Odie

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Odie was one of those once in lifetime dogs. He came to us as a four month old Chesapeake Bay Retriever. The owner was giving him away, he was the last remaining pup from a litter of 13 pups. He was light brown in color and had a coat typical of Chesapeakes that would shed water with ease.  

We picked him up in early December and on the way home I had taken a short detour along the Long Tom River to show Derek where I used to fish for bass. When Derek opened the van door, Odie burst though the open doorway and ran through 3 inches of snow to jump into the freezing river. He was an obvious water dog. The good thing was once we got him out of the water, one shake and he was dry.

In those years, I was not much of a hunter and Odie seldom had the opportunity to hunt under a gun. He was obviously a bird dog, and he was death on young robins that would dare to fly across his back yard at a low level. He would jump and snatch those birds out of the sky from 6 feet or more. We had a few pheasants around in those days and Odie would generally bring one or two home every summer.  I watched him catch a young pheasant once. The bird was in our front yard, near the road and at the bottom of a long sloping yard.  Odie charged the bird, going full speed down hill.  The bird crouched first, a fatal mistake, then he sprang into the air beating his wings rapidly enough to make quite a flutter.  Odie sprang also, judging his timing perfectly, he grabbed the pheasant at the apex of his jump. 

As a young dog, we took Odie to the clinic with us every day. He loved it there but he also knew that going into an exam room or the surgery room meant that bad things were going to happen. He put all his brakes on when we were trying to take him into a room.

He loved the clients and the other dogs and cats. Although he was mostly in the back, there were times when he was an official greeter. There was only one time when he had a bad experience with a client. Sandy was at the clinic by herself one afternoon. This was not a common occurrence but I was on a farm call and had to take both assistants with me. A man came through the door and for some reason, Odie did not like this man. He came out of the back with a snare and hackles up. The man left, and never came back. One can only guess if Odie was just being overly protective or if he sensed some bad vibes from this man. We will never know, but I trust his judgement.

As he matured he became a muscular 100 pounds with a broad head of the old classic style. There was not one petite feature in his make up. He loved life and he loved to go fishing with me. In those years I would often fish some of the deep gorges of upper Wiley Creek. Odie was always right by my side, didn’t matter how deep I waded. Fly fishing, I would generally release most of the fish I would catch. Odie would watch as the fish struggled in the water and I had to be careful not to allow him to pounce on the fish as I retrieved it. When I would release it, he would stick his head under the water and look in all directions, never quite able to figure out where the darn thing went. He was great at retrieving rocks from the steam bed. You could throw a rock into 3 foot deep water and he would retrieve that very rock, every time.

In May of 1984 we had a large storm with heavy rain for a couple of days. The level of Foster Lake lapped at the very top of the dam. Another day, or even a few hours, of rain and the dam would likely be breached. The gates were wide open and there was a massive downstream flow out of the dam.  Derek and Odie accompanied  me to look at the water. We were careful to keep Odie in the van while at the lake. We then drove up Wiley Creek to look and the first waterfall. 

Wiley Creek was running near bank full. Water was pouring over the water fall. We stopped at the pull out and got out of the van. Odie followed Derek out of the side door. Everything was fine for a few seconds and then a little bird flew first to the edge of the water above the falls and then continued across the creek.  Odie did not hesitate, he charged after the bird and completely ignored our calls.

He charged to rocky edge of the water, and not even pausing for an instance, dove into the creek. The current was so severe he had no chance except to turn and go down stream. We watched as he went over the falls, nose up and dog paddling with his front feet out in the open air. The falls are nearly 10 feet high, Odie disappeared when he reached the deep pool.

Derek was beside himself. “What are we going to do?” He asked.

“We are going stand here and watch.” I replied. “There is nothing else we can do.”

Time passed slowly, seconds seemed like minutes, minutes like hours. I was afraid that we would never see Odie again. But still we waited and watched. Minutes passed, I don’t know how many, and there was nothing but rushing water. 

Then suddenly, way down the creek, maybe 50 yards, Odie popped up. We almost cheered. He swam hard against the current and made it to the bank. He was able to drag himself out of the water and slowly clawed his way up the remaining bank. He walked slow up the road and stopped at the door of the van. He was ready to go home.

Odie had other adventures as time pasted.  He was always super protective of his family and we had few concerns with the kids being home with him. One day a car load of kids brought Brenda home from school. One of the senior boys, Brian Land, got out of the car to open the back door for Brenda. Odie was right on his butt instantly. Around and around the car he chased Brain. Brenda was laughing so hard it took her some time to get out of the car and get Odie under control. 

Friends, Larry and Jolene Hannen, watched Odie for us one weekend after the kids were all grown and away from the house.  Jolene worked for us and was fond of Odie, and for the most part he was not a problem for them. They had to make a trip to Lebanon one day and Odie was not going to be left behind. So they loaded into the old pickup with Odie riding in the front seat between them. All was well for most of the trip until on the way home, a pheasant flew across the road in front of the pickup. They didn’t wreck but probably came close to it as Odie dove at the bird. Luckily, Larry was a big strong guy and was able to maintain control of the pickup with an excited 100 pound dog in his lap.

Our fishing trips with him became a marathon swimming contest for him.  He would swim for hours. Never respond to calls for his return, we would finally have to retrieve him with the boat. As he aged, he would suffer from those events. After swimming for 2 hours at Gordon Lakes, he was almost too sore to walk out to the truck.

As time passed, he became more and more arthritic. Then he developed diabetes and  life became miserable for him. He was still waiting at the back door every time I picked up a fishing pole. And when the kids would come for a visit he would always greet them like a long lost friend

The time came where the only humane thing we could do for Odie was to make the decision to put him to sleep. The unfortunate thing was that time came the evening before our oldest daughter’s wedding. One of the truly difficult things about being a veterinarian in a solo practice in a small town is that such duties fall on your shoulders. The trip to the clinic was a solemn one. Odie still enjoyed going to the clinic but hated to go into any of the rooms. Knowing this the deed was done in the large open area of the clinic. Being a farm boy, such aspects of life, and death, were learned early. I remember well at the age of 13, sitting with a calf that was born without a rectum, knowing that I had to shoot this little calf but taking forever to muster the strength to do the job. Now, when the decisions were made, I found that doing the task with precision and speed was the best for all concerned. The event was over before Odie knew anything was going to happen. For me it was one of the hardest things I had to do in a long time. Sandy cried briefly while I prepared Odie to send to the crematorium. We waited until well after the wedding to tell the kids. It was hard for all of them also.

Odie’s ashes still rest in our closet some 24 years later. Maybe one day when the creek is running full, I will return to that waterfall and let Odie go over the falls one last time.

The Game

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I held my 3 cards firmly and a little cupped, so the 3 aces were out of view to the other players and the crowd of half-dressed GIs watching the game. It was Saturday evening in mid-October, and a poker game was the best entertainment available to our platoon. We were in the middle of basic training at Fort Ord. 

This was 1965, and we were still under restrictions due to the recent epidemic of spinal meningitis that occurred on the post. We were restricted to our platoon area and no contact with the other 4 platoons in the training company. These 39 other guys were my circle of friends for the duration of the 8 weeks of basic training.

I waited anxiously for my draw of two cards. There were 6 of us in this game. We probably had half the platoon watching, all in various states of dress and undress. Boxers were standard attire in the barracks in the evenings. Boxers and a tee-shirt were almost Sunday-go-to-meeting dress. There were a few guys still in their fatigues. I watched as the other players called for their cards. Only Tangerman, a younger kid, sitting across the makeshift table, a couple of footlockers pushed together, drew 2 cards.

I slowly picked up my 2 cards, one at a time. I turned the first card over and stuck it in my hand, a king.  I took a deep breath and picked up the next card. It was an ace. I am sitting here with 4 aces and a king, the only hand that can beat me is a straight flush. It is highly unlikely that Tangerman would draw 2 cards to a straight flush.

I watch as the bet goes around the table, one guy, to the right of the dealer, bets, then Tangerman raises. The next guy folds, the next guy sees the bet. I am trying to decide if I want to raise now. The rules of this game say we are limited to two raises. All of us playing are in the same boat. We need some money to last until payday. We have tried to construct a game that will be fun but where nobody will be hurt. I go ahead and raise the bet.

The group of guys behind Tangerman is excited, which means he hit his draw. The dealer folds, as does the next guy. So there are 3 of us still in the hand and my guess the other guy will fold. 

Then Tangerman makes a fatal error in judgment. He asks if we can suspend the rules. Could it be that he has a straight flush? I can’t believe that. 

I agree. “Bet away,” I say.

Tangerman raises my bet again. The third guy folds. There are a few guys behind me now, wanting to see my hand. I see Tangerman’s bet, and I raise him back. I relax a little and show my hand to the guys behind me. Both groups of guys are going crazy now. There is enough tension in the platoon that you could cut it with a knife. Virtually the entire platoon is watching the game now. Tangerman’s group has more than 20 guys, more than mine, and much more vocal. 

Tangerman sees my bet and only has a few dollars left in front of him. He fingers his dollars as he considers his final raise.

“We have over a week before payday,” I say, “you might want to hang onto a few dollars.”

Tangerman looks at the pot, there must be close to $30.00 in the pot, a half months pay for us. He looks at his remaining $3.00.

“Okay, I call you,” he says.

With a sigh, I lay my cards on the table. Tangerman’s group erupts in a colossal moan.

“Damn,” Tangerman says as he lays his hand on the table. Four queens and a king.

The game is over after that. Tangerman is tapped out, and there is no way the excitement can be matched. I scrape in the pile of bills.

Everyone is dispersing to their bunk area, and as we are repositioning all the footlockers, I grab Tangerman by his elbow.

“If you run short before payday, you let me know,” I say. “This game wasn’t supposed to leave anybody broke.”

“Thanks,” he says. 

That is the only poker game I played in the Army. After basic training, there was either too much work to do or too much fun to be had elsewhere. 

Much later in life, in Sweet Home, I would play an occasional friendly game with a group of guys. Most games were casual, everybody had more money to lose than the guys had during basic training, but is more of a social gathering than a serious card game.

I had been playing in a weekly group with 5 or 6 guys for a couple of months. I considered myself lucky if I broke even, I think once or twice I came home with an extra $20.00, but never anything more than that. Usually, the host would have some finger food on the table, and there was maybe a beer or two on the table.

I got a call one afternoon to castrate and a group of young bulls. This was a purebred Black Angus herd, and this was a group of 12 young bulls who didn’t make the grade for the bull sale. These bulls were all approaching a year of age, or they were just over a year.

This was a pretty routine call, but the candidates for bedroom guards were a little older than the usual crowd. 

The first bull was waiting in the chute when we pulled up to the corral. I used my standard castration technique. I had Helen put pull the tail up over the back to create a good tail pinch on the spinal nerves. I would grasp the scrotum above the testicles and squeeze the testicles into the bottom of the scrotum. I would make a quick incision down each side of the scrotum and squeeze the testicles out of the scrotum. I would grab each testicle and stretch them down until I could feel the cremaster muscle tear. That done, with a clamp on the cord above the testicle, I would remove the testicle with the emasculator, holding firm pressure on the emasculator to ensure a solid crush on the vessels. In small bulls, I would remove both testicles together. Bulls this size, I removed each testicle individually.

With the first set of testicles in my hand, I looked at Debbie.

“Do you want these,” I asked.

“Are you kidding,” she said.

“I don’t know, they tell me they are pretty good eating,” I said.

“If you want them, you are welcome to them.”

“Helen, grab me a few OB sleeves,” I said. “I happen to have a poker game tomorrow evening. These might make pretty good hors d’oeuvres”.

We worked through the remaining bulls similarly. By the time I was done, both OB sleeves were full of prime testicles. I tied the sleeves at the top, and we packed up our stuff.

“You will find that they will all be singing soprano from now on,” I said. “Thanks for the leftovers.”

I had no recipe to follow in cooking these things. I figured I would just imagine the end product and work backward. These were probably a little larger testicles than what one might see in a bar in Colorado. Mountain Oysters were a fall delicacy in many Rocky Mountain areas. Each testicle was over 3 inches long and approaching 2 inches in diameter.

I removed the loose tunic from each testicle, and then with a sharp knife, I sliced the epididymis from the testicles. I then sliced them into rounds, about the thickness one would slice a potato for frying.

With them all sliced, I dipped them in milk, dredged them through a beaten egg, and then flour. Then, each round was fried to a golden brown. Sandy always says I cook things with too high of a temperature, so I was careful to use medium heat. I little salt and pepper finished the process.

When they came out of the frying pan, I let them cool on paper towels and then carefully stacked them on a platter. When finished, it was a pretty impressive plate of mountain oysters, if I do say so myself. I covered them with plastic wrap and put them in the refrigerator overnight.

I took the platter to the office the next day because I was going to be at the clinic until I left for the poker game. The girls in the office were impressed with the appearance of the platter and wanted to taste one.

Helen took a bite and immediately ran to the bathroom. She was embarrassed when she came back. When she bit into the sample, she had gotten a small tubule stuck between her teeth. Needless to say, that ended the sampling at the office.

I arrived early at the poker game, but there were a couple of guys there already. I sat the platter on the table, a little off-center but where it was within reach of everybody. I removed the wrap and didn’t say anything about it.

The group arrived, and we settled into the game. As the evening wore on, guys started picking away at the platter. It wasn’t long, and the plate was nearly empty.

“What are these things?” Jerry finally asked, holding up one of the rounds. “They are pretty good. Who brought them?”

I never said a word and worked hard to maintain my best poker face.

Finally, Gil chuckled and pointed to me. “Larsen brought them,” he said as he continued to laugh.

Of course, the whole table thought they were poisoned for sure.

I quickly fessed up to the truth, “They are just Mountain Oysters. And they are as fresh as you can get anywhere.”

Photo by Mark Williams on Unsplash

There is Gold in Them Hills

D. E. Larsen, DVM

It was 11:10, and Bob should be coming through the door any minute. He was sort of the highlight of our morning in the office. Bob had been our Postman ever since the office opened. He was older, probably getting close to retirement, but he was a joy to talk with.

I think he must have us as a scheduled break on his route. He always seemed to have several minutes to talk. Bob was a Sweet Home native or as close as one could be to a native. He knew everyone in town. If we wanted to know about someone, Bob could give a pretty good synopsis. 

Bob could talk gold. He knew where to look in every stream, and he shares that information only to a trusted few. I liked to think I was one of those entrusted few. Bob had lost a son who was my age, a Lieutenant in the Army. In those years of the Vietnam War, Bob was probably preparing himself for his son serving in the war. Instead, he was driving home from the East Coast, and died in an auto accident.

The reality of the thing was he knew I was too busy to chase any of his stories.

We bumped into Bob one afternoon when he was panning gold with a friend. Bob took the time to give the kids and me a lesson on how to work the pan. We came up with a lot of black sand but no color. Bob truly enjoyed teaching his hobby to the kids, including myself. Hobby was probably the wrong word. I think gold was Bob’s true vocation. His postal job and any other work in his life only allowed him to pursue his real life’s work.

Bob told me a story one day about one of his trips to the California goldfields. He and a group of friends would make an annual trip to the areas out of Sacramento, California to pan for gold. This was a working trip for this group of guys. They would rework some of the same streams that were the site of the 1849 gold rush.  

Bob said that on one of these trips, they had a new guy along. He was always underfoot and trying to learn every little thing he could from these old guys. Bob finally tired of putting up with this guy. Bob pointed to a distant sandbar up the creek.

“Why don’t you go up there and work that sandbar,” Bob said.

The guy took his shovel and pan and headed up to the sandbar that Bob had pointed out. Bob and the rest of the crew continued to work with the dredge where they had been all morning.

“That was the biggest damn mistake that I ever made,” Bob said to me. “Just before quitting time that afternoon, this guy comes down the creek with a gold nugget the size of the end of your finger. I was so mad at myself after that, I almost couldn’t eat dinner.”

One August afternoon, we had a new client, Rob, came in with his dog, Yoda, a pit bull cross. Yoda had a pretty severe laceration on his large pad on his right front foot. Yoda was camping with his owner way up the Calapoolia River at the mouth of State Creek.

“Yoda spends most of the day in the river with me,” Rob said. “If he is not in the river, he is chasing a squirrel somewhere up the creek. I don’t know when this happened, I noticed him licking his foot last night, and then this morning he was limping on that foot quite a bit.”

Yoda was an excellent dog, and he didn’t flinch while I examined his foot. This was a deep laceration that extended halfway across the carpal pad, front to back. It was deep also. This was going to be challenging to get healed. Especially in a dog who was used to spending a lot of the day in the river.

“Pad lacerations are difficult to manage, in the best of circumstances,” I said to Rob. “In a dog who is spending a lot of his time in the river, it might be impossible.”

“I can keep him out of the water for a couple of weeks,” Rob said. “I am not on any schedule, I am just spending the summer up there panning for gold.”

“I suture most of these,” I said. “By suturing them and keeping them wrapped for a couple of weeks, most of them will heal. If we can’t keep a dry wrap on the foot, there is little chance that the sutures will hold.”

“When can you do this?” Rob asked. “Keep in mind, I am a long way from camp.”

“I can probably do it shortly,” I said. “But it is going to take a little time from Yoda to wake up.”

“This dog is the toughest dog I have ever owned,” Rob said. “You could probably sew this up with giving him anything. Is there any chance you could do it with local anesthesia?”

“We can try,” I said. “Yoda will let us know if that is an option or not.”

We moved Yoda into the surgery room. Laid him down on his side. He did not react as we started scrubbing the wound. Rob stood on the opposite side of the table from me and scratched Yoda’s ears. 

I drew up a syringe of Lidocaine and looked at Rob.

“We are going to find out right now, this stuff stings a little, I hate it myself,” I said.

Avoiding the laceration, I slid the needle through the skin at the front edge of the pad. Injecting a little at a time as I advanced the needle under the pad. I injected half the syringe here and then repeated the process from the back edge of the pad.

After a few minutes, I parted the edges of the laceration. There was no response from Yoda. Spreading the wound wide, I scraped the deep crevice of the wound. I applied some Neosporin to the in the wound and wiped it out with a sterile sponge. Then I draped the wound.

Taking a deep breath, I stabbed the pad with a suture needle. There was no response from Yoda. I glanced and Rob and smiled as I continued to close the wound. In this type of deep pad lacerations, I would use a deep vertical mattress suture using stints, made from IV tubing, on each side to spread the tension across the wound edges so the stitches would not tear the tissues.

Closure only took a few minutes. And then I applied a wrap that extended halfway up the leg. 

“The key to healing this wound is the wrap,” I said. “If it gets wet, it needs to be changed. Otherwise, we will change it every 3rd day. Is that a schedule that will work for you?”

“I can work with that schedule,” Rob said as he let Yoda stand up on the table.

“I will put him on some antibiotics just to make sure we keep the infection down as much as possible,” I said.

With that, Rob and Yoda headed back to camp. We started on their schedule of regular visits. Rob did a great job of keeping the wrap dry, and the wound looked better with each wrap change. After two weeks, we had a decision to make.

“We could go without the wrap starting now,” I said. “This wound looks good, but I really would like to go one more week.”

“The squirrels are going to love you, Doc,” Rob said.

The following week we removed the wrap and the sutures. This wound healed as well as any pad laceration that I had managed. I patted Yoda on the head when I set him down on the floor. 

“It has been fun working with Yoda,” I said as I shook hands with Rob. “It has been good working for you too. How long are you going to be around these parts?”

“I will probably break camp in a couple of weeks,” Rob said. “You never know about a guy like me, I might back next year, or I might be in Colorado.”

As the days passed, Rob and Yoda sort of slipped to the back of my mind. I was a little surprised when Rob was in the reception room one afternoon. He motioned to me, indicating he had something to show me. I invited him back into the exam area, and he looked at an empty exam room and stepped into it.

“I have to show this, Doc,” Rob said. “I saw this under a large boulder, and it took me three days to get to it.”

Rob had something wrapped in a square of rawhide in his left hand. He held his hand out as he peeled back the folds of rawhide. There, in the palm of his left hand, was the largest gold nugget that I had ever seen. I didn’t have words.

“Wow!” I said.

“This is what keeps us guys with gold fever going,” Rob said.

It was a few days later when I had time to meet Bob when he came through the door with the mail.

“Bob, I have a story to tell you,” I said.

“Will now, that is a switch,” Bob said, “you telling a story.”

“Bob, I just spent a few weeks working on a dog for a guy who was camped up the Calapoolia River at the mouth of State Creek,” I started.

“I know the area,” Bob said.

“He came into the clinic the other day with a nugget wrapped in a piece of rawhide,” I said. “This nugget covered the palm of his hand and was over an inch thick.” 

I motioned on my hand the size of the nugget. Bob grabbed my forearm, his eyes wide open, and his pupils expanded as wide as possible. 

“No!” Bob said, “I have been all over that river and that area. There is gold there, quite a bit of the stuff. But it is all small, tiny stuff really. I have never seen a nugget come out of the Calapoolia.”

“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “That was the biggest nugget I have ever seen.”

“That is a $20,000 nugget, maybe $30,000,” Bob said. “But, I can’t believe it came out of the Calapoolia.”

“I guess, when I think about it, he never specifically said it came out of the Calapoolia, I just assumed it,” I said. “He has been camped up there most of the summer.”

“Now you have done it,” Bob said. “I am not going to be able to sleep until I can get up there and start looking through the place myself.”

Photo by Csaba Nagy from Pixabay