the next flight. You have a full plane, there is a Ducks game in Berkley Saturday.”

We hurried down the concourse to the plane. Just what I wanted, to ride to San Francisco with a planeload of Duck fans.

We squeezed down the aisle and found our seats. Now we could relax for a few minutes before the plane takes off. This was going to be our first long weekend off for nearly 2 years. A continuing education trip on paper, but a mini-vacation if we could make it such.

“I think we would have been better off to take the extra time and drive to Portland,” Sandy said. “Then we could have got a direct flight to Reno. I hate changing planes, and especially in San Francisco.”

“It won’t be too bad, we should have plenty of time,” I said.

About then, we were rudely made aware that our flight was going to be anything but pleasant. Sitting behind us, and on top of our seats at times, was a most unruly four-year-old and his mother, who had no concept of discipline.

We are making the final approach to landing on the runway that extends out into the bay. 

“I hate landing at this airport,” I say. “The first time I flew on a commercial airline was when I joined the Army. They loaded us on a plane in Portland and flew us to San Francisco. I had a window seat, and when we were landing, all I saw under the plane was water. We were getting closer and closer to the water. I was lifting my feet before the ground, and a runway came into my view. I repeat that episode in my mind every time I land there.”

We deplane and rush down the concourse looking for the gate for the flight to Reno. We ask an agent at the end of the hall. 

“That is a separate terminal. You catch a shuttle bus down those stairs,” the agent says, pointing to a stairwell at the end of the concourse. 

We hurry down the stairs and catch a bus to the detached terminal. Then we load into a puddle jumper, not my idea of a fun flight. I am white-knuckled all the way to Reno. We arrive, and Sandy’s bag makes the flight, my bag is nowhere in sight. We leave our information and hail a cab to the hotel.

“We have your reservation right here,” the hotel clerk says to Sandy. “It is a nice room, I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Sandy looks over the paperwork while I twiddle my thumbs.

“Is this a non-smoking room?” Sandy asks.

“No, Ma’am,” The clerk responds. “This is a smoking room.”

“We requested a non-smoking room on our reservation,” Sandy says.

The clerk looks at his computer screen closely. “I see that you are correct, it says a non-smoking room right here,” the clerk says. “We don’t have a non-smoking room available in this room class.”

It looks like another planeload of people has arrived, there is quite a line behind us now.

“I have to have a non-smoking room,” Sandy says.

“Let me go talk with my supervisor,” the clerk says as he leaves his station.

The people behind us let out an audible moan. Sandy is unwavering.

Finally, after close to 5 minutes, the clerk returns. He is all smiles.

“I have an upgraded room for you,” he says, winking at me. “You guys are really going to enjoy this room! It is one of our best suites.”

The Bellhop leads us away. The room is high in the hotel, on the 35th floor.

“You are going to really enjoy this room,” he said as he pushed open the door.

He set the bags down and went to the drapes and pulled them open. The entire wall is floor to ceiling windows, and the view of the city is incredible. I feel a little embarrassed as I hand him a $5.00 tip.

“Can you believe this room,” I said to Sandy. “And all because you would not accept a smoking room.”

The main room of the suite is three times the size of any hotel room we have ever seen. The bathroom is enormous. It has a large shower with two showerheads. There is a large jacuzzi tub, massive mirror with double sinks and a separate water closet.

“This sort of reminds me of Ma and Pa Kettle,” I said.” We are just a couple of old country bumpkins in a high-class hotel.”

Sandy laughs as she investigates the kitchenette/bar area. There is a large sectional, a loveseat and a couple of chairs. And then the bed takes up the far end of the room. 

The bed is more substantial than a king-size bed and round, on a raised platform.  There is a 30 inch high wrought iron railing around half of the platform. And a massive round mirror is on the ceiling above the bed. 

“I am not sure how this is going to work out for us,” I said. 

I’m a stomach sleeper, and I hang my feet over the end of the bed. Or I sleep on my side, in touch with the edge of the bed. I am not sure I am going to be able to find either in this bed.

“I think we are maybe past the mirror stage in our relationship,” Sandy said. “This could be an interesting evening.”

We were just ready to leave to get a bite to eat when there was a knock at the door. It was the Bellhop with my bag from the airport.

“They delivered your bag, but it looks like it has been broken into, you might want to check it carefully and make sure you file a report with the airline,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “Before you go, can you tell me something about this room? What does a night in this room usually cost?”

“This is our special suite,” he said. “We generally use it to comp the high rollers. We don’t rent it out very often, but when we do, it goes for $1200 a night.”

“I would guess you generally get more than $5.00 tips up here,” I said.

“I have got some tremendous tips in this room, but it is not a big deal, $5.00 is a pretty standard tip in most rooms.”

“I would have to have a whole lot of expendable cash before I could bring myself to pay $1200 for a room,” I say as I hand him a $20 bill.

It was sort of like adding the final insult to the plane trip. The bag was a mess, but the only thing missing is my sports coat. This gives me an excellent excuse for dressing casually. That fits my style just fine.

When the evening was over, and we are ready to go to sleep, Sandy spends a lot of time closing the drapes. It is no small task. I can not convince her that there is nobody who can peek into a room on the 35th floor, especially if the lights are out. But she does not listen.

The bed is comfortable, but, like many hotel beds, the sheets and blankets are excessive. I go around and untuck all the sheets on my side of the bed. Then I discard the comforter and half the blankets. I crawl into bed.

I am instantly miserable. I can’t find the edge of the bed, and when I reach a point where I can hang my feet over the end of the bed, my nose is at Sandy’s knees. I toss and turn and get tangled up in the top sheet. I get up and pull the top sheet off the bed. Since Sandy was sleeping soundly, I open the drapes and enjoy the view until I drift off to a fitful sleep. 

About 3:00 in the morning, I get up to go to the bathroom. I roll out of bed and start in the direction of the bathroom. I follow the edge of the bed until I reach the point where the round was turning toward Sandy’s side of the bed. I strike out toward the bathroom. 

I forgot about the railing. Just as my left foot takes a step down, the end of the railing hits me in the groin. My right leg impacts the railing, I lose my balance and fall, left side first, the two steps to the floor.

I roll onto my back. I feel like I have just been struck with a Klingon pain stick. I look around, the view out the windows is just as good from the floor. Then I look up, there I am, in full view, in the mirror. 

Morning comes, Sandy is well-rested. I look like I have been wrestling steers all night. We shower together and get dressed so we can get breakfast before classes started.

As we leave the room, Sandy stops and looks at the bed. What a mess, there are piles of sheets on each side of the bed. The blankets are knotted in a heap in the middle of the bed. Even the bottom sheet is untucked, and only half covered the mattress.

“The housekeeping girls are going to tell stories about what went on in that bed last night,” she said.

Photo by Manny Becerra on Unsplash