D. E. Larsen, DVM

It was almost comical to watch Tom struggle to get through the front door with both arms wrapped around a large white goose who had no intention of coming inside. The goose was squawking, and in trying to bite an ear, it had knocked his hat off. Finally, Mary rushed over and held the door open as Tom half fell through it into the waiting room.

“That was a struggle,” Tom said, almost out of breath.

“It is a little too early for Thanksgiving,” I said. “What’s up with the goose.”

“This is Samson, I ran over him with the tractor a few minutes ago,” Tom said. “His one leg is broken or something. He can’t stand on it.”

“Tom, I don’t do birds,” I said. “Maybe I can find some place to send him.”

“Now listen,” Tom said, “you are good enough for my cows, you are going to damn well be good enough for my goose. Samson makes me more money than any of my cows. He’s the top breeder in the area. The money from his stud fees sends the old lady and me to Reno every year.”

“Sounds like I better get a look at that leg,” I said. “Let’s get Samson in on the exam table.”

The exam table was an excellent thought unless you are a barnyard goose. Samson had no intention of being put on a table, much less holding still for an exam on a messed up leg.

“Tom, we are going to have to sedate Samson to get an exam,” I said. “It might take 20 minutes or so. Do you want to wait?”

“Doc, I have a bunch of heifers waiting for their morning feeding,” Tom said. “I want you to fix the leg. You give it your best shot. I have every confidence in you. If it turns out that it can’t be fixed, will so be it. I don’t want a bunch of phone calls. I will be back in the morning after my chores.”

Tom left us with Samson who could not stand, did not want to be here, and had no thought about being cooperative. 

“How do you want to handle this?” Mary asked. “You are supposed to be out to Elliot’s right after lunch. They will have their heifer calves caught for vaccinations.”

“You need to give them a call and let them know we have an emergency, and I may be late,” I said. “I don’t want to sedate Samson more than once. We will give him an injection, do the exam, probably will need to get an x-ray, and then go right to surgery, if that is required. That probably means we work through the lunch hour so I can get out to Elliot’s.

My experience working on birds was almost non-existent. We got an estimate of Samson’s weight by Mary holding him and standing on the scale, then subtracting her weight. I gave him a good dose of ketamine for anesthesia. It only took a few minutes, and we could lay him down on the exam table.

I was surprised that Samson was relatively free from any other injury except the left leg. The leg was a mess. It didn’t feel like any fractures were present, but the knee was totally ruined. There was a definite rupture of the anterior cruciate ligament and also the lateral collateral ligament. We took an x-ray to make sure there were no fractures.

With Samson still under anesthesia, we started plucking feathers and prepared the leg for surgery. I incised over the lateral stifle (or knee). It looked more like a turkey drumstick at Thanksgiving than anything I had looked at before. I carefully dissected to where I could reflect the knee cap to the inside of the leg and expose the knee joint.

It looked better than I was expecting. The lateral collateral ligament was torn, and that fact allowed me to examine the joint a little easier. I spread the joint open, the cartilages were intact, and the anterior cruciate was completely torn.

 “How do you repair this in a goose?” I said to myself.

Samson would put far less stress on this knee than a dog, so a repair should have a better prognosis. I decided to use a modified Paatsama procedure. I looked for a good strip of fascia to use to replace the cruciate ligament and found a suitable piece of lateral fascia that would work. I could leave one end attached near the knee. I drilled a hole with an IM pin through the lateral condyle of the femur, exiting at the location of the cruciate ligament and continued it through the tibia to come out on the medial side of the tibia tuberosity. I thread the strip of fascia through this hole and placed anchoring sutures on each end of the strip of the fascia. I was a little surprised at how stable the joint felt when I was done.

I repaired the lateral collateral ligament with stainless steel sutures. Then I returned the knee cap to normal position and closed the joint. I used Dexon sutures for all the closures and a subcuticular suture for the skin closure.

We placed Samson in a kennel for recovery. I was surprised when I returned from my farm call. Samson was up standing on the repaired leg like nothing happened. I glanced at the clock. With any luck, I could get Tom in here to take the goose home this evening.

“Tom, can you pick up Samson this afternoon,” I said into the phone when Tom answered.

“Is he okay?” Tom asked.

“We did surgery and repaired the leg,” I said. “He is fully recovered and walking well. He will probably be better off in his barn than here tonight.”

“I will be right there,” Tom said.

“I told you that you guys were good enough for my goose.” Tom beamed as he scooped up Samson and headed for the door. “Remember that when you fill out the bill.”

When the breeding season came, Samson was in shape and functional as ever. He paid for another trip to Reno for Tom and his wife.  

Samson had learned to avoid the tractor, and I had learned that I would be stuck working on farm birds for the rest of my life.

Photo by Eric Muhr on Unsplash

D. E. Larsen, DVM

It was early summer in 1978. We had lived in Sweet Home for a couple of years, and I was becoming involved in the community. There was a lot of debate taking place between the timber industry and environmental groups. The environmental groups had proposed a Middle Santiam Wilderness area. I felt that I needed to check it out.

Our family was young at the time, and Sandy was a good sport but not really an outdoor girl. We had 4 kids: Brenda, 11, Amy, 7, Dee, almost 6, and Derek, just 2.

We planned a 3-day backpacking trip into Donica Lake in the southern edges of the proposed wilderness area.

The trip involved a 3-mile hike, and the first 500 yards were tough, as we would have to traverse an ancient landslide that was still slowly moving. The plan involved packs for all the kids, one pound per year. My pack would be 45 pounds, Sandy would carry 20 pounds, Brenda would be limited to 11 pounds, Amy would have a 7-pound pack and Dee 6 pounds. Derek was given a pack, but it only contained a couple of clothing items.  

Amy’s and Dee’s packs included their sleeping bags and clothing items, and that was about all. Brenda’s was similar but also contained the tent poles to our large 6 person wilderness tent. Sandy’s pack included a lot of the food items, the rain fly for the tent, sleeping bag, and clothes. We were pretty strict with the weight of these packs. My pack contained everything else we would need over 3 days and the main portions of the tent. My pack tipped the scale at close to 50 pounds. I had carried more in the army.

Finally, the day arrived, and we were off. Leaving the highway at Mountain House about 20 miles east of Sweet Home, we traveled up Upper Soda Fork to the divide between the South Fork and Middle Fork of the Santiam River. We stopped at the massive old-growth tree that stood along the creek a couple of miles from the highway and then continued to the top of the hill. The road down the other side to the Middle Santiam River was steep and winding.

We parked the car, loaded up, and headed for the slide. This was more of an obstacle than I had been led to believe. On my first trip across the slide, I took all the kid’s packs and had Brenda follow my footsteps. She had no problems. Setting all the packs down, I returned for the others. With Derek on my shoulders and the younger girls on each hand, we managed to get everyone across. Sandy was having a few second thoughts about now.  

A young man was camping by himself at Pyramid Creek. We stopped and talked with him for a time. He was interested in going to Donica Lake and asked if he could travel with us. I figured he seemed nice enough, but then so did Ted Bundy. I just thought it would be better to have him with us, rather than wondering where he was behind us.

We started off up the last remnants of a logging road. We were clustered in small groups as we started up the hill. Sandy and the kids led the way, followed by the young man and then me bringing up the rear. I was glad that I had decided to carry my revolver. Probably would not need it, but it just made me feel more in control of the situation. 

It was easy going now with the road to the river and bridges across the river and Pyramid Creek. I noticed an excellent campsite along the river just before the bridge. The trail involved a logging road for the first mile and then a large clearcut that was all located within the proposed wilderness. There was a hill in this first mile, but it would be an easy hike from the top of the hill. Derek was the first to shed his pack, but Amy and Dee were not long after him when they realized Dad could carry more.

After the clearcut, we entered a prime old-growth forest. The shade was welcome, and the trail was level. Soon we reached a stream, and we missed the turn in the path where it crossed the creek on a massive old cedar windfall. The young man decided he had gone far enough and headed back to his camp. It didn’t take long to correct our error, and just over a little rise from the stream, we came to Donica Lake.

The lake was not very impressive, maybe 3 acres in size, but entirely surrounded by giant old-growth Douglas Fir trees. These trees were all 4 to 6 feet in diameter. On the eastern end of the lake, a small stream entered through a grove of massive red cedar trees. I had never seen such a grove of old-growth cedar trees. There was a nice sand bar here, and this is where we made camp.  

Everyone was tired from the hike, so we busied ourselves getting the tent set up and the sleeping bags laid out so the kids could relax. A gas backpacking stove made dinner easy to fix. The kids wanted a fire, but we convinced them that we would do that tomorrow. Early to bed tonight.

About 3:00 in the morning, Derek started vomiting. He was still vomiting when morning came. Sandy and I decided that we had better get back closer to civilization. If we got on the trail after breakfast, it would still be afternoon by the time we got back to Sweet Home. So I packed up while Sandy fixed breakfast. Derek was not up to eating. We loaded up, I took the two younger girls’ packs on my pack and put Derek on my shoulders. I told Sandy I would walk at a brisk pace and wait for her and girls every half mile or so.

By the third stop, Derek was digging through the pockets on my pack for anything edible. Nuts, Trail mix, and jerky were all disappearing. He was apparently well. We decided to continue on to the river and set up camp if Derek continued to improve. By the time we made it to the river, Derek had consumed everything available from the pockets on my pack. I was tuckered out after 3 miles with over 80 pounds on my back. The campsite on the river looked pretty good. There was no sign of the young man who had been camped at Pyramid Creek.

As it turned out, this was probably a much better place to camp. The kids had fun, and we were able to get each of them hooked up with a fish. There is nothing like fresh trout cooked over an open fire. The next two days were relaxing and comfortable. Now the only thing that we had to worry about was getting back across that slide.

Photo by David Baker on Unsplash.

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Mr. Campbell had been bringing his little Yorke into the clinic ever since I had opened the clinic a couple of years ago. This Saturday, he came through the door empty-handed, or so it appeared.

“Where is Wolf today,” I asked.

“He is home,” Mr. Campbell said. “I have another problem I wanted to talk to you about.”

“You picked a good day, it looks like I have an empty schedule for the rest of the morning.”

Mr.Campbell laid a rolled-up paper towel on the counter. 

“I was hoping you could do an autopsy on this little guy for me,” he said.

I carefully unfolded the paper towel. Inside was a very dead little goldfish, almost two inches long.

“Mr. Campbell, I could do an autopsy, we call it a necropsy, but I doubt very much if I could find anything useful to you,” I said. “Maybe, I could put this guy in formalin and send it to the diagnostic lab and get some information for you.”

“No, I don’t want to want to get too much expense involved here,” Mr. Campbell said. “I have been losing every fish I put in my new pond. Stan, over at the feed store said I should talk with you about the problem.”

“I tell you what, I will open this fish up and see if there is anything obvious,” I said. “I can’t charge you for something I know almost nothing about. I’ll look, and then we will talk about your problem a little more.”

I have been cleaning fish since I was 5 years old. I never gave it a lot of thought, but I knew the anatomy even as a pretty young kid. I unzipped this fish and looked at the heart, liver, kidney, and gut. There was nothing visible, and without sending tissues to the lab, I learned nothing. 

I also remembered to look closely at the gills. They seemed normal also. But then I thought about Mr. Campbell’s comment about his new pond. I lived up in the avenues, sort of on a hillside, I wonder where his water is coming from.

“I don’t see anything useful looking at this fish,” I said. “We might find something if we sent some tissues into the lab, but that is probably questionable also.”

“Will something must be going on for them all to die,” Mr. Campbell said.

“Tell me about this new pond of yours,” I said.

“It is not much of a pond, I built it this spring,” Mr. Campbell explained. “A couple of years ago, this stream started running through my back yard and down the hill into Ames Creek. A friend was visiting, and he suggested I build a pond for the stream to run through, may be able to keep some big goldfish in it. At least the water would be good. The stream ran all summer long.”

“This stream just showed up, out of the blue?” I asked.

“Yes, almost, I guess,” Mr. Campbell replied. “I didn’t think much about it at first, but then it was just there all the time.”

“Maybe we should get the water checked,” I suggested. “It seems unlikely that you would have a year-round stream that just pops up, especially in that area. I will give you a sample jar and you can bring it back on Monday. I will send it in to the lab, or maybe we should have the city water treatment guys check it first. That might save a little if they can find something out.”

On Monday, Mr. Campbell came in with his jar of water. I had already spot with Ray down at the water treatment plant. He had said he would check it for all the basics, but we would need to send it in if he didn’t find anything. Sandy ran the sample down to the treatment plant.

The phone rang later in the morning, it was Ray. 

“Doc, this is Ray,” he said. “Where did you say this water came from?”

“Mr. Campbell brought it in, it is from a stream that runs through his backyard,” I said.

“Will, I can tell you what is killing his fish,” Ray said. “This is city water. There must be a broken pipe up there. If you have time, I would appreciate it if you could go up there with me.”

Ray was at the office in a short time. I crawled into his truck and handed him a paper with Mr. Campbell’s address.

“How long has this stream been running through his yard?” Ray asked.

“He said it just popped up a couple of years ago,” I said as we pulled into Mr. Campbell’s driveway. 

Mr. Campbell came out the door before we were out of the truck.

“Ray here has found what is killing your fish,” I said. “It seems the stream running through your yard is city water. The chlorine in the water will kill the fish in a day or two.”

“I wonder if I can look at this steam?” Ray asked.

“Sure, just follow me,” Mr. Campbell said as he opened the gate into the yard.

The yard was large and well kept. It was fenced with a white picket fence all the way around it. The stream came down the small hillside beside the yard, ran through half the yard, and then went down the hill to Ames Creek. After a couple of years, there was a pretty good streambed worn into the manicured yard. Mr. Campbell had built a pond about 12 feet in diameter that the stream ran into and then out before flowing down the hill.

Ray was interested in the source of the stream. He went back out the gate and around to the hillside. He was almost to the top of the slope when he turned at called out.

“Here is the source, bubbling straight up, probably a broken feeder line,” He said.

When he got back down the hill, we were waiting for him by his truck.

“We solved your fish problem, but I am afraid that you are going to lose your stream,” Ray said. “The City has probably been losing many gallons of water for a couple of years. We will have that line fixed in a day or two. We can’t help out with your loss of the steam, but we sure do thank you for helping find the water leak.”

“I guess I will have to tear out that pond and fix the lawn,” Mr. Campbell. “I am just sorry that I killed all those little fish.”

Photo by Pixabay from Pexels