Dinner is in the Oven, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

One of the most enjoyable things about veterinary medicine is the people you get to know and the trusting relationships that develop with those clients.

One young man was telling me about the first few weeks of his marriage. He was a logger, a choker setter to be exact. Anyone who knows anything about logging knows that these young choker setters work for a living. They burn a lot of calories during their day’s work, and they need a good meal to replace those calories in the evening.

Anyway, this young man was in love with this gal. They got married and took a few days off work for a short honeymoon on the coast. A few days was probably more than he could afford, but that is what happened.

A few days later, he brings his cat for shots. After the exam, he asks, “Doc, do you have a few minutes to talk,”

I have never understood how veterinarians become counselors. Still, people often seek our advice of problems far removed from veterinary medicine.

“Sure, I have some time, just don’t ask for marriage advice,” I reply.

And then he starts in on a long story.

“We got home to our new apartment on Sunday afternoon last week,” he said. “We had it pretty well ready to live in, but we needed to go to the grocery store. I needed lunch stuff for the morning, and we needed food for breakfast and dinner.”

“I was a little concerned when Susie filled the shopping cart with items from the freezer case,” he said. “Mostly justTV dinner type stuff. But, you know, Doc, I had a lot else on my mind, and I just figured she was going to make things easy for a few days.”

“I got up early on Monday morning, I made my lunch. Look in the refrigerator, there were no eggs or bacon. I just figured I would stop at Molley’s for a breakfast sandwich,” he explained.

“I got home in the middle of the afternoon. showered and shaved,” the young man continued. “I greeted Susie when she came through the door.”

“I am as hungry as a bear,” I said.

“She acts a little alarmed,” he said, ” but with that little twinkle in her eye, she says, “Okay, I will get dinner going right away””

“Doc, I sat on the couch and turned on the TV as she was busy in the kitchen,” he said. “In what seemed like no time at all, she is back from the kitchen and curls up beside me.”

“The timer is set,” she said. “My grandmother said it would be easy.”

“That seemed like a strange comment,” he said, “but I was engrossed in other thoughts.”

“It wasn’t very long, and the smoke detector goes off,” he said.
“Those new things were more of an annoyance than anything. We ignored it for the moment. Then there was real smoke billowing out of the kitchen.”

“I jumped up and ran to the kitchen,” he said. “Susie called the fire department.”

“They said they were only a couple blocks away and would be there in a moment,” he continued.

“When I got to the kitchen, there was one hell of a fire in the oven,” he said. “I looked for a fire extinguisher. Hell, I didn’t know what to do.”

“All of a sudden couple of firemen burst through the door,” he said. “They opened the oven and doused the flames.”

“What the hell were you cooking?” the fireman asked.
“Sue was peeking around the corner,” he said. “She says to the fireman, ‘Just a couple of TV dinners.'”

“Doc, the fireman looks in the oven and then he looks back at Sue,” the young man explained, “with as straight of a face as he could muster, he says to Sue, “You are supposed to take them out of the box before you put them in the oven!”, I thought I would die.”

“I tell you, Doc,” the young man said, “she can’t boil water.”

“Well, you obviously didn’t marry her to have a cook,” I replied. “That old wive’s tale, about the way to a man’s heart, is through his stomach, that was made up to use in polite company. I guess you already know that you are going to be doing the cooking.”

Photo by Kristin Vogt on Pexels.

Smoke’s Fracture, From the Archives 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

A slight fog hung low across the moist grass as the early morning sun evaporated the dew. I always liked these sunny spring days that were intermixed with wet showery days.

There were cars already in front of the clinic when I arrived.

“We have a full morning, and Ed is waiting for you to return his call,” Judy said when I walked in the door. “We already have a couple of people in the exams room, but Ed sounded frantic.”

“Did he give you any idea of his problem?” I asked.

“You know these guys,” Judy said. “They only want to talk to the doctor.”

I stepped into my office and called Ed.

“Ed, this is Doc. What do you have going on?” I asked.

“Doc, thanks for calling me back,” Ed said. “I’ve been sitting here shaking. It’s Smoke, my young gray gelding. He has a broken leg. And he is in a hell of a fix. He can’t lie down, and he can’t walk. I don’t know how long it has been since it happened. I just found him this morning.”

“Are you sure it’s broken?” I asked.

“Oh, yes!” Ed said. “It’s just dangling, and it must hurt like hell. He cries out every time he tries to take a step.”

“What do you want to do with him, Ed?” I asked. “Depending on the leg and the break, the new vet school in Corvallis might be able to repair it.”

“No, Doc,” Ed said. “It would be hell just getting him over there. I just can’t see him suffering, Doc. I tried to shoot him. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Can you come out and up him down for me?”

“Sure, I can do that, Ed,” I said. “I have people hanging from the rafters here at the clinic. How long do you think he can wait, Ed?”

“Doc, can you come now?” Ed asked. “Please. The wife is locked in the bedroom with her head buried in the pillows, and I’m a mess. I can hear Smoke squealing every time he touches that foot down.”

“People here can just wait, Ed,” I said. “I will be there as soon as possible.”

I grabbed a couple of bottles of euthanasia solution, three large syringes, and a couple of fourteen-gauge needles.

“Judy, I have to run out to Ed’s place,” I said. “When Dixie comes, you guys deal with people as they want. They can wait if they want or leave their pets. I will probably be close to an hour, but you know how that can go. It could be longer. You better get on the phone and reschedule everything you can that isn’t an urgent appointment.”

It was a short drive to Ed’s place in Holley, and I probably drove faster than I should have. Ed was standing at the gate to his pasture when I pulled into his driveway.

“He’s in the far pasture, Doc,” Ed said. “I think the ground is pretty good all the way out to him, and you can drive right up to him.”

“Okay, Ed,” I said. “Are you going to be okay to give me a hand? I didn’t have anyone at the office to bring with me this morning.”

“What am I going to have to do?” Ed asked.

“I just need you to hold a lead rope if you’re up to it?” I said.

“Okay, I can probably do that and just look the other way,” Ed said. “Let me open the gate, and I will get in and ride out with you.”

Ed’s hands were shaking as we drove out through the pasture. When we got close, I saw Smoke struggling to stay on his feet.

“Is Smoke insured?” I asked.

“Insured? Doc, he’s just a horse,” Ed said. “No, he’s not insured.”

Ed had fractured the cannon bone on his right rear leg. The lower part was just dangled. Every time Smoke tried to move and the hoof touched the ground, he would squeal. Smoke had genuine fear in his eye as I snapped a lead rope to his halter, and I handed the rope to Ed.

“Ed, there is no way to do this easy,” I said. “Lying him down is not an option. I will give him a massive dose of euthanasia solution, and he will be dead when he hits the ground, but it won’t be pretty.”

“I think I’m okay. Let’s just get it done,” Ed said. 

I filled two sixty cc syringes with euthanasia solution and retrieved a large twelve gauge needle from the truck.

“My bet is Smoke will rear up with this injection, and he will go over backward or more likely just collapse in a pile because that one hind leg won’t support him,” I explained to Ed. “Either way, as soon as the injection is done, you let go of that lead rope, and just him go.”

“Okay,” Ed said. “I guess I’m ready.”

“He might squeal, Ed,” I said. “Are you sure you can handle this?”

“Let’s just get it over with,” Ed said.

I leaned hard against Smoke to help give him a stable stance. Holding off his jugular vein, I slipped the 12 gauge needle into the vein. Then, with quick movements, I attached one syringe and then the other to the needle. With the large bore needle, I could push the plunger with ease. I emptied the two syringes in a matter of a few seconds.

I stepped back, and seeing Ed still holding the lead rope tight, I pulled it from his hands and let it fall to the ground.

When the drug hit, Smoke reared up and squealed loudly. When his right hind leg provided no support, he collapsed to his right hip and hit the ground in a heap. As I had promised Ed, Smoke was dead when he hit the ground.

Ed turned and walked several steps away. I thought he was going to vomit, but he was in control and came back in a moment.

“I don’t know you do it, Doc,” Ed said. 

“I’m a farm boy, Ed,” I said. “I learned many years ago that when there is something unpleasant to do, it is best just to get it done. No big fanfare. Just do it, and it is over. It is like a person dying. Everyone expects some profound last words. But that seldom happens. They just fade away.”

“What do I need to do now?” Ed asked.

“You can call the rendering company,” I said.

“I was thinking I would just bring the backhoe out here and bury my right here,” Ed said. “This is on top of a little rise, and it should be a good resting place for him. Do I have to talk to the county about that?”

“Not at this point,” I said. “It probably won’t be long before they require a permit and make you pay a fee. I know one family who has buried three Great Danes in their small backyard in the middle of town. One of these days, the bureaucrats will take control of that stuff.”

“Let’s go,” Ed said as he pulled the halter off Smoke. 

“Have you looked around to find out how he broke that leg?” I asked. “A few years ago, I saw a couple of calves break legs on an exposed root in a creek bank. This could have been something like that, and it might be wise to try to find it.”

“I’ll look after I get Smoke in the ground,” Ed said.

I dropped Ed off at the gate, said goodbye, and headed back to the clinic to salvage as much of the day as possible.

***

The following week, Ed dropped by the clinic.

“Doc, I found the spot where Smoke broke his leg,” Ed said. “It wasn’t ten yards from where  I found him. He must have been spooked or something. He ran right through an old downed oak tree and hung his leg in a tangle of branches. The damn thing is, I was going to clear out that old tree last summer and got sidetracked. I never got back to it. Damned if I didn’t kill Smoke, just as if I had shot him.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Ed,” I said. “Things just happen on the farm.”

“You can bet I won’t put things off in the future,” Ed said.

Photo by Susanne Jutzeler from Pexels.

Morris, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

The girls were all waiting for me when I came through the door after work.

“We have kittens!” they all screamed in unison.

“We have lots of kittens,” Amy said.

“Both Sam and Mittens had kittens,” Brenda said. “Sam only had one kitten, but Mittens had seven.”

“Come on, we will show you,” Amy said as she tugged my arm.

So off to the garage we went. Dee tagged along with the two older girls in the lead. 

Mittens was in her box, carefully tending to her large litter, and Sam was nearby with her single kitten. 

I grabbed Sam and palpated her abdomen to ensure there weren’t more kittens that didn’t make it out. No kittens in her belly.

“And look at Mitten’s white kitten,” Brenda said.

Sure enough, in the tangle of kittens was a white kitten.

“I think that is a siamese cross kitten,” I said as I picked it up and checked its sex. “He is a boy. We will keep this kitten; he will darken like a siamese as he gets a little older.”

“Mom said we are not to pick the kittens up,” Brenda said as I returned the kitten to the box.

“I get to do things sometimes that Mom says not to do,” I said.

We left the mothers with their kittens and returned to the house to prepare dinner. Sandy was just finishing up getting Derek fed and in his crib. I started putting together the dinner.

The girls were all atwitter about the kittens all through dinner.

“Can we check the kittens after dinner?” Brenda asked. 

“You can check them, but they need some privacy for a few days,” I said. “If you bother them too much, the mothers will move them. Maybe move them outside or hide them somewhere in the house.”

There was no slowing them down. The girls were done eating almost by the time Sandy got to sit down.

“Can we go check them now?” Brenda asked.

“You have to wait until Dee is ready to get down from the table,” I said. “And she will need some help washing up after dinner.” 

That would have been a chore from hell any other day, but Brenda rushed Dee to the kitchen sink to wash up her hands and face after she climbed down from the table. Then all three girls disappeared into the garage.

Amy was the first to return, almost out of breath from the excitement. 

“Sam stole the white kitten,” Amy said as Brenda and Dee rushed up behind her.

I got up and followed the girls to the garage. Sure enough, Sam had the white kitten snuggled up with her other kitten, and Mittens didn’t seem too bothered.

I picked up the white kitten and carefully returned him to his mother’s box.

“Why did she do that?” Brenda asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe Sam thought she could help Mittens out with her bunch. Now let’s all go back in the house and leave the kittens alone for the evening.”

I checked the kittens one last time before going to bed. Sure enough, Sam had the white kitten in her box. I was tempted to leave it, but I carefully returned it to Mittens.

“Sam really wants that white kitten,” I said to Sandy as we got into bed.

“Both Sam and Mittens are black. Maybe she just likes the contrast,” Sandy said.

“If it keeps up, I am just going to let her have it,” I said.

Sure enough, Sam had the white kitten when the girls checked the kittens in the morning.

“I think Sam is just helping Mittens out,” I said. “I think we will let her adopt this little white kitten,”

“Brenda wants to call him Morris,” Amy said.

So Morris was raised by Sam. Sam was happy, Morris had little competition for milk, and Mittens was not bothered by the loss.

***

When Morris and his litter mates were still nursing, we made our move from Enumclaw to Sweet Home. Because we were going to be in an apartment initially, our eleven cats were delivered to my folks in Myrtle Point until we were in a house.

At Myrtle Point, cats were not allowed in the house. So our cats became barn cats.

“Why won’t Grandma let the kittens live in the house?” Amy asked.

“Grandma was raised on a farm, and cats and kittens were always in the barn,” I said. “The kittens will be fine. The biggest risk will be if the older cats leave to try to find their way back to Enumclaw.”

“You mean they would run away from Grandma’s?” Brenda asked.

“It probably won’t happen, but it is possible,” I said. “We have no other choice. They will just have to make do with the barn.”

***

When we finally were settled in our house on Ames Creek, we made the trip to Myrtle Point to gather all the cats. By some miracle, they were all there. And they had no adjustment with the move back to Sweet Home.

“I think Morris likes to live outside,” Brenda said shortly after we had the cats back home.

“He grew up in the barn at Myrtle Point,” I said. “He probably likes the freedom.”

It was not long after that discussion, and Morris was gone. The girls were crushed. The days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months. 

Then one Saturday morning, we loaded everyone into the car to go to the lake for lunch. We were less than a quarter mile from the house when Amy screamed.

“There is Morris,” Amy said, pointing out the window. Morris was sitting in the middle of a cat road that led up to some timber.

I stopped the car and walked up the cat road for twenty yards.

“Kitty, kitty,” I called to Morris. 

Morris turned and ran into the brush.

“Was that him?” Brenda asked as soon as I got back in the car.

“I am pretty sure that was him, but he wasn’t interested in being caught,” I said.

***

After that sighting, we would see Morris on multiple occasions. He was apparently living in the timber not far from the house. He evidently had no interest in coming home.

That was until one Sunday morning. Amy heard a cat meowing at the front door. She opened the door, and it was Morris.

“Let me pick him up,” I said. “He might not be ready for any hugs yet.”

I petted Morris, and he purred but made no effort to move. I picked him up, and there was the reason that he came home. His right hind leg was broken, a mid-shaft fracture of his tibia. I took him into the house and closed the door.

“Morris has a broken leg,” I said. “At least he knew where to come for help.”

Morris made a trip to the clinic with me that Sunday afternoon, and I called Dixie to come in and give me a hand with the surgery. He was like the plumber’s pipes. If I didn’t repair his leg today, it might be several days before I had the time.

Fractured tibias were probably the easiest of the bones to repair. I used a combination anesthesia of xylazine and ketamine. Then I made a small incision at the fracture site and placed an inter-medullary pin into the bone in a retrograde manner. The entire procedure took less than a half hour.

“Are you going to get an x-ray?” Dixie asked as I placed Morris back in the kennel for his recovery.

“I feel good about how things went together,” I said. “And I don’t think there is any need to document my work. I doubt if the girls will sue me for malpractice.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Dixie said. “Those girls are all pretty fond of their cats.”

***

Morris healed well, and I removed the pin in six weeks, right on schedule. He was content to live in and around the house for the next fifteen years.

Photo by Amy Larsen.