A Shot in the Dark, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

The phone jarred me awake, it took a moment to orientate myself. I glanced at the clock, 3:00 AM. I sat up on the edge of the bed and shiver a bit as the chill of the bedroom air hits me.  I picked up the phone.

It was Jack, “Good morning, he said, I have a call, a downed cow with a uterine prolapse. I would like you to come along so I can show you how we do things. I’ll pick you up in a few minutes.”

I sprang up, pulled on my pants with a quickening heart rate. This was exciting stuff for a new graduate. This was my very first emergency call, and I could hardly contain my excitement.

I had finished vet school 3 months ahead of most of my class due to a new schedule at Colorado State University College of Veterinary Medicine. They had divided the class into 4 groups, each group took their quarter break at different times in the school year. My group had Spring Quarter off. 

Sandy and I had 3 kids, and at this time, we were close to being broke. I got a temporary license and went to work. This was Wednesday night, actually Thursday morning, of my first week in a professional position.

I was a little surprised at my excitement. I was no kid, I was 30 years old. I had spent 4 years in the Army Security Agency. Mostly at top-secret border sites in South Korea and Germany. I had been through some exciting and tense times. I had regularly briefed generals who visited the locations. I had been in the middle of the scramble for intelligence during the Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia. And here I am,  excited about going out at 3:00 in the morning to look at a sick cow.

Jack was a big man. I considered him an old man. He had been in practice for over 30 years, graduating from Washington State in 1943. He must have been all of 57 years old. 

Jack lived only a few blocks away, but I was dressed and waiting when he pulled up in the truck. The cow was at Fred’s place, only about a mile out of town.  

It is common for a dairy cow to get milk fever around calving time. It results from low blood calcium levels due to a delay in mobilizing calcium from the bones to meet the demand of milk production. Most of the time, it is rapidly progressive, and the cow will be down and unable to rise. If not treated promptly, it will result in death. The uterus can prolapse with or without milk fever.

We pulled into the barnyard. Cows were lined up for the morning milking, and the milker was busy in the parlor. We walked through the loafing shed and found the cow flat out in the straw and manure.  Her uterus was completely everted on the straw. The cow was comatose, suffering from advanced milk fever and probably compounded from shock associated with the uterine prolapse.

I started to collect some vitals on the cow, laying my stethoscope on her chest.

“Looks like we’re going to need some help with this one.” Jack says. He has already seen all he needs to see for his diagnosis. I tuck my stethoscope back inside my coveralls as Jack starts toward the milking parlor.

“We need some help with this cow.” Jack says to Charlie, the milker. “We will need the tractor with the frontend loader.”

“I can’t help, Fred is particular about milking time.” Charlie replied. “You need to get the hired man up to help. He lives in that small house across the barnyard.”

I follow Jack across the barnyard to the hired man’s house. I feel a little like I did in school, following some doctor around waiting to learn something but nothing really to do with yourself otherwise.

Jack knocks hard on the door of the little house.

“Who’s there?” The hired man calls out from inside the house. A light comes on.

“This is Doc,” Jack replies in a loud voice, leaning into the door to make sure he is heard. “We’re here to take care of a cow down with a prolapsed uterus.  We need you to get up and give us a hand.”

There is a short pause.

“I don’t get up at 3:00 in the morning for no damn cow,” the hired man replies. The light goes out.

Jack’s face reddens and he leans into the closed door, almost pressing his forehead into the door. 

“I don’t get up at 3:00 in the morning either if I don’t get any help!” Jack booms at the door.

There is no reply from inside the small house. Jack turns and steps past me, almost brushing me aside. He walks briskly to the truck. I follow, not sure what is next. Jack pulls open the door, reaches under the seat and pulls out a pistol, checks the clip, and chambers a shell. He heads back across the barnyard.

Jack finally calms himself enough to talk. 

“No reason for the cow to suffer because of that lazy bastard.”  

Jack places the gun against the back of her head and pulls the trigger. The cow stiffens and is gone.

”At least she won’t suffer any longer.” Jack says as he heads back to the truck. 

We drive home without talking. Jack drops me in front of the house.

“See you in the morning.” He says as he pulls away.  

Photo by Corinna Widmer from Pexels

The Blue Heron

D. E. Larsen, DVM

It was the third week of the fly-tying class I took through Linn Benton Community College. The course was conducted in the evening at Sweet Home High School.

“Tonight, we are going to tie a popular nymph, the tied-down caddis,” Red said as he laid out his materials. “Most of the skills you need for this fly have already been covered in the first two classes. We are going to learn one more skill tonight. That will be dubbing fur. Actually, we dub a lot of different materials in this day and age. But tonight, we will be using rabbit fur that is dyed yellow. It’s a simple technique useful for the bodies of many flies you will tie.”

Red was almost famous among the Sweet Home fishermen. He fished with flies exclusively, and this class not only covered the tying of those flies, but it also covered a lot of fishing techniques and local secrets.

We quickly reached the point where we waited for Red to demonstrate his fur dubbing.

“Before we wrap the body, we need to tie in the back feather,” Red said. “This material I will give you tonight is precious to me. I came across a dead blue heron on the river some years ago. I gathered his flight feathers. That is illegal, but like many things, only if you get caught. These feathers have proved perfect for the tied-down back of this nymph. The feather’s barbules collect small air bubbles, making this nymph more life-like. The fish just can’t resist it.”

Red carefully dispensed five or six barbs from his feather supply to everyone in the class. The law protecting birds extends to dead birds. This is to prevent people from shooting a bird for its feathers, claiming they found it dead. So, if you find a dead bird, you should just leave it in place.

“A lot of guys get a little fancy with their dubbing, and they make a long thread loop that they use to hold the material a little firmer,” Red said. “I consider that unnecessary. I just apply wax to the thread and roll the fur onto it between my two fingers. Then you wrap the body. Many bodies you wrap will be tapered, but we want an even body over the entire length of this fly.

We tied in the blue heron feather’s barbs at the fly’s tail end. After we dubbed a body of yellow fur and wrapped the body, we tied the thread in at the head, then bending the backing feather over the top of the dubbed body, we tied them down and wrapped the head.

The fly was finished with glue applied to the head. A perfect tied-down caddis. A common insect in the local streams and a trendy food item with the local fish.

I started fly fishing when I was eleven years old, at the suggestion of my newly acquired brother-in-law. I purchased a fly rod, reel, and a double tapered fly line, size H-G-H. That sizing system went by the wayside years ago.

Following this class, I tied flies for many years. I tied fly rods for the kids from fiberglass blanks, and we fished local waters and the high lakes for years. 

***

A year or two following that class, June called the clinic. I heard Ruth on the phone.

“Doctor Larsen doesn’t do birds except for farm birds like chickens, turkeys, geese, or ducks,” Ruth said.

After listening again, Ruth sat the receiver down and stepped back to talk with me.

“It’s June on the phone,” Ruth said. “They caught a blue heron at their pond. It has a broken leg and is in pretty bad shape. I tried sending them elsewhere, but she would like you to look at the bird for them.”

I rubbed my forehead with my left hand. I didn’t want it known that I would look at birds and I was not authorized to treat wildlife. But June and Bob were good clients, and this could be considered a farm bird, with a little stretch of one’s imagination.

“Okay, tell her I will look at the bird as a special favor,” I said. “But make no promises regarding treatment.”

“She sounds like this bird is in bad shape,” Ruth said. “I can’t imagine one of these birds just letting someone pick them up.”

It wasn’t long, and June was in the reception area with a frail blue heron in her arms. 

When I got to the exam room, the bird was lying on the exam table, his right eye following my every movement.

“We have seen him several times in the last week,” June said. “But today, he was in the small pond by the house, and Bob just went out and picked him up. He is skin and bones, and that leg looks beyond repair to me, but I will leave that decision to you, Doc.”

June’s assessment was pretty accurate. This bird was, indeed, skin and bones. I am not sure that I had seen a bird this emaciated before. And his right leg was not only fractured, but it was hanging by a strip of tissue on the medial side of the leg. It looked like it had been shot, and judging from the curvature of the remaining bone, I would say it had been shot with a thirty-caliber rifle. The bone was black on both sides of the fracture, and if there was any circulation in the distal leg, it was marginal at best. There would be no repairing this leg.

“This leg is toast, and this bird is starved to death,” I said. “I think it needs to be put to sleep.”

“That was our thought,” June said. “We didn’t want to do it and then get into trouble.”

“I’m sort of in the same boat,” I said. “I have no special protection from prosecution for a wildlife violation. I guess I better make a telephone call.”

I called the Oregon State Police office in Albany, and with luck, I was able to speak with the game officer.

“This is Doctor Larsen in Sweet Home,” I said. “I’m a veterinarian, and I have a client who brought in a blue heron this afternoon. This bird is emaciated and has had one leg nearly shot off. It is hanging by a thin strap of tissue. From the look of things that happened several weeks ago, it looks like a wound from a thirty-caliber bullet.”

“That sounds pretty bad for the bird,” the officer said. “We always seem to have a few idiots around that think it’s fun to shoot something like that.”

“This leg is not repairable, and this bird is not going to live long in its present condition,” I said. “I think I should put it to sleep.”

“If you are asking permission, I can’t give you that, but I will assure you that I won’t ticket you for doing it,” the officer said.

“Fair enough,” I said. “I would feel better if you were here so I could shake your hand on that, but I guess I trust your word.

“You have my word,” the officer said. “How do you dispose of the body?”

“All the animals that die here are either returned to the owner, or they go to the county for cremation,” I said.

“That’s good; send the bird for cremation, don’t return it to the client,” the officer said.

“Thanks for your time. That is what will be done,” I said.

“The game officer agreed that euthanasia was the best option for this bird,” I said. “I will put it to sleep and send it for cremation.”

I returned to the exam room and told June what would happen.

“Do we owe you anything?” June asked.

“No, I can’t charge you for something that I am not authorized to do in the first place,” I said. “Thanks for bringing in the poor guy. His end of life will be more pleasant than starving in a pond somewhere.”

June left, and Ruth stayed with the bird as I retrieved a dose of euthanasia solution. Finding his heart was no problem, with no muscle on his breast. I steadied the heart with my left hand and inserted the needle with my right. The bird was gone before the injection was complete.

“I will grab a bag for him,” Ruth said. “I think we already have the county coming in the morning. The freezer is almost full.”

I stood at the table, remembering Red’s comments about his blue heron feathers. “This guy will be cremated tomorrow,” I thought to myself. “Who would know.”

Photo by Diego Madrigal on Pexels.

Anatomy of a feather: https://askabiologist.asu.edu/explore/feather-biology

Consequences of a Popular Street Drug 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Prologue:

I have told this story before with a little different format. That story was titled ‘The Elk Hunt.’ This story adds content and discusses current concerns about popular street drugs.

***

Frank and I waited in the truck while we watched the small elk herd make its way down to the apples we had scattered on the ground.

Every year, for the last several years, I had sedated Frank’s bull elk to saw his antlers off. If left with his antlers, he would kill the much smaller sika deer bucks during the rut.

I was anxious to see how a new capture drug would work this year. In previous years, I had just used Rompun. It did a good job for the most part, but it could all excited animals to take sudden defensive movements. I was constantly worried that I would end up like one of the little sika bucks with an antler through my chest.

Frank stepped out of the trunk when the bull was comfortable eating the apples we had scattered on the ground.

“I hope this drug works as well as you claim,” Frank said in a hushed voice.

He stepped in front of the truck and waited for the bull to turn broadside to us. Frank raised the capture gun to his shoulder, aimed, and fired all in rapid succession. 

Whop! The dart stuck in the hind leg, a perfect shot. Frank returned to the truck, and we waited. The drug took effect quickly. The bull stumbled about a bit and then went down on his knees. He settled to the ground slowly and rested on his sternum briefly before flopping onto his side.

With the elk on the ground, I grabbed my bag and hurried over to him. I didn’t know how long I would have to work. I cut a four-foot piece of OB wire and hooked it to the handles. With long rapid strokes, I sawed through both antlers in a short period of time. The smell reminded me of the old slow-speed dental drills.

With the main job done, I drew a couple of tubes of blood for routine testing. I applied nearly an entire tube of ophthalmic ointment to his eyes for protection against drying. This class of anesthetic drug reduced the blink reflex. Then finally, I gave him a dose of the dewormer, Levasol.

Ten minutes after I was done, the bull elk righted himself onto his sternum, rested momentarily, and sprang to his feet. He was confused for a few minutes but quickly returned to normal and headed up the hill to join the group of cows.

“That was just about perfect,” Frank said. “It’s nice to have a drug that works so well.”

“Yes, I would have liked a little longer duration, but I would guess we could control that with a little Rompun or some addition Sernalyn,” I said.

I got my things back in the truck and headed for the clinic. I was pleased with the results and figured this would be a very useful drug for me in large animal anesthesia.

*** 

A couple of years later, Fred Briggs, the drug salesman, stopped by the clinic at the end of the day.

Fred always tried to arrive at the end of the day. That way, I usually had time to talk with him, and he lived in Albany, so it was a good way for him to wind up his day on the road.

“I have bad news for you today, Doc,” Fred said. “I know you have been using Sernalyn for several years.”

“Yes, it’s almost a perfect drug for the capture gun and has some use in large animal anesthesia,” I said.

“Ketamine has become a popular drug on the street,” Fred said. “And Sernalyn is twenty times more concentrated than ketamine. It is very valuable on the street, and the good old DEA and FDA are going to discontinue the drug.”

“When is this going to happen?” I asked.

“It has happened,” Fred said. “They are not recalling any product, and you can use what is on the shelf, but we can’t order any of it. We can sell our inventory, but then that’s it. I can sell you one last bottle today if you want it.”

“I guess I’m not keen on stocking discontinued drugs,” I said. “If they are going to be gone, you just as well learn how to get along without them. But I will talk with Frank and see what he wants to do.”

***

Sernalyn was gone, and we were back to using Rompun alone. Then, out of the blue, the DEA changed M-99 to a Class 2 drug, and this would allow for clinical use. I called Frank.

“Frank, they have changed M-99’s classification,” I said. “It is available for clinical use now. Are you still interested in ordering it?”

“I worry about this elk escaping, and we would have trouble capturing him,” Frank said. “It would be nice to have a dose or two available. I will pay to put it on the shelf.

So, I placed an order for M-99 and didn’t give it much thought. Then, when I returned to the office after lunch a few days later, two gentlemen dressed in suits and ties were waiting for me.

“You must be Doctor Larsen,” the first gentleman said. “We are from the DEA, and we are here to check out your facility for the use of M-99.”

“You changed it to a Class 2 drug,” I said. “I figured it was no different than any other Class 2 drug.”

“It is a thousand times more potent than morphine,” the second gentleman said. “That makes it very valuable on the street.”

“I have this client with a number of exotic animals,” I said. “He worries that we would have trouble capturing them if they escaped. We just ordered one vial to have on hand for an emergency.”

“Okay, that sounds reasonable,” the first gentleman said. “Now we need to look at your inventory sheet and then check your Class I safe.”

“I don’t have an inventory sheet,” I said. “I just placed the order.”

“In that case, your inventory sheet should read zero,” the second gentleman said.

“And what is a Class I safe?” I asked. 

“It is like the safe that would be in that bank across the street,” the first gentleman said.

“Well, I have a safe deposit box in that bank across the street,” I said.

“That would work just fine,” the second gentleman said. “You could store the M-99 in your safe deposit box.”

“But if it is in that vault, I wouldn’t have access to it during an emergency when that bank is closed,” I said.

“I guess not, but that is the storage requirement,” the first gentleman said.

“Well, I won’t mess with the order then,” I said. “If I can’t access it, there is no reason to go to the expense of putting it on the shelf.”

That ended the discussion. The DEA downgraded the drug, but they still considered it required special handling. And Frank and I were stuck with using Rompun.

***

Epilogue:

Currently, in 2023, this country is seeing a new craze for street drugs. Rompun, xylazine, is combined with many drugs, fentanyl, heroin, and others.

The news media is doing a great job directing those interested in acquiring the drug to any small veterinary clinic where a simple burglary would yield the desired product.

When I practiced in Enumclaw, Washington, in 1975, there was a rumor of a guy who broke into a veterinary clinic in Seattle and stole some Rompun. They found him not far away, flat out in the street, unable to move. I have no first-hand knowledge of that event, but it was repeated often at every veterinary meeting of the time.

This new problem with “Tranq” threatens the availability of a long-standing drug in everyday use in veterinary medicine. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xylazine

https://abc7.com/tranq-xylazine-zombie-drug-fentanyl/12895509/

Photo by Jonathan Cooper on Pexels.