Eating Your Inventory

 D. E. Larsen, DVM

Sandy hung up the phone and looked at me with concern in her eyes.

“That was another appointment for a health certificate,” Sandy said. “These days, it seems like half our clients are moving to Alaska.”

“People have little choice,” I said. “They seem to close a mill every couple of weeks, and they have mostly stopped all the timber sales on federal lands.”

“If this continues, we will have trouble making a living,” Sandy said.

We moved to Sweet Home in 1976 and were instantly busy. Our practice actually grew too fast. That growth allowed us to make an easy living while investing in the practice with new equipment and an increased inventory. 

One of the problems with that growth was we really had no need to manage the practice for efficiency. It didn’t matter what we did. More people came through the door than we could handle.

Then in the early 1980s, interest rates soared, new construction ground to a crawl, and the environmentalist demanded restraints on Oregon’s timber harvest. This all added up to bad news for small timber towns like Sweet Home. 

Lumber and plywood mills were the first to close. Sweet Home went from eight mills to two mills almost overnight. That accounted for nearly six hundred jobs. That was a major hit in a town of six thousand people.

Fifty-year-old men who had worked their entire adult lives in a sawmill were suddenly out of work. Many of these guys had no other skills. The local community college tried to offer retraining for many of these men. But a lot of men were not good students in high school and were reluctant to return to school.

But they were still cutting timber in Alaska, and there were plenty of jobs. At first, it was a trickle of families leaving town. A lot of times, the husband went and left his family here. But as the weeks became months and it became evident that the mills and the logging were not coming back in Sweet Home, the trickle became a flood. Much of our client base was on the ferry to Alaska.

***

Several months into this flood of folks leaving town, I could see Sandy struggling over the checkbook.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Our gross is down this month,” Sandy said.

“Well, when everyone is leaving town, you have to expect that to happen,” I said. “How far down are you talking about?”

“If I place our usual order this week, there won’t be enough left for our draw,” Sandy said. “We are going to have to cut back on the supply order so I can buy groceries and pay the mortgage.”

“We can get away with that for a time or two, but I have to have things on the shelf in order to practice,” I said. “We can’t just eat our inventory and expect to stay in business.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” Sandy said. 

“We have to change the way we do things, but we have to be thoughtful in making those changes,” I said.

So change we did. We learned to manage a smaller inventory and laid off one position. That meant everyone had to work a little harder. The rule became that nobody walks by a dirty kennel without cleaning it. That included me, much to the chagrin of the practice managers, I am sure.

We went from a one-and-a-half-man practice to a three-quarter-man practice in a matter of weeks.

Our client base changed almost overnight. The young families were gone. We had been considering making a child play area in one corner of the reception area. Now, we added padded chairs for older folks.

Then we had to start building the practice again. 

“How do we build the practice?” Dixie asked.

“We go back to the basics. That’s all I know,” I said. “Nobody comes or goes without me interacting with them. I shake everyone’s hand. There is no hiding in the back. Everyone has to feel like they are part of the family. That means we have to know them. We need to know what the grandkids are up to this summer, where they are getting the new puppy, all the little things to show we are concerned about them and their pets.”

“We see a lot of people every day,” Dixie said. “How can we all keep track of everything?”

“We read the local paper and listen when people talk,” I said. “Then we make little notes on their file, so when you learn something, I can follow up on it. You make a note when Anita goes to watch her grandson’s pinewood derby. Then the next time Anita comes in, I see your note, and I ask Anita, how did your grandson do in the pinewood derby?”

“I see, sort of like what Fred Briggs does when he comes in to sell Sandy on something new,” Dixie said.

“Yes, that is far better than talking about the weather,” I said. “Grandkids and pets are our main topics. That and special events for the folks. It won’t be easy, but it will be worth it.”

So, that was the plan, and it worked pretty well. We had dug a deep hole for ourselves before we recognized that we had a definite cash flow problem. After a few months of poor response, it took over a year of hard work to correct. But the client interaction stuff stuck and became a mainstay of our client relations.

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.

The Change of Life, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

“Jim is out front and wants to talk with you about that radio transmitter tower that he was talking about yesterday, Sandy said. “He says he has some new information.”

“Jim, how are you doing today,” I said as I offered my hand to shake.

“Sandy says you have some more information.”

“Yes, I found a tower that we could lease space on for a repeater,” Jim said. “This is a hundred-foot tower on Marks Ridge, and we can get a space at the forty-foot level for twenty-nine dollars a month. That removes all the upfront cost for tower construction that I was talking about yesterday.”

“Jim, I know you are excited about this repeater, but I’m not sure that it will help me out a lot. For the initial expenses and then monthly tower fees, it just seems like too much expense for my needs.”

“Don’t worry about the monthly tower fees,” Jim said. “We will have plenty of people using the service to cover those costs. They will also allow us to repay the money you put out to get things started. And then when we are at full steam, we will have a steady revenue stream for income and to cover any operating and maintenance expense.”

“Check with me next week,” I said. “I am going to talk with a couple of the loggers and forestry guys around here to get a feel for their experience with the repeaters they use.”

“Okay, but don’t take too long to make a decision. I have to push ahead, and if I come up with another investor, I will have to go with them.”

“Don’t let me slow you down, Jim,” I said. “I have to be careful with my capital. A veterinary clinic in a small town doesn’t make a fortune.”

***

Every Tuesday, I attended a Rotary lunch meeting. It gave me a good break from the office, and I could mingle with other business people in town. This Tuesday, I grabbed a seat beside Jack. He would be the most knowledgeable about the use of radio communications in the area.

My experience in the Army was closely tied to radio and radar reception all over the world. I knew from that experience that the tower and repeater Jim was pushing would have definite limitations in the many little valleys around Sweet Home.

“Jack, I want to pick your brain a little today,” I said as I slid into the chair beside him.

“That might not take very long,” Jack said with a big smile.

“I have a guy wanting me to go in partners with him to install a radio repeater on a tower on Marks Ridge,” I said. “You have guys out and about all the time. What is your experience with radio reception around Sweet Home?”

“If you think you’ll have a functional radio connection with your office from a single tower on Marks Ridge, you’ll be disappointed,” Jack said. “We purchase usage on multiple towers around the area, many towers really. We do pretty well, most of the time, finding one that we can use. But there are areas that we have no reception. And that is with the use of many repeaters and multiple frequencies.”

“That is what I was afraid of when I was looking at the map,” I said. “Line of sight frequencies don’t tend to go through ridges very well. I think I will just have to continue doing things the way I’ve done them since I came to town.

***

It was some years later that the cell phone was thrust upon the world. The first models were large and cumbersome, and reception in the Sweet Home area was limited. But things progressed.

Bob Lester joined my practice for several years, and we needed to have a little better communication when on farm calls. Finally, Motorola came out with a handheld cell phone. It was still large but smaller than the old walkie-talkie that the Army used. It didn’t fit in your pocket, but it was functional for us.

***

Thursday golf was a big event for me most of the time. I liked it mainly because the phone never rang on the golf course. This one Thursday, Bob was gone, but I had this new cell phone.

Sandy came out of the office as I was getting in the truck to head to the golf course.

“You need to take this with you,” she said, holding the cell phone out to me.

“I guess it will fit in my golf bag,” I said as I took the phone and unzipped the side pocket of my golf bag. I switched the phone on and zipped up the bag, not giving it much thought.

The game went well. I golfed with the same group of guys most of the time. This week, we were in the Men’s club game and played a skins game amongst our group.

In our skins game, the skins that were not won on a hole carried over to the next hole. It was one tie, all tie game, and you had to have the low score on the hole to win the skin. This day, everyone was playing well, and when we came to the seventh tee, no one had won a skin yet. This hole was worth seven skins. At two bits a skin, this hole was worth seven dollars.

The seventh hole at Pineway Golf Course was a par three hole that played about a hundred and fifty yards to a small, sloping green. I hit a hard eight iron and stuck my ball about four feet from the hole.

Everyone was on the green, but I was closest to the pin. The others all putted and had tap-ins for their pars. I had the stage with the only realistic birdie putt.

I carefully addressed the putt.

“What is that,” Gil said as he looked around.

I thought he was trying to distract me from concentrating on the putt that was facing me.

“There it is again,” Jim said. “What the heck is it.”

Then it happened again. I heard it this time.

“It’s coming from Larsen’s bag,” Mike said.

Oh no! It was that damn phone, and it kept ringing.

“Just a minute,” I said as I walked over and unzipped my golf bag. I picked up the phone. The ringing stopped, so I returned it to the bag and zipped up the pocket.

“What’s that thing,” Jim asked again.

“It’s a new cell phone,” I said.

“You better get rid of that before it takes over your life,” Mike said. “We can’t play a game with that thing ringing in the background.”

I addressed the putt again, and the phone started ringing. I concentrated on the hole and stroked the putt. 

The putt broke to the right. The ball rolled up to the edge of the hole and seemed to stop for a moment. The phone rang again, and the ball fell into the hole.

“So that how it works, the damn phone pushes the ball into the hole,” Jim said.

“Seven skins,” I said. “Not bad with the phone ringing in the background.”

Everyone picked up their bags and headed for the eighth hole. I took the phone and called Sandy.

“I was just wondering when you were going to be home for dinner,” Sandy said.

Photo by Tyler Henry from Pexels.

Smoked Steelhead

D. E. Larsen, DVM

The letter was still on my bunk where I had tossed it earlier. I sat down on the bunk and carefully opened the letter.

I had been in Korea for several months, and letters from home often would bring a brief pang of longing. I seldom wrote home. In fact, I probably wrote just enough to keep Mom from complaining. 

This letter was from my brother, Gary. Actually, from the writing, it looked like it was from his wife, Kathy. I pulled the picture out from between the pages of handwritten notes. There was my brother with his kids and a nice fish. It will be good to get back to fishing someday.

The activity in the barracks was increasing as guys were filtering in from a night out in the village. Everyone was back shortly after midnight because of the curfew in the country.

Steve Brown stuck his head into my room.

“I see your lights are on,” Steve said. “What’s going on?”

“I was reading a letter from my brother before hitting the sack,” I said as I handed the photo to Steve. He looked at it and then moved in to be under a better light.

“This can’t be real,” Steve said. “They must have made a trick picture.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “That’s a seventeen-pound steelhead. That’s a large steelhead, but they are not uncommon.”

“I guess I have heard about those fish,” Steve said. “But I have never seen a picture before. Are they good eating?”

“Good eating?” I asked. “Yes, better than salmon, in my opinion. And they are great when they are smoked.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Steve said. “I’ll probably never get a chance to taste any.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “I think I will write a letter back to them and ask them to try sending me some smoked fish.”

“Sometimes it takes more than a week for a package to get here from the States,” Steve said. “I would think that fish would spoil in that amount of time.”

“Good cold smoked fish will last quite a while out of the refrigerator,” I said. “I’ll send a note and have them try it.”

Knowing myself, I knew if I waited until morning, I would never write the letter. So, I got my box of letter-writing stuff and wrote a brief note.

It wasn’t much of a letter. I couldn’t write much better than I could carry on a conversation. I was usually bored after the first couple of sentences. But I complimented them on the photo, the fish, and the kids. And I told them how much I missed fishing. At the end of the letter, I asked if they would try sending me a little smoked fish. After all, there should be plenty from a seventeen-pound fish.

I placed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and put a stamp on it. Now all I had to do was take it to the orderly room tomorrow so it would catch the outgoing mail in the morning. 

A week for the letter to get there, and day or two to get the fish packaged, if there was any left, and a week to get back here. I should have some fish to eat in two or three weeks. That would be something to look forward to.

We were always busy with operations. Korea, in 1967, was a hotbed of infiltrators from the north, and our job of trying to keep track of all that activity was a hard one.

I had tossed the photo onto my bookshelf, and I glanced at it a time or two, but other than that, I had forgotten about my letter and my request to my brother.

Then suddenly, on a mail call, I had a package. It was from my brother. I quickly opened the wrap. It covered a one-pound can of Folgers Coffee. I popped off the plastic lid. The can was stuffed with smoked steelhead.

“Hey, Steve,” I hollered across the hall. “Come over and try some of that smoked fish I was telling you about.”

Steve popped into the room and looked into the can with a skeptical eye.

“How did you get that so quick?” Steve asked. “You just sent your letter last week.”

I pulled a chuck of smoked fish from the can and smelled it. 

“It smells fine,” I said as I broke off a small piece and slipped it into my mouth. “Tastes just like it should.”

I held the can out, offering it to Steve. He carefully pulled a piece out of the can and took a bite.

“Say, this is really good,” Steve said. “I’ll get Roger and see if he wants any.”

In no time, the room was full of guys, and the contents of the can dwindled. When I finally sat it on my bookshelf, only one piece remained.

“When did they mail this stuff?” Steve asked.

I pulled the outer wrap out of my trash can and looked at the postmark. 

“It looks like it was mailed about a week ago, at eight in the morning,” I said. 

Steve looked at the postmark. 

“You know, if you look at the date and the time, you wrote that letter at about one in the morning, and they mailed this package at eight in the morning the day before, with the time and date difference, they were mailing this stuff at the same time you were writing that letter,” Steve said. “Now, that has to be more than a coincidence.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “We probably just think a lot alike. I’m not into believing in all the stuff about mental telepathy.”

“But you have to admit, it’s a little odd,” Steve said.

“And the fish was good,” I said.

“Yes,” Roger said. “Tell them thanks a lot.”

Photo by Kathy Larsen.