D. E. Larsen, DVM

Prologue: I was forced to use my pocket knife to open a packet of mustard at the dinner table and it reminded me of this story, first published on December 30, 2019. It was a relatively new knife, purchased after I retired.

I have a vivid memory of having only a single request for a present for Christmas in 1950. I was five years old, and the only thing I wished for was a pocket knife. I was delighted when I opened the small package. It wasn’t much of a knife, small and thin with a single blade and fake pearl on the handle. But it was a pocket knife and for me, probably my first rite of passage. Virtually everybody in my life carried a pocket knife, my brothers, my father, my grandfather, and all my uncles. Now I was closer to that group of men.

I carried that knife, or others, every day since that Christmas. I don’t remember the pocket knife being much of a thing at school until about the third grade. At that time, skills with the knife became essential to the other boys (and a few girls) and me. Being able to ‘stick’ the knife when thrown, at the ground, at a wall he or in the chest of invading Russian, became a valuable skill.

  We played knife games before and after school and during recess. Mumbly-Peg was the main game played. We would stand to face each other, maybe 3 feet apart. The object of the game was to throw your knife a distance out from your opponent’s foot. If the knife stuck, the opponent would have to move his foot to the knife and then retrieve your knife. Then it was his turn. If the knife did not stick, then you lost a turn. The winner was determined when someone could not spread his feet far enough and could not retrieve your knife.

We also played a Cross Country game where you would throw your knife from a starting point, and you could advance to the knife if it stuck. There was a goal line, usually the fence around the schoolyard, and the first to reach the goal line won the game. 

In those years, 3 – 6 grades, I would go to school with my knife and a pocket of marbles. Marbles were also huge in the lives of most of the student body. There are not many pictures that survive those school days at Broadbent Elementary School. Cameras were not in every pocket in those days. 

      You can tell from this picture that the economic status of the school students was far different than what you see today. If you look closely at our shoes, you can read a lot into the picture. Jimmy was from a family less well to do than ours; he is in rubber boots. My shoes are new and too large for my feet. We got new shoes only at the start of the school year, and they were sturdy, work shoe types, and always large enough to allow the growth during the school year. These shoes would become my work shoes next year. The funny thing is that we were all poor, but we didn’t realize it. 

From these humble beginnings, most of us turned out pretty good. Jimmy became a minister of a church in Washington. Like so many men in my age group, he recently died from liver cancer from Agent Orange exposure in Vietnam.

As the years have passed, I have continued to carry a pocket knife. Even today, I feel naked if I don’t have one. Naked to the point of returning to the house to retrieve it if I get to town and realize that it is not in my pocket.

With the urbanization of our culture and the advent of political correctness, I have come to strenuously resent those who would call my pocket knife a weapon. To me, it is an essential tool that I use daily. In recent years that might be limited to opening boxes, but in the past, I have used it to kill fish, gut deer, peel oranges, open cans when camping and slice meat. The blade usually gets cleaned by a good swipe across a pants leg when necessary.

I have used my knife professionally also. Not often, but I can remember saving at least one life with my pocket knife. It was in the early winter when I was called to look at a backyard goat who was down and could not get up. Wintertime was often a time when those animals who were not fed well started to suffer from environmental stress. Backyard goats were often expected to survive on berry vines growing in the back yard. The first freezing weather would show the ones who had no reserve, and they were essentially starving to death.

We received a call to look at a goat who couldn’t stand. Arriving at the house, the driveway was packed with cars. We had to park some distance from the house. Dixie was with me on this call. Dixie was a short, trim, blonde girl who had worked for me almost from the beginning of my practice in Sweet Home. We walked up the driveway to the open garage, where a group of men was working on something. At the outside corner of the garage was a small, pitiful little goat laying flat out.

I knelt and did a brief exam. This gal was pregnant; you could see the kids kicking at her belly. She was skin and bones. I didn’t think there was any hope for her. The owner came over as I stood up. Jim was a young man with a full head of dark hair, the hand he extended was smooth and had no sign of a callous.

“What do you suppose is her problem?” he asked as we shook hands.

“Agroceryosis!” I said. “She is starving to death. I know everyone thinks you can tie a goat in a brier patch, and they will do well, but this little gal is pregnant and still trying to grow a little herself. I doubt if we can save her.”

No sooner than the words were out of my mouth, and she took her last breath. We stood for a moment and looked at the lifeless little goat. Then there was a noticeable kick on her belly. 

Dixie and I exchanged glances. “Run,” I said, “get a scalpel blade.”

Dixie was off like a shot. I watched her, and the kick in the goat’s belly. It is too far, I thought. She will not make it in time. I reached in my pocket and pulled out my knife. I hope it is sharp enough.

With a stiff swipe, I opened the abdomen. I pulled the uterus to the edge of the wound and opened it only slightly more carefully. I grabbed one kid by the neck and pulled him out of the open uterus. No pulse, hopefully, the next one will still be alive. I reached into the uterus and found a foot; it retracted from my grasp. I reached deeper and grabbed the kid by the back of his pelvis. He came out with one pull.

About this time, Dixie returned with the blade. A little out of breath, she was quick to turn her attention to clearing the airway of the little surviving kid. It took a deep breath, shook its head, flapping his ears, and then let out a short bleat.  

We took care of his navel, gave a dose of BoSe, and milked out what little milk was in mama’s udder. We gave him the milk with a stomach tube.

“You got lucky,” I said to Jim. “This kid will give your kids something to for a few months.”

Then, with a little bit of my Army voice, I said, “You need to drop by the office in the next hour or two. We will discuss what you need to do to raise this little guy and how to care for him later. We can also hook you up with a goat lady in Brownsville who has a herd of goats and will be able to help you out with some milk and more advice.”

Dixie smiled as I wiped my knife blade on my pants leg, folded in closed, and returned it to my pocket.

“I will remember that the next time you offer me a slice of apple off that blade,” she said.

Photo Credit: Miss Ralph, Broadbent School, 1954.

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Sandy was standing at the front counter when I returned from a farm call. I was hoping to get lunch before the afternoon appointments started in the clinic. She looked like she had something to say. I would guess that my lunch idea was going to be shoved onto the back burner.

“Charlie called,” Sandy said as soon as I stepped through the door. “He has his new Angus bull caught and would like you to put a ring in his nose. I told him the only open time you had today was over lunch. He said, ‘That was alright, he really needed lunch, and you looked like you could afford to miss a meal or two.’”

“I don’t know if I have a ring,” I said. 

“Ruth already looked,” Sandy said. “You have a large ring, and she laid everything out before she went to lunch.”

I gathered everything and verified that I had all the necessary items. I headed out to Charlie’s place on Crawfordsville Drive.

Charlie was waiting at the corral when I pulled into his barnyard. He had the bull in the crowding alley. This was a big bull. It looked like it weighed close to a ton.

“Charlie, I don’t think this guy is going to fit into your chute,” I said as I shook his hand.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Charlie said. “What do you think we should do?”

“Even if we get him into the chute, his neck is too big, we won’t be able to close the head gate,” I said. “If we can get a halter on him, we can do this right there in the alley.”

“He is pretty gentle,” Charlie said. “I think he was probably a show animal in his younger days. Just a moment, I have a big rope halter in the barn. I’ll grab the ring I bought. Maybe you can show how the thing works. I can’t quite figure it out.”

“That will help us put a halter on him,” I said. “But you need to remember, the bull that is considered gentle is the most dangerous.”

“Why do you say that?” Charlie asked.

“They are the ones that you don’t expect to be a problem,” I said. “You let your guard down. You need to respect all bulls as if they can kill you. Sort of like all guns are handled as if they are loaded.”

We slipped the halter on the bull with no problem. Then I pulled his nose up high and tied the halter short, on the strongest post along the alley.

“How do you get this ring in the nose?” Charlie asked.

“You removed this little screw,” I said as I removed the screw and opened the ring on its hinge. “You see, this sharp end is made to just shove through the nasal septum, but I use a surgical trocar to make it easier. That and some lidocaine for local anesthesia.”

“I was wondering if it was going to hurt,” Charlie said.

“The lidocaine stings a bit, but if we did this ring without the anesthesia, we would find out how strong that was,” I said as I drew up a syringe full of lidocaine.

“That looks like a bunch,” Charlie said.

“I don’t want to end up with a broken arm,” I said.

The bull complained a bit when I injected the lidocaine into his nasal septum. But he quieted quickly as it took effect.

“We will give it a minute or two, just to make sure things are good and numb,” I said.

“I hear stories of bulls tearing these rings out,” Charlie said. “Does that really happen?”

“I’ve heard those stories,” I said. “But I have never seen it happen. I grew up around Jersey bulls. They are reputed to be some of the meanest of our bulls. I’m not sure if that’s true or if it was said to make sure the kids get close to them. I did see a couple of bulls become belligerent when I was young. But they could still be handled with that ring in their nose.”

I stuck the bull’s nasal septum with the point of the trocar, and there was no response. With a quick shove, I pushed the sleeved trocar through the septum. Then I pulled the trocar out, leaving the sleeve in place.

At that point, it was a simple chore to fit the open nose ring into the end of the trocar sleeve and retract the sleeve, leaving the nose ring in the nose. I closed the ring and replaced the screw holding it closed.

“There you go,” I said as I untied the halter and pulled it off.

“What about that bleeding?” Charlie asked.

“It will stop shortly,” I said. “All bleeding stops, eventually. Besides, it’s a long way from his heart.”

Charlie smiled, not quite sure whether I was trying to be funny or not. We backed the bull out of the alley so he wouldn’t have to try to fit through the chute. He licked the blood and snorted a bit as he shook his head, not quite sure of his new jewelry.

Photo Credit: Mark Stebnicki on Pexels

Epilogue:

Today I noticed two young ladies, both in their early twenties, with nose rings. It is beyond me to understand why they would do such a thing to themselves.

My guess is they feel it makes them feel more attractive. But to whom, or to what?

When I was a young man, if a guy was under the spell of a young lady, he was often said to be led around by a ring in his nose. That was a metaphor, equating a situation to a bull. There were other terms, some not so nice. Pussy whipped for one.

My grandfather, who grew up in a time when there was no treatment for a dog with Salmon Poisoning, would say that “he was salmoned on her.” The thought of a girl with a ring in her nose did not exist.

D. E. Larsen, DVM

It was getting late in the evening when the phone rang. I looked at Sandy and frowned. A call at this hour on a Thursday night could only be an emergency.

“Are you going to answer it?” Sandy asked.

With a bit of reluctance, I got up and walked over to the phone. Not a fast walk, I was hoping it would stop ringing.

“Hello,” I said. “This is Dr. Larsen.”

“That’s pretty formal, talking to your brother,” Gary said. “I know it’s late, but I was just talking with Marty, and they are catching a lot of salmon over in the bay at Empire. We plan to put the boat in the water and fish on Saturday. I just thought you might want to come along.”

“This isn’t going to be like the last time, is it?” I asked. “Like when they were catching fish like mad on Wednesday, but when I got down there on Saturday, there were no fish.”

“The bay is full of fish returning to that commercial hatchery they built a few years ago,” Gary said. “They collected their quota, and the state made them close their gate for a full week. These fish have nowhere to go until they open those gates on Tuesday. There will be a lot of fish, but we should get some.”

“Are you going to have enough room for me to bring a kid to two along?” I asked. 

“Yes, Aaron’s busy and the girls aren’t interested, so there is plenty of room,” Gary said.

“Do I need to pick up some eggs, or anything?” I asked.

“They are using Buzz Bombs with a lot of success,” Gary said.

“Never heard of those things,” I said. 

“They are new, sort of wobbling lure,” Gary said. “You need to pick up several at a sporting goods store. They come in several sizes, get the biggest ones they have. Everyone is saying pink is the hottest color.”

“Okay, I will talk with you when we get to the folks,” I said. “I am guessing that Derek and Dee will want to fish.”

---

At noon on Friday, I stopped at DanDee Sales in Sweet Home. 

“I’m looking for some large pink Buzz Bombs,” I told the clerk.

“These things are pretty popular right now,” the clerk said. “They are using them in the bays this year. I only have four pink ones left, and they are the large, four-inch ones.”

“I’ll take all four,” I said. “Maybe I should ask what the cost is?”

“They are five and a half dollars each,” the clerk said.

“No wonder my brother wanted me to buy them,” I said. “Twenty-two dollars to maybe catch a fish. I don’t think that pencils out very well.”

---

Saturday morning came, and it was hard getting Derek and Dee up. They were tired from the 3-hour drive from Sweet Home to Broadbent, and they didn’t have to drive.

We got to Gary’s just as he was finishing loading the boat.

“I see some things never change,” Gary said. “You show up after all the work is done.”

“My passengers slowed me down a bit,” I said. “We were a little late getting out of the clinic. So that put us in to the folks at almost ten.”

We loaded into his old pickup and stopped in Myrtle Point to pick up Marty. It was a cool fall morning, but no rain. It should be a good day of fishing.

Just as Gary had warned, the bay was full of boats, and they all circled the entrance to the commercial hatchery.

We found our spot in the circle and set up to catch a bunch of fish. Gary gave a brief lesson on Buzz Bomb fishing to Dee and Derek.

“Cast this as fast as you can, let it settle to the bottom, then retrieve it in slow jerks,” Gary instructed. “Reel it up six or eight feet, then let it fall. Repeat that until you get it in. The bite will come as this falls back toward the bottom. It has a lot of action as it falls. Do you know how to cast, Derek?”

Derek looked annoyed at that question. He was only ten years old, but he couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t fish.

“Yes, I can cast,” Derek said.

With that, the fishing started. And turn to form, there were no fish today. I watched the other boats. Nobody was catching fish.

Then, all of a sudden, just as Derek was pulling his Buzz Bomb out of the water, this massive salmon was after it, right at the edge of the boat. It looked like Derek just pulled the lure out of the fish’s mouth.

Derek saw the fish also. He instantly cast the Buzz Bomb right back into the water, about fifteen feet from the edge of the boat. The salmon immediately took the lure and dove toward deep water, stripping line off the reel.

Derek was able to hold him up a bit on this initial run, but it was evident that the water was too crowded to land this fish in this lineup of boats.

“Is that a big fish?” Gary asked.

“It’s a big chinook,” Marty said. “I got a good look at it. I think we should lead it out to the middle of the bay, where we will have room to get it in the boat.”

We pulled up the anchors and headed out to open water. Who was leading whom was an open question. This fish was headed out to deeper water, and we followed.

“Keep a tight line,” I reminded Derek. “And take up as much line as you can.”

Derek struggled to keep control of the fish. He was doing well, but tiring some.

“You know, you are going to have to take that pole sometime,” Gary said to me as we maneuvered the boat out to the middle of Coos Bay.

“I’m not taking that pole,” I said. “He is going catch that fish, or lose it, all on his own.”

The fight went on for a good twenty minutes. Finally, the fish was close to the surface, allowing us to get a good look at it.

“This is a big fish,” Marty said to Gary as he got ready with the net. “It’s almost dead in the water.”

With that statement, Derek leaned over the boat to look.

“It’s okay,” Marty said. “Just reel him in a little more, and I’ll get him in the net.”

The fish was played out, Marty scooped him into the net and put him in the bottom of the boat. Derek put his rod down, sat down, and looked at his tired hands. He had outlasted the fish, but not by much.

We fished the rest of the morning, with limited success. Marty managed to catch a nice salmon. It looked small lying beside Derek’s chinook in the fish box.

We stopped at the tackle shop in Coquille on the way and weighed Derek’s fish. It tipped the scales at thirty-five pounds. Pretty good for a ten-year-old kid.

---

The following week, I bumped into Jim Riggs, the principal at Foster Elementary School.

“Derek came through the front door with a pretty broad smile on Monday,” Jim said. “He had quite a fish story. Lucky kid, I wish I could catch a fish like that.”

“It might prove to be a two-edged sword,” I said. “He will spend a lifetime trying to match something that probably only happens once in a lifetime.”

Photo Credit: Kathy Larsen