The Game, From the Archives

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

The Old Man

 D. E. Larsen, DVM

I stopped at the mailbox and double-checked the box’s address against my call slip. This was the right place, but it really didn’t look like anybody was home, and it didn’t look like a place that had room for a cow.

I pulled into the drive and waited a moment, hoping someone would come out of the house to greet me or turn on a porch light. 

With no activity from the house, I reached under the front seat for my flashlight. It was good that I had the light; otherwise, I would have tripped over the tricycle parked in the middle of the walkway to the front door. 

Not seeing a doorbell, I knocked on the door. I listened for some movement in the house. I couldn’t hear any from the inside. I knocked again.

Finally, I hear a chair scoot on the floor, like someone standing up from the dinner table. A full minute later, the door opens.

“Good evening,” I said. “I’m Dr. Larsen. You called about a cow having problems.”

“Oh, that must have been Billy,” the old man said. “He had to run to town to buy some beer.”

“He must not have been too worried about his cow,” I said.

This old man was tall and frail. He had to be in his eighties. He was dressed in pants and an old shirt, and he was mostly bald, with maybe a few hairs on the top of his head. His face was terribly wrinkled, and he sported a large gray mustache.

“Billy has come to live with me after the old lady died,” the old man said. “He does pretty well, but he needs his space at times. And he likes his beer. His beer and his hounds. The cow was just sort of an afterthought.”

“Do you think he will be back pretty soon?” I asked.

“My guess is he went to a tavern to buy beer,” the old man said. “If there is some old barfly in there, he ain’t going to be worried about this cow, not for a second.”

“Maybe I should go home and plan to look at this cow in the morning,” I said.

“Give me a few minutes to get on a pair of boots,” the old man said. “I can take you out to the cow shed. I can’t be much help, but I can hold the light. You’re a strong young guy. You should be able to handle that cow by yourself.”

“That sounds good. No reason for the cow to suffer just so Billy can have his beer and barfly,” I said.

“You grab your stuff and just come through the house,” the old man said. “I should have my boots on by then.”

“So, I will have a bucket of water; maybe I should bring it around the house to the back,” I said.

“Just bring the empty bucket. We can fill it at the sink,” the old man said. “That way, you can have warm water.”

I gathered my stuff, hoping this would be a simple delivery, and went back to the front door. The old man had left the door open. He was sitting at the table, struggling to get his feet into a pair of rubber boots.

The house was a mess. My guess was that Billy didn’t do much around the house, and the old man probably couldn’t bend over to pick something off the floor.

“The sink is right there,” the old man said, pointing to the kitchen. “It is probably full of dishes and stuff. You will have to use the spray hose to fill your bucket.”

It took me forever to fill my bucket. I gave some thought to washing a few of the dirty dishes while it was filling, but it gave the old man enough time to get his boots on.

He pushed himself out of the chair using his arms as much as his legs. 

“Let me grab a flashlight,” the old man said as he retrieved a light from the end of the counter and slid open the back door.

He flashed the light across the backyard, and the hounds came alive. There must have been a dozen dog houses scattered across the backyard, with a hound attached to each one via a long chain.

“We sort of have to run the gauntlet,” the old man said. “These are all good dogs. They just think we are going to go hunting.”

We started out through the dog houses. I was carrying a bucket of water in one hand and my calf puller and medical bag in the other hand. The dogs were all baying and stretched out to the end of their chains, swinging back and forth as they tried to get closer to the old man.

Then it happened; the old man tried to dodge one hound and stepped into the bite of the chain of the neighboring hound. I saw it coming, dropped my things, and caught the old guy as the dog chain ripped his feet from under him. I was surprised; the old guy was light as a feather. I doubt if he and Billy were doing much cooking.

“I think if you show me the shed, I will be able to take care of this cow myself,” I said. “This is too dangerous for you in the dark.”

“Maybe you’re right,” the old man said. “The cow is in the shed right over there.” 

He shined his light on the shed.

I ensured the old guy was clear of the dog chains and continued to the shed.

A shed was a good word for this structure. I thought I might pull it over when I had to pull hard on the door to get it open. The cow was inside, lying down and straining. I could see the feet and most of the head. This was going to be easy.

Without putting a rope on the cow, I attached a nylon OB strap to the calf’s front feet and gave a pull when the cow strained. The head popped out. One more stain and pull, and the calf slipped out onto the straw.

I washed up the cow and did an exam to make sure there wasn’t another calf. Then treated the calf’s navel with iodine and gave him a Bo-Se injection. I slapped the cow on the butt, and she jumped up and turned her attention to the calf. 

“That was easy,” I said to myself as I headed back to the house. “Now I just have to get passed these dogs again.”

When I returned to the house, the old man had his boots off and cleaned up the sink a little.

“There is room for you to wash up,” he said. “And I want to thank you for catching me out there. It’s no damn fun, this getting old stuff.”

“I was glad I was there,” I said. “The calf is born and is doing well. You tell Billy we are in the office this Saturday morning, at least until eleven. He can come in and pay the bill, and I can talk with him about managing his cow, calf, and hounds.”

“I will make sure he is there,” the old man said.

***

Billy did come in on Saturday morning. He paid the bill, and we talked about his cow and calf. I suggested that if he kept his dogs tied, he should spread them out more to make things safer for his father. I also suggested he build a kennel for the dogs. Then we discussed what his father would need in the next few years. 

Billy listened, but I doubt things will change much around his house.

Photo by Krunal Parmar on Pexels.

You Can’t Get There From Here

D. E. Larsen, DVM

It was finals week for Spring term at Oregon State University. I had been out of the Army for almost a year now.

I never had to study much, but tomorrow I have a final exam in Physics. Courses requiring math made me do a little review. I was a whiz at math in high school and the first couple of years of college. But after nearly four years in the Army, not using math at all, I had to work a little now.

I got up from the kitchen table in my little trailer house and poured the last few drops of coffee into my cup. I had bought this old trailer house for two thousand dollars and lived in a trailer park on the western edge of Corvallis. It wasn’t much, a model from the 1950s. It had probably been a showpiece in its day. But it served its purpose for one or two people, and the living expenses were cheap.

It was dark out, so it must be after nine.

Just as I returned to the table, there was a knock at the door. It startled me enough that I slopped a little coffee on the math problem I had been studying.

I set my cup on the table and opened the door. Everything was very compact, so I only had to take a step or two to reach the door.

There, standing in front of me, were two guys from the shop in Germany, Ron Tibbits and Jamie Marks.

“What the hell are you two up to?” I asked.

“We both just got out of the Army,” Jamie said. “I was out here visiting my sister in Portland, and Ron drove down from Tacoma to say hi. We sort of ran out of stories to tell each other. I mean, we both knew the stories anyway, so we figured we would run down here and see if we could find you.”

“Come on in,” I said. “Things are sort of a mess, this is finals week, so I have been a little busy.”

The three of us just about filled the room. I realized that the coffee pot was empty, and I knew that neither one of these guys drank beer. I didn’t have much to offer them.

“We had quite a time finding this place,” Ron said. “We had your address from the phone book, but I sort of got turned around, and we ended up on some hill over on the north side of town.”

“There was this old guy out walking his dog,” Jamie said. “We stopped and asked him how to get to fifty-third Street. He turned in circles like a dog getting his bed ready, almost tripping himself with his dog’s leash. He finally looked at us, confused like, and said, ‘You can’t get there here.”

“I thought Jamie was going have a heart attack. He was laughing so hard,” Ron said. “Anyway, we turned around, got back downtown, and figured out the street numbers, and here we are. We would have been here a lot soon if that old guy knew his town a little better.”

“So listen, I’m a little cramped for quarters here,” I said. “If you guys plan to stay the night, one of you gets the couch, and the other gets the floor.”

“We told Jamie’s sister we would be back tonight,” Ron said. “So she is planning on us tonight. It looks like you are busy anyway. We don’t want to have you flunk a test just because we showed up.”

“I really don’t have to study much,” I said. “This will be a multiple choice test, just like one of those Army tests. I will breeze through in half the time, miss a few questions because I failed to read the negative in the question, but I will get a solid B. That’s all I need out of this class.”

“You sound like you are doing okay here,” Jamie said.

“School is much easier now than before the Army,” I said. “I have more money for one thing, but I also realize there are worse places I could be.”

“Like a hundred feet up a frozen antenna tower,” Jamie said. “My feet still bother me from that climb.”

“Say, why don’t we run downtown, and I will buy you guys a cup of coffee and a bite to eat before you head out of here.”

We went downtown and talked over a couple cups of coffee until after midnight. We rehashed our time together on the East German border and then on our plans for the future.

My future was well planned, with another five years of school. Ron was hoping for an apprenticeship as an electrician. Jamie was still hoping to plan for next year, as the ink was not dry on his discharge papers.

They loaded into their car and headed back to Portland, over an hour’s drive, and I went home and closed the book on my physics review.

Morning came, I got my B in physics, Ron did land his apprenticeship, and Jamie ended up working back east. Five or six years later, I visited with Ron while I was living in Enumclaw. Jamie, I never saw again.

Photo by Dirk Schuneman on Pexels.