The Meat Fork

D. E. Larsen, DVM

“David, I want you to set the table tonight,” Mom said as I came through the door.

My shoulders slumped. I had just finished my chores at the barn. The table setting was women’s work in my mind.

“Where is Linda?” I asked.

“She will be late tonight,” Mom said. “Now you go change your clothes and clean up. Then, get the table set. Your father will want dinner when he gets in from the barn.”

There was no sense in arguing. I was stuck with the chore. I raced upstairs and changed out of my work clothes. Then I bounded down the stairs with a leap down the last four stairs as I tried to touch the closet floorboards over the stairs. One day, I would reach them. Gary thinks he is so big just because he can touch those boards.

“Should I set a place for Linda?” I asked Mom as I pulled the plates out of the cupboard.

“Yes, she could be home anytime,” Mom said. “Now get busy. I see your father and brothers leaving the barn now.”

I quickly set the plates around the table. Then, I grabbed the silverware and put a knife, fork, and spoon at each table setting. I grabbed a napkin and put it on each plate.

“David, that is not how we set the table in this house,” Mom said.

“I know, but everyone is going to pick up the napkin first,” I said. “Why does it need to go under the silverware?”

Mom just frowned. I quickly arranged things to her liking.

“Here is the platter of roast beef,” Mom said. “You get it on the table and then return for the potatoes and gravy.”

Finally, everything was on the table. Dad and my brothers were all washed up, and we sat down.

Dad picked up the meat platter.

“Where’s the meat fork?” Dad asked.

“David, you know we need a meat fork on the platter,” Mom said as I was halfway to the kitchen to grab a fork.

“We could just use our forks,” I said as I placed the meat fork on the platter.

“It’s just easier to use a meat fork,” Dad said.

Dinner was almost over before Linda got home. Then, we all had to sit and listen to her story about singing lessons.

“Where’s the meat fork?” I asked.

“What are you talking about?” Sandy replied.

“The meat fork,” I said. “There should be a fork on the meat tray.”

“Just use your fork,” Sandy said. “We never had a fork on the meat tray when I was growing up. If we did, it would never make it around the table.”

We hadn’t been married a week, and now I find out she doesn’t want a meat fork.

“There should always be a fork on the meat tray,” I said. “It just makes things easier.”

“Well then, you can just jump up and go get your meat fork,” Sandy said in a bit of a huff.

I jumped up, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and returned to the table. I gently placed it on the meat tray.

“And you can wash the damn thing,” Sandy said.

I did not reply. And I did make it a point to wash the meat fork before anything else was in the sink that evening.

A meat fork was on the meat tray at dinner the following evening. Sandy never mentioned the meat fork again. And the marriage survived.

Photo by Andrea Mosti on Pexels.

Treating Blossom, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

“David, don’t move for a minute!” Mrs. Bishop said as she came at me with a pitchfork.

Blossom, a Guernsey milk cow, was secured in her stanchion of the Bishop’s small barn. She supplied the Bishops and several neighbors with milk for most of the year. 

Today, her stall area was bedded down with a thick layer of fresh straw in preparation for my visit and exam. Mrs. Bishop keeps this little barn spotless. I envisioned Mr. Bishop milking and Mrs. Bishop standing guard with a shovel, making sure no manure hit the floor.

I managed to dodge the pitchfork as Mrs. Bishop retrieved the handful of manure that I had dropped onto the straw. I was cleaning out Blossom’s colon to do a good rectal exam, and there would be more handfuls to follow.

“Blossom has a full colon today,” I said. “This is going to take me a couple of minutes to clean things out, so I do a good exam. I have some boots on, so it might be better if you wait until I get her all cleaned out before you pick things up.”

“David, if you get this stuff on your boots, you will track it all over the barn,” Mrs. Bishop said. “You just don’t get in a hurry.”

Mr. Bishop was standing to the side, just watching the show. He was a quiet man, mostly bald but with some gray hair on the sides. He smiled and winked at me, just to let me know that Mrs. Bishop ran the show on this place, so I best just better relax and let it happen. I just didn’t want her to get my foot with that pitchfork.

With each handful of manure, Mrs. Bishop was right there with the pitchfork. I was sort of amazed at the thickness of the straw she had laid down.

I was finally at a point where I could start a good exam.

“Give me a little history on Blossom,” I said. “When did she calve?”

“She calved a little over six weeks ago,” Mr. Bishop said. 

“Yes, David, she calved six weeks ago, and she has not cycled yet,” Mrs. Bishop said. Her voice was stern, giving Mr. Bishop a look to let him know that she was the one that was going to answer all the questions. “She has been fine otherwise. We noticed a couple of days ago that she was not eating all of her grain and her milk production has down almost to half of normal.”

Holding onto Blossom’s tail with my right hand, I ran my arm into her rectum past my elbow. Then I swept the pelvic floor with my left hand. Blossom’s uterus was bulging under my hand. I could bounce my hand on it, but it was so distended to discern any content other than a lot of fluid.

“Did she have any problems calving?” I asked.

“She retained her membranes for a time,” Mrs. Bishop said. “We called your office, but Vicki said that you didn’t like to look at those for at least two days after calving. I think she passed those membranes sometime during the night of the second day. The membranes were really stinky. I had Robert bury them in the far corner of the pasture.”

I have been coming to the Bishop’s small farm on Gap Road out of Brownsville for a couple of years now, and that was the first time I heard Mrs. Bishop call Robert by name. I wondered to myself what would happen if I called him Bob.

“She must have a residual infection in her uterus,” I said. “Have you noticed any vaginal discharge?” 

“No, she has been fine,” Mrs. Bishop said.

I removed my arm and peeled my OB sleeve off, being careful to turn it inside out as I removed it and to not knock off any manure onto the straw. As soon as I had it off, Mrs. Bishop snatched it from my hand and disposed of it in her little garbage can.

I washed Blossom’s rear in and then scrubbed her with Betadine surgical scrub. I could see Mrs. Bishop watching me with questioning eyes as I pulled on a new OB sleeve.

“I am going to do a vaginal exam to see if her cervix is open,” I said.

“Don’t you need a speculum for that kind of an exam?” Mrs. Bishop asked.

“I have a large bovine speculum,” I said. “But I seldom need to use it. After a few years of training myself, I can almost see with my fingertips of my left hand.”

After applying lube to my hand and arm, it inserted my hand into Blossom’s vagina. The vagina was tightly closed at a point before my hand was in to my wrist. I frowned.

“You frowned,” Mrs. Bishop said. “There must be something wrong.”

“Just give me a minute,” I said. “Her vagina has some adhesions.”

I had never encountered anything like this before. My mind whirled through its database, but I could bring nothing up. I suspected a pyometra was present, but I had never heard of a vagina closed off from adhesions.

I pinched my fingertips together and advanced my hand and arm into the vagina. I could feel the walls of the vagina separate. It almost felt like they were unzipping. Just before I got to the cervix, it was open. And filled with fluid. The cervix was open to where I could insert three fingers. 

I pulled my arm out of Blossom’s vagina. The OB sleeve was covered with blood. When my hand came out, gallons of thick white pus followed and splattered into the straw.

“Oh, my God,” Mrs. Bishop said.

I was unsure what she was upset about. The obvious serious problem with Blossom’s reproductive tract, or the fact that now there were gallons of pus mixed with her straw and splattered around the stall.

“What has happened to our Blossom?” Mrs. Bishop asked.

“She obviously has a uterus filled with pus,” I said. “That happens at times. Why the vagina was closed with adhesions, I don’t know. I have never seen or heard of that problem before. But I think we can help her out now. I will give her an injection to ensure that she empties that uterus. Then, I will flush it with some antibiotics today. We will also give her some antibiotics by injection, and I will recheck her in a couple of days.”

“Okay, David, but you are going to have to give me a few minutes to get this mess cleaned up,” Mrs. Bishop said. “You need to go wash those boots of yours.  Robert, you need to get the big wheelbarrow in here. This is a real mess.”

As instructed, I went and hosed off my boots. It also gave me time to get all of Blossom’s medication ready. And I could watch the circus in the barn. Robert took his instructions without saying a word. Those instructions were detailed to the point where he was to dump the wheelbarrow.

When the barn was cleaned up enough, I got back to work. I flushed Blossom’s uterus with an antibiotic solution and gave her several injections.

“You are going to have to discard the milk while Blossom is being treated,” I said.

“Is it okay to give to the calf and the pigs?” Robert asked.

“Yes, Bob,” I said. “The pigs are probably going be happy to get it all for a change.”

“His name is Robert, David,” Mrs. Bishop said. “And the pigs always get a little bit of milk, but now they will think they should get more all the time.”

“I will be back the day after tomorrow to recheck Blossom,” I said. “I expect things to be much improved by then. You may have to deal with her discharging some pus today and tomorrow. After that, it should be better. You need to call Vicki or Sandy and schedule a time for my recheck.”

***

Blossom’s uterus was all but normal on my recheck, and the lining of her vagina was healed. I could hardly tell there had been a problem. I infused her uterus with some antibiotics and made sure the Bishops were up to speed on the antibiotic injections they were giving. 

“Can we have her bred when she comes into heat,” Mrs. Bishop asked.

“I would wait until the second heat cycle,” I said. “That will give her uterus more time to get back to normal. And when you have her bred, you should call me, and we should give her another infusion the day after she is bred.”

“You do that after she is bred?” Mrs. Bishop asked with a questioning tone.

“Yes, it takes about three days for the fertilized egg to get to the uterus. So we can infuse the uterus with a gentle antibiotic and just clear up any residual infection that might be present.”

***

Blossom continued to do well, and her breeding resulted in a pregnancy. My only concern now was that Mrs. Bishop would insist on an immediate exam if Blossom failed to pass her fetal membranes within a few hours of calving.

Photo by Frank Grün from Pexels

Old Three Toes, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

When I was growing up in Coos County one rarely encountered a Coyote, except on the high ridges. We didn’t think much about it at the time. That was just the way it was. I remember the first coyote I saw, on the top of Sugarloaf Mountain, on a cold morning Jeep ride with Uncle Robert.

    Twenty years later coyotes had moved into the valleys and were heard regularly and encountered with little effort if hunting them. They had become a significant problem to sheep ranchers, and an occasional brave one would come close enough to the barnyard to snatch a chicken.

    My Uncle Duke’s explanation for the change was probably the most accurate. I didn’t have a full understanding at the time but would later come to appreciate his wisdom.  In my younger years, 1940s and early 1950s, all the creeks in the area were full of spawning salmon and steelhead in the fall and winter. Dead, spawned out, fish were present on the riverbanks and all the creek banks. Later in the 1950s and 1960s, commercial fishing for salmon moved from the steams to the ocean.  Spawning fish numbers decreased and dead fish were only occasionally encountered on most streams.

    Duke’s opinion was that when the streams were chuck full of fish the coyotes would have easy access to salmon and would die from the disease. The only viable populations thus existed on the high ridges far removed from the spawning streams.

    Salmon Disease (or Poisoning) is a complex disease of all canines. It occurs approximately 7 days after a dog (or coyote) consumes infected raw salmon, trout or steelhead. The fish carry a larva of an intestinal fluke. The fluke causes only mild disease and can infect a number of species, but the fluke also carries a rickettsia. It is this rickettsia that makes all canines ill and is the cause of Salmon Disease.

    Salmon Disease is treatable if it is caught in time. Ninety percent of dogs (and coyotes) will die within 7 – 10 of becoming sick if they are not treated. Survivors may be immune for long periods if not for a lifetime although there are exceptions to this immunity.

    I was on a farm call, talking with Dick Rice. Dick owned a ranch on the Calapooia River. His ranch was one of the early pioneer ranches in the area. 

“Doc, I have been having a heck of a problem with coyotes the last couple of years,” Dick said. “It seems to be the same coyotes most of the time. He has only three toes on one foot.   He catches any lamb left out of the barn overnight. Can’t trap him, he is too wise.”

  Dick was at his wits end on how to deal with this bandit.  I related my Uncle Duke’s opinion on the shift of the coyote population into the Western Valleys. He listened with interest but just seemed to take it in as a story. I finished with the calf we were treating, loaded up and returned to the clinic. 

    I never gave the conversation much thought after that until I bumped into Dick outside of Thriftway one afternoon. Dick had hurried to catch up to me in the parking lot. It was apparent that he wanted to talk.

    “Hi Doc, how have you been?” he said, a little out of breath.  “I have wanted to talk to you about that Old Three Toes.”

    “Aw, yes, I remember you talking about him,” I replied.

    “You know, I got thinking about the story you told about Salmon Poisoning. One night after work, I stopped in here and bought a hunk of salmon tail. I have an old burn pit and garbage pile on the far side of the pasture behind the house. I took that salmon out there and put it on the edge of that pile.  It was gone the next morning.” 

    “And Doc, that was a couple of months ago. I have had no more coyote problems, and Old Three Toes is gone. I have not seen his tracks anywhere. Can’t thank you enough for that story.” 

    “I’m glad it helped you, Dick. You can thank the observation skills of an old farmer for the information. I am not sure that I would have ever put that information together to come up with that conclusion,” I replied.

Photo by DAVID NIETO on Unsplash