Hallowed Ground, Prefaced, From the Archives

Preface

  I have posted this story before on this blog, but it is the most fitting story I have for a Memorial Day post. It speaks to the tremendous sacrifice suffered from a small group of farm families living along the banks of Catching Creek, a small tributary to the Coquille River.

I grew up in Oregon’s Coquille River Valley in the 1940s and 1950s. After a stretch in the US Army from 1965 to 1969, I returned to school and graduated from Colorado State University School of Veterinary Medicine in 1975. I practiced in the foothills of the Oregon Cascade Mountains for 40 years.

The loss of my close childhood friend, Don Miller, was the driving force for my return to school following my tour in the US Army.

             Dave Larsen

Hallowed Ground

D. E. Larsen, DVM

  We hurried across the cow bridge at the upper end of Uncle Dutch’s farm. We were in a hurry because we planned to hunt up to the Bartlett farm this afternoon. This would require us to cross Catching Creek one more time, and that crossing would have no bridge. Don Miller and I were in the fall of our 8th-grade year. Living on neighboring farms out of Myrtle Point, we hunted ducks and anything else along the creek as often as we could.

  Don was a little smaller than I, but we were both stout young men and growing as we hurried along. I had on pair of hand-me-down hip boots. Don was in tennis shoes. That meant that I would have to carry Don across the creek piggyback. 

 As we rushed across the field toward Bartlett’s lower ground, a ruffed grouse sprang from the creek bank. We generally collected several wood ducks on these evening hunts. Occasionally, we would run into a flock of mallards. If we were lucky, a China rooster would cross our path. But this grouse was an unexpected surprise, and he was quickly dispatched.

  We had been hunting the creek for a couple of seasons now, and we were crack shots with our shotguns. We knew every riffle in the stream, and we knew where we could expect ducks. Most of the time, we didn’t have enough time to get this far up the creek. We would have to hurry to get back to our fields to shot ducks as they came back down the creek heading to roost in the swamp near town.

  When we came to the creek crossing, I pulled my boots up, and Don jumped on my back. With Don holding both shotguns, we crossed the creek with no problems. We had worried about this ford when we were planning to hunt higher in the creek. We hunted along the creek in Bartlett’s lower field, jumping a group of mallards. Don and I both added a large mallard drake to our bag. This was a great addition to our typical hunt.

  As we headed back down the creek, I stumbled while carrying Don across the ford. We came close to ending up in the water. I did recover my balance and ran the last few steps to the far bank. We sat and rested and laughed at the near disaster. We knew it would have made the trip down the creek a chilly walk.

  We had about a mile to go. We didn’t need to follow the creek going down. We had jumped all the ducks on the way up the creek. We just wanted to get to our field at the base of the Cowhorn (our field was named for its shape, the Cowhorn on our side of the creek, and Horseshoe Bend on Uncle Dutch’s side). The ducks flying down the creek in the evening would cross this field every evening. We seldom hit a duck here. They were high and flying fast, but it gave us a lot of fun shooting, and just maybe we would get one.

  As we reached the field, we had to follow the creek a short distance to reach our shooting area. We both stopped at the same time. There were riffles, many of them, in a quiet area of the creek. This had to mean a whole flock of ducks. We spread apart, crouched a little, and snuck along the creek bank. Expecting to see the sky fill with ducks, we burst into an open grassy area of the bank, guns at the ready.

  There were no ducks. A cow was floundering in the water. She seemed unable to recover her footing and was struggling to keep her head above water. I laid my shotgun and game bag down, pulled up my boots, and entered the creek to hold her head.

  “Don, run over to Lundy’s and call Dad,” I shouted to Don.

  He dropped his gear and took off like a shot. 

  The cow settled down a little with me holding her head. It was going to be 20 or maybe 30 minutes before anybody got here. I was glad I had my hip boots.

  The first to arrive was Vern Lundy and Don. They drove in Vern’s old pickup. Dad was on his way with the tractor, an old Ferguson, a small but function tractor. Next to arrive was Uncle Dutch and Grandpa. They stopped and tended the gate while Dad drove the tractor through the gate and up to the creek bank.

  Dad came into the water with me, standing on the other side of the cows head. He had a large cotton tow-rope.

  “We are going to tie this around her neck and pull her out with the tractor,” he said.

 “Won’t that break her neck?” I asked.

  “Not if we do it right, now you watch. We are going to tie a bowline with the knot placed under her chin. The rope will be tight against the back of her head,” he said as demonstrated the knot and the placement of the rope. 

  When he was done, he looked at me and said, “Savvy?”

  “Savvy!” I replied

  “Now you do it,” he said as he undid his knot and handed me the rope.

  With little problem, I wrapped the rope and around her neck, pulled it tight against the back of her head and ears, and tied a bowline that fit under her chin.

  “Good,” Dad said, “Now, hold her head until I start pulling her, then you move out of the way, so you are not in the bite of the rope in case it breaks or something.”

  With the rope secured to the tractor, Dad started pulling the cow, I moved away, and the tractor pulled the cow up the grassy bank and up to a level spot in the field. The men were quick to untie her and help position her half sitting up. I waded to shore, still thankful that I was dry. 

  “The vet is on his way, he should be here before too long,” Grandpa said.

  “I have to get heading for home, or it will be dark by the time I get there,” Don said as he picked up his shotgun and ducks.

  I watched as Don started across the Cowhorn, headed for Felcher Lane, that would lead him to his house. We both knew that we hunted and fished on hallowed ground. Less than 20 years before, this same ground was covered by Phil Bartlett, who was lost when he crashed his Navy fighter plane into a mountain on a night mission in the Pacific. Stan Felsher also covered this same ground, he died in the Batan Death March. Bayoneted by a Japanese soldier while on a detail to gather firewood. Bob Lundy was decorated for his service on a flight crew in the Pacific, and my Uncle Ernie was a bomber pilot. I had several cousins who fought in Korea, a couple of them in the thick of things. 

  What we did not know was that Don had but 7 years left to live. He would be killed by a 50 caliber round in a friendly fire misadventure in Vietnam. I received that news in a letter from Mom while I was stationed in Korea. This was, indeed, hallowed ground. A tremendous sacrifice of young men from such a small area of close-knit farm families.

  Dr. Haug, the veterinarian, arrived shortly. He hurried through a quick exam and started an IV, I guessed he probably had dinner waiting. When Dad asked him what he thought about the cow being in the creek, he was pretty brief. “The creek just got in her way as she was going down, this cow has milk fever,” he said.

  Dr. Haug finished the second bottle and put his stuff away. Slapping the cow on her back, she was quick to right herself and get to her feet. Everybody was relieved.

  “It probably would be a good idea to put her in the barn tonight, that will help her warm-up. It is unlikely that she will go down again, but if she does, there won’t be any duck hunters to find her tonight,” Dr. Haug said, glancing at me with a smile.

  Dad and Uncle Dutch started the cow toward the barn, I knew I would be expected to finish the job. I picked up my shotgun and game bag, and as I passed Dr. Haug, I asked, “Which do you want, the mallard drake or the ruffed grouse.”

  He was quick to take the grouse, smiled, and said, “Thanks,” as he got into his truck and headed to the gate. I hurried to catch up to the cow.

Epilogue:

Stan Felsher:

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/56788026/stanley-r_-felsher/photo

Phil Bartlett:

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/115949598/phillip-f-bartlett

Don Miller:

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/103386505/donald-gene-miller

http://thewall-usa.com/info.asp?recid=35282

Four Front Feet 

 D. E. Larsen, DVM

I slowed as I approached Sudie’s driveway. It was hard to see in the daylight and almost impossible at ten o’clock at night.

Sudie was waiting at the barn and waved when I pulled into the driveway. A late-night call was unusual for Sudie, especially on a Saturday night. She was generally pretty good at watching her cows and calling early if there were any problems.

“Sorry to be calling so late, Dave,” Sudie said as I stepped out of the truck. “This cow was acting a little odd earlier this evening, and I got her in the barn, but she didn’t show any signs of labor until about nine. She is straining hard, and nothing is showing. I figured you would feel better about checking her now rather than at two in the morning.”

I could see the cow in the small pen in the barn. She was straining hard with her tail up and humped up some also. With this much straining, something should be showing.

“Looking at her, she is straining hard enough, and nothing is showing. There has to be a problem,” I said.

“She had twins last year,” Sudie said. “She is a big cow. I guess that helps. She didn’t have any problems last year, but I suppose it is easy for twins to get tangled up in there. Do you want me to put her in the chute?”

“No, I will just put a rope on her and tie her to the corner of the corral,” I said. “That way, if she goes down when I start pulling, there won’t be any problems.”

I crawled into the pen and threw a rope over her head. She was gentle enough, or bothered by her labor, that I could have dropped it over her head. I fashioned a halter by pulling a loop over her nose and then tied her to a corner of the corral with enough slack that she should fall with no problem.

“Hand me that bucket, Sudie,” I said. “Hold it up, and I will reach it and pull it over the top rail.”

Sudie was a farm girl from Arago. Her brother was a high school classmate of mine. During the daylight hours, she taught chemistry and physics at the high school. She was small in structure but an exceptional individual. She hoisted that bucket up to the top rail with no problem.

I tied the cow’s tail to the side and washed her vulva. Then I ran my left arm into her birth canal. There were four feet at the pelvic brim. This was unusual, even for twins. I checked each foot closely, all front feet.

“Well, I have four front feet in the birth canal,” I said. “Now I just have to sort them out.”

“I hope that means twins and not some fetal monster,” Sudie said.

“Four feet in the birth canal is unusual, and a monster is possible,” I said. “But I will spend a minute and figure this out.”

I reached deeper into the uterus and found one head and then another. I pushed one foot back into the uterus and followed it to its head, then moved the other leg of that calf back out of the way.

I slipped a nylon OB strap on the two feet remaining in the birth canal. The cow was staining again as the one calf now had a pathway to escape. I guided the head into the birth canal and gave a tug on the OB strap. The calf almost slipped out on its own.

“Wow! That looked easy,” Sudie said. 

“This gal has tons of room,” I said. “This is a big calf for a twin. He’s a bull and must weigh ninety pounds.”

I reached back into the cow and pulled the second calf’s feet back into the birth canal. The cow was straining hard again as I struggled to get the OB strap onto the front feet.

I recalled the advice the old veterinarian in Enumclaw had given me.

“Sometimes you have to hold those calves in there for a few minutes so it looks like you have earned your fee,” the old vet had said.

I hurriedly slipped the OB strap on the front feet and gave one short pull, and had to catch the calf so it didn’t land head-first on the barn floor. 

“Both calves are bulls,” I said. “That’s good, and they both are large for twins.”

I put my arm back into the cow to make sure there wasn’t a third calf. That was highly unlikely and even more unlikely with the size of these two.

“Why do you check again after two large calves?” Sudie asked.

“For a couple of reasons,” I said. “I can check for any injury to the birth canal and can make sure there isn’t another calf. My Enumclaw boss explained to me one morning how he had checked a cow after delivering a calf, and there was a twin. He wanted me to make sure I always made a final check.”

“Does that happen very often?” Sudie asked.

“No, not often,” I said. “But that very afternoon, we had to return to that farm and pull a third calf out of that cow. It was a dead triplet. The boss had failed to check the cow after the second calf.”

“So you learn from your mistakes and the mistakes of other vets,” Sudie said.

“I stand on the shoulders of many men and women,” I said. 

I cleaned and treated both calves with Bo-Se and applied iodine to their navels. When I loaded everything back into the truck and glanced at my watch, it wasn’t eleven yet.

“Check these guys in the morning, Sudie,” I said as I got in the truck. “Call me if you have any questions or if I need to look at them.”

I would be home, showered, and in bed well before midnight. Maybe I will go fishing at Lost Lake in the morning.

Photo by Rick Monteiro on Unsplash.

Charlie and Betty Land, Foster, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

 Charlie’s horses were pretty well managed, and after the breeding season, there was not a lot to do around the farm. Betty managed to keep their account pretty active.

    “What brings you in today?” I asked Betty when she eased through the front door. Betty was a slightly built lady with black shoulder-length hair. She seemed a little shy most of the time when Charlie was around, but I suspect that she could hold her own in most situations.

    “This darn cat of mine is peeing everywhere,” she said with some concern in her voice.

 This darn cat was named Foster; he was an old guy. He was approaching the golden year for male cats in the 1970s. I seldom saw a male cat over 15, and if I remembered correctly, Foster was going to be 15 this summer. Betty had found him as a kitten under the dumpster at Glen’s Market in Foster. He pretty much had the run of the place now.

    “Peeing all over the place, small puddles or large puddles?” I asked.

    “Oh, they are large puddles when they are on the floor. He peed on the bed this morning. That is why I am here, it woke up Charlie, and he was none too happy,” Betty explained.

    “Well, let’s get him in an exam room and look at him and see if I can get some urine out of him.”

  Pulling him out of the carrier, I noticed that he was much thinner than he was in the past. There was urine in the kennel.

    “Oh my,” Betty exclaimed, “how could there be so much urine already?”

    “We will get a quick look at this urine first, then I will do an exam,” I said as I drew up some urine from the kennel.

    This urine would do fine for a dip stix, but we would need a better collection if we were going to have to do additional testing. I handed the syringe to Dixie and returned my attention to Foster. He was quite thin, ribs were showing through his hair coat. His eyes had early cataracts, sometimes these old guys just have trouble finding their way to the litter box. He was dehydrated also. My guess was either advanced kidney failure, the most common cause of death in an old cat, or possibly diabetes. I seldom saw diabetes in the cat, but it was definitely on the list.

 Dixie popped into the exam room and laid the results of the dip stix on the counter. A four-plus urine glucose and normal specific gravity just about confirmed a diabetes diagnosis.

   “Betty, Foster probably has diabetes. We need to do some blood tests to make sure and to check his liver and kidney function. Then we need to give him some fluids and get him on a stable insulin dose. He is probably going to have to stay with us a day or two.”

    “Doc, I can leave him for the day, but I don’t want to leave him overnight. If he is going to die, I want him to die at home,” Betty said in a stern voice. I had not heard that voice from her before.

    “We can probably work with that, but I will need to see him every morning for a week or so. We will start off with a pretty low dose of insulin and work it up slowly,” I explained.

 “The other thing we need to discuss is what we can expect with his treatment. He is almost 15, and I don’t see very many male cats older than 15. Diabetes is a difficult disease to live with for people. For people to manage the disease in pets is even more difficult. Top that off and cats are also difficult to treat when they have diabetes. A high percentage of pets with diabetes are euthanized within 6 months of diagnosis, just because of the difficulty of living with the disease.”

 “We will do whatever we need to do to keep Foster alive,” Betty said. “I know he is old, and I know he won’t last forever, but we won’t be the ones to give up on him.”

 With that, we kept Foster for the day. His blood glucose was well over 400, and other blood tests were normal. We gave him 300 ml of Ringers Lactate by SQ injection and started him on a low dose of insulin.

 Betty was waiting at the door every morning with Foster. My guess was the barn chores would wait until his treatment was done. Testing at the time was cumbersome. The first few days, we did both a blood test and urine glucose. Foster was obviously feeling much better, looking brighter, and Betty reported him to be much more active and peeing less. My goal was to get his glucose to somewhere around 200, just to a level he could live with and not have much in the way of a hypoglycemia risk.

 By the third day, we were there. “I think this is the dose we use for a couple of weeks,” I explained to Betty. We had been showing her how to do the injections all week. I want to see him still for a couple of days, just to check his urine glucose and give the dose in the morning, Then we will turn you loose at home.”

 Thursday morning, expecting a quick check, Foster’s urine showed no glucose. Great, so much for a simple case. We drew a little blood. Blood Glucose was 50, pretty low.

    “No insulin for Foster today,” I explained to Betty. “Sometimes, in the cat, we will see a remission or sometimes a fluctuation in insulin requirement. So no insulin today, and we will check him in the morning.”

 Friday morning, and there was still no glucose in his urine. We decided to go the weekend without insulin and recheck on Monday. This might prove to be a complicated case to manage.

 On Monday, Foster’s urine showed a 4+ glucose, and his blood glucose was over 300. So we started over where we left off.

    “That would be great if you could check his urine every morning, but I am not sure that you could get urine out him,” I said. “We will have you check his glucose every morning, give insulin if it is positive, and don’t give insulin if he doesn’t have glucose in his urine. That is not perfect, but we will see how that works. You just call in the mornings and let Dixie know how things are going so she can keep his record up to date.”

    So that was the program, Betty was happy, Foster was delighted, I was hopeful that we would not have a wreck. I could not believe that Betty could get urine every day.

 Two weeks later, when Betty was in for a recheck, I noticed that the daily record was complete. There was a two-day stretch where she did not give insulin. Foster had gained almost 2 pounds and starting to look like his old self.

 “Things look like they are going well,” I said. “But it looks like you are going have to check his urine every day, his insulin demands are just going to fluctuate enough that we have to have a daily check. My concern is, how are you going to get urine out of him every day?”

 “That is no problem, I just have him pee in a coffee cup,” Betty said with no expression, just like that was something everybody would do. 

 Betty was able to manage Foster for another 3 years with this simple program of monitoring. Consistently during those years, Foster would have several days each month where he would have no need for insulin. We could have managed him closer and done away with those days, but I am not sure that his quality of life and the quality of life for Charlie and Betty would have been improved.

Photo by Ave Calvar on Unsplash