D. E. Larsen, DVM

Cascadia is a small community located up the river from Sweet Home. It is currently little more than a wide spot in the road; however, there is a state park and a small church there. And there is a small collection of houses and small farms scattered across the open spots in the forest. In our early years, when there was still a lot of logging activity in the National Forest, Cascadia was a thriving little community with an elementary school, a store, a church, a post office, and the state park. 

Cascadia was also a center for the illegal marijuana trade in the area and probably the state. The County Sheriff Deputies were reluctant to leave the main roads. Except for Mountain House, there was nothing much except mountains and timber east of Cascadia until you came to Sisters, some 70 miles over the Cascade Mountains. 

I had several clients from Cascadia who habitually carried overdue accounts for most of the year. They would come in, usually in October, with a large roll of $100.00 bills, peel off the required amount and thank us for being understanding for their late payment. Occasionally, especially when they had a big harvest, they would pay an extra couple of hundred dollars toward the coming dry period. 

That was the background when Doug came in with a sick puppy. This was during the early days of the Parvo Virus epidemic that was sweeping the state and the country. Parvo is a devastating disease for young puppies, and this was at a time before we had a vaccine for the disease. Mortality rates were high, and treatments were not yet standardized, and they were expensive for the standards of the day. 

Doug was a middle-aged guy with rugged features. Short in stature and he walked a little bent over. He had worked in the woods in his early years, but back injuries had put him on disability. His hair on top was thinning, but his handshake remained firm. I am sure he had some other income because he was one of the annual accounts. 

This scrawny pup was approaching twenty pounds, had short grey hair, and he was sick enough that he wanted to lay down during the exam. Joey was in the clinic record as a mixed breed. He probably had some pit bull in him, but that was just a guess. 

“He has been vomiting for a couple of days, and this morning we noticed some bloody diarrhea,” Doug said as I was starting to examine the pup. 

I lifted the skin on the back of his neck, probably over 10% dehydrated, pale membranes and quite depressed. The rectal temperature was depressed, 99.0°, and there was blood dripping off the thermometer. I had not seen too many cases of Parvo Virus in Sweet Home, but this was the likely diagnosis. We had no rapid means of making that diagnosis at the time. 

“Doug, this pup has Parvo. Parvovirus is a new disease going around, and it kills a lot of pups. Very contagious, we will need to keep this guy in isolation. Treatment can be expensive, and I can’t carry that kind of an expense on your account until next fall.” 

“Doc I never heard of Parvo. Are you sure?” 

“We can get a diagnosis by sending some samples to the diagnostic lab, but this pup is going to be cured or dead by the time we get results. If we do some blood work, we can almost confirm the diagnosis, and if the white blood cell numbers are too low, that will tell us that his chances of recovery are not good. Right now, we see as many as 90% of dogs die. I think my rates of recovery are higher than that, but the numbers that I have seen are few.” 

“My problem is bigger than just this pup,” Doug confessed, hanging his head a little to avoid eye contact. “I have 13 pups at home, and this morning, about half of them are vomiting. I was hoping you could give me something for all of them.” 

“Thirteen pups, are they all from the same litter?” 

“No, they are from a couple of litters. But they are all about the same age and size. These are valuable pups, Doc. I know they don’t look like much.” 

I looked at the pup, valuable indeed, I thought. I was going to have trouble getting paid for this pup, let alone for 13 puppies. Doug’s wife and daughter could maybe give injections and subcutaneous fluids, with a little luck that might be all they would need. If we saved half of them, we would be doing good. 

“So Doc, do you think you could bring a bunch of medicine up to the house and show me what to do. Then I could treat them at home. That would save me a bunch of money, and we might get lucky. I can’t afford to pay a big fee right now, but I could afford a house call and the medicine.” 

“You have to understand, you could lose the whole bunch with that plan,” I explained. “I can bring some fluids and some injectable antibiotics up to your place and show you how to use it. But if we save half these pups, we are going to be doing good. 

“Yes, I understand the risk, but that is just the way it is going to have to be right now. When I sell a couple of these, I will have plenty of money to pay for the medication and the visit.” 

There was the key, “When I sell a couple,” this was going to be a credit, and he is planning to sell a couple of $50.00 pups to pay the bill. 

“Doug, we could also lose the whole bunch. I am going to have to have some money to cover the drug cost, at least.” 

“I have $100.00 tucked away still from the fall harvest I could give you. Would that help?” 

“Okay, I will do a quick blood count and a fecal exam. We want to make sure this isn’t a bad case of Salmon Poisoning. You could have had someone throw a fish into your yard if they were tired of listening to the pups. You go ahead and take this pup home, and I will be up there right after lunch. You might refresh directions with Sandy on your way out the door.” 

The fecal exam was negative for Salmon Disease, only a few roundworms. Doug probably wormed these pups with chewing tobacco, a common remedy around here. The white blood count was 2400, a low number but pretty good for a pup with Parvo Virus. We might have a chance with this plan. 

After a quick hamburger ordered from the Dairy Queen, I loaded the truck with 3 cases of fluids, Ringers Lactate, three dozen IV administration sets, half a box of 16 gauge, 11⁄2 inch needles and a box of 3cc, 22 gauge syringes. I mixed a 100 ml bottle of Polyflex (injectable ampicillin) and grabbed a bottle of gentamicin. 

The drive up the river will be a pleasant one. There is seldom much traffic other than a couple of logging trucks, and the river should be running clear and full for early June. It is only 19 miles to Doug’s place, but it will take well over a half an hour. 

The bushy regrowth on a couple of maple stumps mostly obscured the turnoff to Doug’s house. Several houses shared the long gravel driveway. These houses were all the same. Small, unkept yards and untrimmed hedges made finding numbers difficult. Numerous Marijuana plants were evident in the ditch along the driveway. Unattended but they grew well in our moist climate. It reminded me of the “plant a pot seed” drive conducted by the hippie crowd when I was in vet school in Colorado. They had pot plants growing all over town, drove the sheriff and police nuts. 

Doug’s was a small house, probably built in the 1930s and added onto several times. The yard was overgrown, and a large clump of marijuana plants grew in the corner of the yard. Pups were everywhere in the yard. This yard was going to be the local infection source for Parvo Virus for the next couple of years. 

Doug and his daughter, Debbie, were at the gate to greet me. Debbie was older than I had expected. She looked in her early thirties, dishwater blond, slender, with an attractive figure. We unloaded everything, and we grabbed a pup to demonstrate how I wanted them to treat them. 

“How do we know which ones to treat?” Doug asked. 

“I think it would be a good idea to treat them all. I will do a quick exam on each pup. But any pup not sick today, will be sick tomorrow.” 

I showed Doug’s daughter how to give the injections and how to administer the fluids. 

“Give each pup about 500 cc fluids under their skin on their back, between the shoulder blades is easiest. It will make a big lump, but that will go down quickly as the fluid is absorbed. You may notice some swelling around their elbows but don’t worry about that.” 

She took the instruction in stride and already and chart to keep track of what she would give each pup. 

“You give me a call every morning at about 10:00. I should be done with surgeries by then and will time to talk with you. We could lose some of these guys. We are going to need to get lucky,” I said as was getting ready to leave. 

Doug came out and handed me $100.00. “This is all I have right now, but all I need to do is sell a couple of these pups, and I can make things right with you, Doc.” 

You might need to sell more than a couple of $50.00 pups, I thought to myself. “Give me a call in the morning so we can keep track of how we are doing. And Doug, hold your mouth just right when you sleep, we are going to need all the luck we can muster.” 

The first morning the call came right at 10:00. The pups were still alive, but all of them were vomiting. Debbie had treated them all with no problems. The next morning everything was going fine, and Debbie thought most of the pups were feeling better. By the third day, it was looking like we were out of the woods with only one pup still not feeling well. It looked like we were going to get through this smelling like roses. This could be something other than Parvo.

Now all I needed was for Doug to pay the bill. 

It was a month later when Doug came into the clinic. He had a broad smile on his face as he pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. “You did great Doc. Those pups all came through that Parvo without a problem. I have already sold five of them.” 

“That’s good, we got lucky. We have a new vaccine coming out, you just have to remember to vaccinate your dogs and all the pups next time. That virus stays in the ground for over a year.” 

“I have enough to pay the bill, and I can pick vaccine for all the dogs. It has been a while since I wormed them, except for a tobacco chew, so I better pick up some worm pills also.” 

“Are you sure you have enough for the bill and all of the other stuff. You only sold five pups.” 

“These are valuable pups, Doc. I sell them as hunting dogs.” 

“Hunting dogs! What do mean by that, Doug?” 

“I train them up in the mountains, and I sell them all over the country. I don’t have any problems selling them. If I do, I just lower the price to $500.00, and they are gone almost overnight.” 

$500.00 was unheard of for dogs at the time, even the best purebred dog in Sweet Home would not sell for $500.00. 

“Doug, that is unreal, what is your initial asking price?” 

“I sell most of them for $750.00, plus whatever I need to add on to cover the shipping cost. I sell these pups all over the country. I just run a couple of little magazine ads.” 

“What kind of training do you give them? I mean, what can they hunt that makes them that valuable? Guys that run purebred hounds don’t get that kind of money for their pups.” 

“We train them up in the mountains. There is a lot of stuff that goes on in those woods that people never see unless they spend a lot of time out there.” 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, somewhat afraid of the answer. 

“Doc, where else can you buy a hunting dog that has actually been trained to track Sasquatch?” 

Photo by furkanvari from Pexels.

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Rosie was a quiet Chocolate Lab who lived with her family up the river from Cascadia. Their driveway was nearly a mile long and joined the highway just below Mountain House. Tall Douglas Fir trees lined the road in this area. The river ran along the south side of the highway. The timber provided shade from the summer sun and the bubbling river provided additional cooling of the area. Even on the hottest day of summer, the upper reaches of the Santiam River provided a gentle breeze and mild temperatures.

The Mountain House was the last semblance of civilization for the next fifty miles. The road started a steep climb to the Santiam Pass in the Cascade Mountains just past the Mountain House. The history of Mountain House goes back to the early years of Linn County. It was a hotel to begin with, serving clients who visited the soda springs in the area. Now it was a backcountry inn and general store. There were no phone lines, so even in this last vintage of civilization, you were isolated.

The road had its share of curves, so any travelers were moving slow. People who took this route over the mountains were not in a hurry. They would turn off their air conditioning and open the windows so they could enjoy the fresh mountain air, hear the rushing water of the river, and hope to see some deer, elk, or any of the numerous birds in the area. Maybe even be lucky enough to glimpse a Big Foot. This area was as wild as any area in the state.

Rosie’s family was small. Her owners were an older couple who had lived in their little house on the banks of Soda Fork for many years. George and Alice Dunn relished the quiet and isolation. They seldom came to town, preferring to get what supplies they needed from the Mountain House. If they needed something special, they order it, and the Mountain House would pick it up for them when they went to town for supplies. Rosie shared this family with an old dog, Nick. Nick was an old Black Lab, very arthritic, and he didn’t often get off the porch. He provided Rosie company, and while she licked his ears, she could share her adventures of the last squirrel hunt or the fishing trip in the deep holes of Soda Fork Canyon. Then they would curl up and sleep on the porch. Rosie keeping one eye open for the raccoons who would come by in the night. She hated those raccoons.

Life on the banks of Soda Fork was not without its challenges. A garden near the house was impossible because of the shade from the timber. They would grow their vegetables on some of the clear-cuts located along road higher up the creek. They had learned to carry water to these gardens from the Marijuana growers in the Cascadia area. They used an old waterbed mattress in the back of their pickup truck. They would attach a hose to the outlet of the waterbed and water the garden as needed.

Their meat supply came from the game harvested from the area. They took only the meat they needed, and they used every part of the animals collected. Be it a deer, an elk, or a couple of squirrels, they only took what they needed, and they gave thanks every time. The short canyon up Soda Fork provided some excellent fishing, especially in the Spring and early Summer. The access to the canyon was too difficult for the fishermen from town. Hunting and fishing seasons had little meaning for them. They did not hunt or fish for sport but for subsistence. Game wardens only ventured into this area during hunting season when there were enough other people to make it safe for them to be off the main road.

We did not see the Dunns often. They would bring the dogs in for their Rabies vaccination every 3 years. They felt they were isolated enough that they did not have to worry about the other vaccines.

“Your isolation might make those other vaccinations more important,” I explained on one of their visits. “Dogs in town get a vaccination as a puppy, and then they see many other dogs in their lifetime. They are likely exposed naturally to most of the important viruses. Their immunity is likely to last for several years. We recommend boosters just to be sure because a disease like canine distemper is often fatal, and parvovirus can be extremely expensive to treat. Your dogs seldom see another dog, their immunity probably weakens much sooner than the town dogs who are likely to come into contact with those viruses naturally. Something to think about when considering their vaccinations.”

During these routine visits, Rosie enjoyed the clinic and the treat jar. Nick, on the other hand, hated the trip to town and shook the entire time in the clinic. He would take a treat, only to drop it on the floor for Rosie. He would not be bought.

Nick continued to age, and his arthritis became so severe that he could hardly get around. There was not much that we had to offer, medication wise, at that time. That last visit came when Nick could no longer get off the porch to do his business.

“Doc, we feel terrible about this, we wanted to wake up some morning and find that he had passed away in his sleep,” George said. “Are we doing the right thing? We don’t want to do this if you think we should wait.”

“It is always a hard decision, but once you make it, you don’t want to put yourselves and Nick through the struggle again. He isn’t going to get any better, and life is going to be miserable for him from here on out. It is better to make this decision one day too soon and a day too late.”

Alice signed the release. “I am going to wait outside George. You stay with him. I wish we had brought Rosie,” she said as she slipped out the door, wiping tears from her eyes.

“What happens now, Doc?” George asked.

“I’m a farm boy, George. Life comes, and life goes. I believe that when the decision is made, and we are all on board, we get it done. No ceremony, get it done, and then we all get on with grieving.”

“Okay, Doc, I am ready.”

I dropped to my knees, Nick was laying on the floor. He hated the exam table. I lifted his head by his chin. His eyes were half-closed, cloudy mucus filled the corners of his eye. There was no longer any black in his muzzle, and gray hair streaked the rest of his coat. I stroked his head and allowed him to lower it back to his paws. I placed a rubber band tourniquet above his elbow and felt to make sure he had a favorable vein. This needed to be a quick procedure. Nick hated this place, and I didn’t want to put him through any more than necessary.

I took his left paw in my left hand and slipped the needle into his vein in one movement. I drew back on the syringe just a little, making sure I was in the vessel, released the tourniquet, and started the injection of a massive dose of pentobarbital. Nick was gone before the dose was fully delivered. I checked his heart and pulse, nothing there. No reflex in his eyes.

I stood and looked at George. “That all?” he asked.

“That’s all, he is gone. Do you want me to take care of him?”

“Oh no, we have his place under his big cedar tree that used to be his favorite place to sleep. That was a long time ago.” George said, wiping a single tear from his cheek. “Can you help me get into the back of the pickup?”

We loaded Nick and said our good-byes. They were having some difficulty talking right now. They needed to get home and finish this terrible day. Hopefully, Rosie will handle the loss, okay.

It was several months later, during one of our early October rainstorms, when a young couple came through the door with a very wet chocolate lab.  

“We found her alongside the road up by Mountain House,” the young lady said. 

The dog went right to the treat jar and sat down, staring at the jar, as if to make it open.

Sandy came around the counter to get a better look, opened the jar and handedk the wet dog a treat. The treat instantly disappeared.

“She acts like she knows the place,” the young man said.

Sandy read the rabies tag hanging from the collar. 

“It is our tag, so she has been here before,” Sandy said as she looked up the number.

“Oh my!” Sandy exclaimed, “This is Rosie.” 

Rosie stood up and wagged her tail at the mention of her name.

“She wasn’t lost, she lives about a mile up the creek from where you picked her up,” Sandy explained. “But that is not a problem, we will make sure she gets home.”

“It is hunting season, and I am sure that Doc will be more than happy to take you home tonight when he is done,” Sandy explained to Rosie as she handed her another treat and escorted her back to a kennel. 

“If you have time, you need to dry Rosie off a bit,” Sandy mentioned to Ruth as she went back to the front desk.

That evening I threw my rifle in the truck and loaded Rosie into the front seat. The drive up the river was a pleasant one. The rain had mostly changed to a light mist. The wind was blowing, and it was brisk along the river. Yellow and Orange leaves were flying off the trees, tumbling in the air and floating down the river. Rosie sat up, looking at the road as we sped along. She seemed to know exactly where we were going.

The Dunns were on the porch when I pulled into their driveway. Rosie was standing and wagging her tail. She almost knocked me over as she scrambled to get past me as I was getting out of the truck.

“Oh Doc, we have been sick all afternoon looking for Rosie. We thought we had lost her for sure. How did you get her?” Alice asked.

“A couple of kids picked her up down at the highway. They thought she was lost. They said they just opened the door and she crawled into the car. They brought her to the clinic early this afternoon.”

“I wish we had a phone, it is terrible that you had to bring her all this way. Can we pay you anything for your trouble?” Alice asked.

“No, I am happy to be able to do it. Besides, I thought I would run up the creek for a few minutes and see if I can get that old buck that George has been feeding all summer.”

“That would be great, Doc. Let me grab a coat and come with you. I just happen to know where a little forked horn sleeps,” George said.

A couple of miles up the road, we came to giant Douglas Fir tree that had been saved for public view. 

“Slow down here and pull off in that pull out up ahead,” George said, speaking in a hushed voice as if the deer could hear us from inside the truck. “Close your door real quiet like, this guy is going to be in that little clearing between the tree and the creek.”

I walked around the truck, George placed his hand on my shoulder and pointed to trail through the brush. We made our way toward the creek, not saying a word, but I could hear George’s breathing behind me. As we approached the clearing, George grabbed my shoulder to bring me to a stop. He pointed over my right shoulder to the far side of the clearing. There was the little forked horn, unaware of our presence, browsing on a low bush.

Bang! One shot through the heart, the deer lurched forward, maybe a few steps, and fell forward in a pile.

“Good shot, clean kill, just like it should be,” George said in a normal voice now. “You bring the truck around to the road toward the creek, and I will get this guy out to the road.”

I pulled the truck around toward the bridge on the side road. George had already had the buck out to the road. It didn’t take very long to take care of him. 

“I never take the heart and liver, Sandy won’t cook them,” I told George.

“Oh, we like those, and I’ll take the kidneys also.”

“I will give you half of this deer, George. I would have never found him,” I said.

“All the hunters just go a barreling past this little place, but I don’t need half, just a hind leg will do us fine. We have plenty of meat most of the time.”

I had a large plastic bag that I used for the heart, liver, and kidneys. We skinned out a hind leg, carefully severed the meat from the pelvic bones, and disarticulated the hip. I removed the lower leg, at the break joint just below the hock, and slipped the whole leg into the bag with the organs.

“You do quite a professional job, Doc. You would be a handy guy to be around hunting camp.”

“I have never had the time for a hunting camp. My hunting is just like this, a stolen hour once in a while. Always feel lucky if I get anything.”

“Doc, if this happens again with Rosie, you don’t have to bring her all the way up here. We will run down to Cascadia and use the phone at the professor’s house. You know, Dr. Hayes. You can also leave a message for us with him.”

“Okay, and we can hang onto her for a couple of days for that matter.”  

“What do you suppose is going on with her, Doc?”

“She was pretty close to Nick, probably just having trouble getting used to his passing. Maybe you guys should get a puppy.”

“No way, we are too old to take on a puppy. Wouldn’t be fair to the pup, might end up being a race with Rosie to see who goes first.

And so it started, it seemed that Rosie came to the clinic every couple of weeks. Her rabies tag was her ticket. She would sit by the road and people of just figure that she was lost. They could not visualize a dog having a home in this area.

Rosie loved to come to the clinic. She would come through the front door and approach the counter with tail wagging. Then she would sit down in front of the treat jar and stare at the jar, mouth open, panting, and saliva draining from the side of her mouth. The people would figure out quickly that they had given her a ride to her favorite place.

“Rosie, what are you doing here again this week?” Sandy would say as she retrieved a treat from the jar.

With the treat in her mouth, she would continue to doors to the kennel room. She knew her routine very well. The couple who brought her through the door stood sort of dumbfounded.

“She obviously knows where she is welcome,” the young lady said. “We found her lost beside the road up by Mountain House. We couldn’t just leave her there to get hit by a car. We stopped and opened the door, and she just climbed in, like she was expecting us.”

“We see Rosie every couple of weeks. She lives up by Mountain House. Her folks have a driveway about a mile long. Rosie gets bored since they lost their older dog, she just goes down and sits by the road. Somebody comes along and picks her up, thinking she is lost or deserted. Most of the time they bring her here, once she was taken to Redmond. Our Rabies tag gets her home every time,” Sandy explained.

This went on for 5 – 6 months. It almost became part of our routine, and we would see the Dunns frequently when they would come to retrieve Rosie. On occasion, the old professor, Doctor Hayes, would be the one to pick up Rosie. And then, suddenly, it all came to an end. The end was one of those things you felt more than something that was on the surface. One day Sandy said, “We haven’t seen Rosie in weeks. I wonder if something has happened to her.”

It was several weeks following that realization when we bumped into the Dunns at Thriftway. Thriftway was not the biggest grocery store in town, but it was the only one that I would use.  

“Hi Doc,” George said as we met at the doorway.

“George, how are things? We have been thinking about you guys at the clinic. We haven’t seen Rosie in a long time. Is everything okay with her?”

“You were right, Doc, about the puppy thing. We didn’t get a puppy, so Rosie sort of took care of things herself. It was sort of funny, you know how she hated the raccoons who came around. Will, an old sow raccoon with a bunch of babies, got hit by a car down on the highway. There were dead raccoons scattered everywhere. Rosie must have heard it, or maybe she was just going down there to catch another ride. Pretty soon, here she came, with a baby raccoon in her mouth. She must have found the only one to survive. Anyway, she adopted the thing. She spends all her time taking care of the little guy.”

“Isn’t that funny,” I said. “I don’t really approve of raccoons as pets, it is illegal for one thing, and there are some health factors, like the raccoon roundworm.”

“It’s no pet, Doc. Rosie takes care of it on the porch. It can come and go as it pleases. It won’t have anything to do with us, except to eat the food we provide. But it sleeps with Rosie, she washes the thing with her tongue every night. I don’t know what will happen with it as it gets older, but right now, Rosie is happy as can be and back to her old self.”