The Alarm 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Pulling up to the clinic on Sunday morning, I looked hard at the front door. There was something odd stuck in the glass. As I stepped out of the car, I could see it was a large rock.

“There is a large rock stuck in the front door’s glass,” I said to Sandy.

“It looks like the tempered glass that Lee put in the door did its job,” Sandy said.

A month or two earlier, we replaced the front door glass following our first break-in. They had broken the glass out of the door and just walked in. 

That was a Saturday night before Easter Sunday. We had been at the clinic for an emergency surgery. As an afterthought, I had removed over a thousand dollars from the cash drawer when we left at 11:00 p.m. The police called at 5:00 a.m. to report the broken glass in the front door.

Following that first break-in, several others followed in the next few weeks.

“I think it is time we put in an alarm system,” I said to Sandy. “You should give that Kyriss kid a call and see when he can do the job.”

***

Kevin was prompt with his alarm system. Because we were still on a tight budget, we put in a simple system. In the 1970s, no professionally monitored alarm systems were available in Sweet Home. We only had a local alarm with a loud siren above the front door. The interior doors tied into the alarm. Someone could come through the outside door, in the front or the back, and the alarm would not sound until an interior door was opened.

The system was simple, but it did a good job. Shortly after it was installed, we had our fifth break-in. A couple of guys had pried open the garage door in the back of the clinic and crawled under it. As soon as they opened the door to the front of the clinic, the siren went off. They had problems crawling out of the garage door they had pried up and were captured by the police during their escape. The alarm had served its purpose, and the word was out in town. We never had another break-in.

***

We were approaching summer, and the clinic workload exceeded expectations and tested my management skills. We were swamped on most days.

Bud came in with a nasty cut on the left hip of his cow dog, Bandit. A well-behaved blue heeler, if there was such a thing, Bandit was oblivious to his wound.

“What happened to Bandit?” I asked as Bud lifted him onto the exam table. “It looks like he really sliced himself.”

“I’m not sure what happened,” Bud said. “He went tearing off behind the barn last night and came back with this gash. It looks like he found something sharp out there, and I will have the boys out looking for it this evening.”

“We have time for him this afternoon, Bud,” I said. “We will need to get him under anesthesia to close this up, and I think I can have him ready to go home later in the afternoon.”

“That should work fine,” Bud said. “I will swing by when I get off work, probably a little before five.”

Paula and I finally got to work on Bandit shortly after lunch. I have always enjoyed working with working dogs. I think you could amputate a leg on them without anesthesia, and they wouldn’t flinch. 

“If you learn anything from me, Paula,” I said. “Learn that if you do nothing else to a wound, get the hair away from the edges.”

That was easy to talk about, but the hair coat on a heeler is thick. The clippers worked fine, but I always liked to shave the edges with a straight razor. That was a tough job on Bandit, but once done, the wound closed up nicely.

Bandit was wide awake and ready to go home when Bud came through the door.

“This wound closed up well,” I said. “I don’t think you need to restrict his activity any. We just need to see him in a couple of weeks to get the sutures out.”

“Could we work out a deal where I could have our son, Scott, drop him off before school and then pick him up in the afternoon, like today?” Bud asked.

“Sure, that would be no problem,” I said. “Just set it up with Judy at the front desk. I get here a little before eight in the morning, does that work for Scott’s schedule?”

“I think so,” Bud said. “I can give him a note, just in case he is a little late.”

***

The clinic remained busy in the following weeks. Hectic might be a better term. I would often leave my farm calls for the end of the day, trying to finish up in the clinic before rushing out to take care of a cow or horse before dinner. That is probably what went on the afternoon before Scott visited with Bandit.

When I arrived at the clinic that morning, Scott and Bandit were standing out front, nervously leaning against the wall. The alarm siren was blaring.

I jumped out of my truck and pushed through the unlocked clinic door to shut off the alarm.

“Was that going when you got here?” I asked Scott.

“I think I set it off,” Scott said. “The door was unlocked, so we went inside. I stood at the counter for a couple of minutes and then decided to take a look in the back since nobody seemed to be upfront. The alarm started the moment I opened the inside door.”

“I wonder who forgot to lock the door last night?” I said as I led Scott and Bandit back to a kennel. “I wouldn’t think that I could make such a mistake. I will have to find someone to blame.”

“Well, it sure woke Bandit and me up,” Scott said.

When Bud stopped to pick up Bandit, I relayed the morning’s events.

“I would guess you haven’t heard of the morning events,” I said.

“No,” Bud said. “Was there a problem?”

“Someone, I don’t know who forgot to lock the front door last night,” I said. “Scott got here with Bandit before I arrived and, finding the door unlocked, came inside. When he opened the door to the back, our new alarm went off. When I got here, he and Bandit were waiting outside under a rather loud siren. I think he was a little worried that he had done something wrong.”

“I’m sure I will get all the details,” Bud said. “I thought Bandit’s wound healed pretty good. What did you think?”

“Yes, he is as good as new,” I said. “I just wondering where you got such a well-behaved heeler? He is a real jewel. Most heelers are good dogs, just a little high-strung.”

“Scott works with him a lot,” Bud said. “Some dogs need a teenager to help them expend all that energy.”

“Yes, I tell a lot of folks that some dogs just need a twelve-year-old boy to run them every day,” I said. “And tell Scott that I’m sorry about this morning. I think we learned a lesson here about routines, even on the busiest days.”

Photo by A. J. Spearman on Pexels.

Several Days in February, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I looked for a spot in the trunk for my bag. There were six of us stuffed into the sedan for our trip to Nebraska. My bet was, I was the only one who had been in the military. You didn’t need to bring your entire wardrobe for a one week trip. 

We were going out to spend a week helping a progeny test herd of 600 heifers during the calving season. The herd belonged to Diamond Labs. They were collecting ease of calving data on their bulls to be used for their semen marketing. Six of us would drive out on this Sunday morning, and the 6 guys out there would take the car and drive home. Diamond Labs had a house on the place for us, and we took meals in a restaurant/bar in the small village near the ranch.

The drive out of Fort Collins was away from the mountains and out across the prairie. It was a four-hour drive across some for the flattest land in this country. I settled into a corner of the back seat and tried to catch a couple of hours of sleep.

“Larsen, how can you sleep when we are driving through some scenic country?” Mike said.

“One thing you learn in the Army is to sleep anywhere,” I said. “You go up on the mountains out of Fort Collins, Mike, and you can watch the riverboats on the Mississippi River.”

“That can’t be right,” Mike said. “That can’t be right, can it, Jim?”

“He is toying with you, Mike,” Jim said. “He doesn’t have much to say about this flat country.”

It was going to be a cold week. Daily high temperatures were 20 below zero. Overnight lows were pushing 40 below. This will be a great learning experience, but we will pay for it by enduring some harsh temperatures.

The group that was going home was glad to see us pull up to the little house. The housekeeper was just finishing up getting the place ready for the new crew. We discussed instructions as briefly as possible, and they were off. The ranch foreman came over to make sure we were settled into the house.

“Here are the directions to the restaurant where you take your meals,” the Foreman said. “It is time for you all to go get lunch. You can take the old crew cab pickup. When you get back, you need to decide on your groups of two. The herd needs to be checked every 2 hours. You pull any heifer who was in labor on your last drive trough. Bring them into the barn, diagnose the problem, and take care of it. That means you pull the calf, do a C-Section, or do a fetotomy, Whatever is indicated.” I will be around in the morning. You go for breakfast at 7:00, Shift change is at 8:00 AM, 4:00 PM, and Midnight.”

Using my military experience again, my first priority was picking out my bunk. When the others realized what I was doing, there was a mad rush to stake their claims.

The restaurant was in what one would have to stretch to call it a town. It was more like a congested area with maybe a dozen buildings. But the food was good, and they appreciated the business that the ranch was giving them.

“Look at that picture on the wall,” I said to Jim as we were setting down. It was a poster of W. C. Fields with one of his quotes.

“During one of my treks through Afghanistan, we lost our corkscrew. We were compelled to live on food and water for several days,” W. C. Fields.

“Bob and I are going to take the first shift,” Mike said. That will mean we will have a short shift today.”

“A short shift today, but also a short shift next Sunday before we leave,” I said. “It all catches up with you sooner or later.”

“Dave and I will take the midnight shift,” Jim said. “That will be the coldest, but also probably the quietest.”

“I guess that leaves the 4:00 to midnight shift to Bill and me,” John said as we finished lunch. “I guess we better get back so Mike can go to work.”

Midnight came sooner than I thought. John was up waking us up about 11:30.

“You guys get dressed, and we will have time to go over our notes,” John said. “Make sure you put on your long johns, it is just damn cold out there tonight, and that little heater in the pasture truck doesn’t keep up.”

“Make sure you check the corners of the pastures,” John said. “There is a heifer in labor in the corner by the creek. If she doesn’t have a calf, you should bring her in for help. We didn’t have any deliveries to help. Maybe you will get lucky.”

The pasture truck we had to check the herd with was an old Army ¾ ton. It had a canvas top and probably no insulation anywhere. With a light wind blowing, the 30 below temperature was brutal. The heater in the truck seemed to take forever to warm up and then blowing full blast, it failed to keep the ice from forming on the inside of the canvas top.

“There is the heifer John was talking about,” Jim said as he turned the truck so the headlights would fall on her. “We get lucky on this trip. She already has a calf.”

“How do these calves survive in these temperatures?” I asked, thinking that Jim would have some experience with this cold since he was from Wyoming.

“Some don’t, and a lot of them lose the tips of their ears,” Jim said. “I guess it takes a good momma cow to get them dried off and up nursing.”

Most of the herd was in a hollow in the middle of this ten-acre pasture. Grouping up kept everyone a little warmer, and the hollow provided some protection from the wind.

“Looks like we get to drink some coffee,” I said. “Not seeing any heifer in labor on this trip means we don’t have any work to do on the next trip.”

“I think you spoke too soon,” Jim said as the headlights caught the eyes of a heifer in the far corner of the pasture. He pulled the truck closer.

“It looks like we should watch her a few minutes,” I said.

The heifer was straining hard, and just the tips of the toes were visible at her vulva. Her straining did not let up as we watched, and there was no progress in the fetus’s position.

“What do you think?” I said. “I don’t think we want to leave her for another two hours with that straining.”

“I agree,” said Jim. “She would have to be in the farthest corner from the barn.”

We both got out and got her on her feet and headed for the barn. She seemed to know that it would be warmer there.

“You keep her going,” Jim said. “I will go and make sure we are set up in the barn, then I will come back and follow you with some lights.”

It was a long slow walk to the barn, and while I was expecting some warmth when we got there, I was disappointed.

“Why do suppose people would settle in this part of the country?” I asked Jim. 

“This is great cattle country,” Jim said.

“My bet is, they had a broken wheel on their wagon and couldn’ go any further,” I said.

We got the heifer in the chute and started the propane heater. The heater was going full blast, and you could hardly feel it.

I tied the tail out of the way, and Jim washed her up and did a vaginal exam.

“I think we can pull this one with no problem,” Jim said. “It might be a tight fit, but I think it will come. You might want to check her.”

I washed up, the water was warm, but my wet hands and arm were instantly freezing. The only warmth was inside the heifer. 

We hooked up the calf puller and haltered the heifer so we could release her head from the chute in case she went down during the delivery. It was a hard pull, but the calf was fine when it hit the ground. We move them into a holding pen for the night.

“This guy is a lucky one,” I said. “He gets to spend the night in a warm barn.”

We set up the chute so it would be ready for the next cow. I noticed the water on the ground from where we worked on the heifer was frozen solid.

The thermometer continued to dive as the night grew long. On our third trip through the herd, it was 40 below. One quit trying to stay warm, you just tried to keep from getting frostbite.

Jim noticed the heifer in the corner by the creek.

“We better check that one,” Jim said.

Blowing in my hands and reflecting my breath onto my face, trying to keep some feeling in my cheeks, I looked up and noticed this was the heifer that had calved earlier.

“No, she has been there for several days,” I said.

“Several days!” Jim remarked. “This is our first night.”

This is going to be a long week.

Photo by Chris F from Pexels

George

 D. E. Larsen, DVM 

Jim waited patiently in the reception area with George lying at his feet. He tried to busy himself, looking at his hand, then out the window. I hurried to the next exam room so we could work George into the busy schedule.

“Dixie, get Jim into the surgery room, and I will look at George as soon as I am done here,” I said to Dixie as we passed each other between the exam rooms.

George was a farm dog, and he sure wasn’t much to look at, but he was a constant companion for Jim.

Jim and Joyce had a small farm out on the Calapooia River. They had a few cows, a few sheep, a lot of cats, and George.

Dixie had George up on the surgery table when I stepped into the room. George was lying with his head stretched out on the table.

“I’m sorry to be such a bother,” Jim said. “I guess I never realized how sick George was. He hasn’t eaten for several days, and I noticed he vomited some water in the yard this morning. Then this afternoon, I saw him take a crap, and it was like brown water.”

I ran my hands over George. I could feel his ribs with no fat covering them, and I noticed a few swollen lymph nodes.

“Don’t worry about the bother, Jim,” I said. “We are happy to work you in when it is something that needs attention. It feels like George has lost some weight.”

“Yes, I noticed that when I picked him up to put him in the pickup this afternoon,” Jim said. “You can’t see that looking at him with all that hair.”

I lifted a pinch of skin up on the back of George’s neck, and it was slow to return to normal when I released it. Opening his mouth, his tongue was shrunken and wrinkled, and his tonsils were swollen and red.

“What do suppose is wrong with him, Doc?” Jim asked.

“George is vomiting and has diarrhea, his lymph nodes and tonsils are swollen, and he is dehydrated and losing weight,” I said. “In my mind, George has salmon disease until I prove otherwise. We can confirm that when we have time to do some lab work.”

“Doc, I think a lot of George, but the facts are we have limited funds to spend on him,” Jim said. “I don’t know how he could have salmon disease, but I don’t think that sounds good.”

“Jim, you live on the river,” I said. “There would be ample opportunity for George to get a bite of dead fish or fish guts, and I would be making the same statement if you lived in the middle of Portland.”

“So, what do we need to be doing for him?” Jim asked. 

“We need to keep him for a few days and treat him with IV fluids and antibiotics,” I said. “He is in the advanced stages of this disease. Over ninety percent of dogs with salmon disease die within ten days of becoming ill if they are not treated. Hopefully, we can turn things around for George.”

“I trust your diagnosis,” Jim said. “Let’s put our money into treatment rather than a lot of lab work.”

“Okay, I will be able to confirm the diagnosis with just a fecal smear at this stage of the game,” I said. “George will need a lot of fluids if he is going to survive.”

“I need you to keep a running tab for us,” Jim said. “I would guess that we will reach a point where we will have to draw a line.”

“If you have a few minutes, I can give you a pretty accurate figure for the first two days,” I said. “But the problem, Jim, is George will not be well in two days.”

Jim looked at the estimate I handed him and shook his head.

“Doc, we will give him two days, but there will be nothing beyond this estimate,” Jim said. “Do your best, but if he is going to die, I will take him home to die, where he will know his surroundings.”

We hospitalized George and placed him on IV fluids and doxycycline. His fecal smear showed large numbers of fluke eggs, confirming the diagnosis. 

***

George somewhat stabilized with treatment, but when Jim came to check on him, he was still quite ill.

“The thing I don’t understand, Doc, is how come they can feed salmon to dogs in Alaska with no problem, but it kills dogs here?” Jim asked.

“It is a complex life cycle, Jim,” I said. “The distribution of the disease extends from northern California to the Puget Sound. Maybe a little further on both ends; I don’t have the latitudes on the top of my head. It also occurs on a similar range of latitudes on the east coast of Siberia. That range is controlled by the presence of a snail involved in the life cycle.”

Jim gathered George up in his arms to carry him out of the clinic. George’s eyes were bloodshot and had mucus in their corners. I doubt if he weighed thirty pounds. 

I patted George on the head as I handed Jim a bottle of antibiotics and wished him luck. I was sure it was the last time I was going to see George.

***

It was probably two months later when Jim called for me to come by and pregnancy check their little blind heifer.

I pulled into the driveway and stopped at the house before going to the barn. To my complete surprise, George came bounding off the porch to greet me. He was back to his old self. Joyce stepped out of the house.

“Jim will be out in a moment,” Joyce said. “We have the heifer in the barn.”

“George was a complete surprise to me,” I said. “I figured he had zero chance to survive.”

“It looked that way for several days,” Joyce said. “After Jim brought him home, he laid around here looking like death warmed over. One evening Jim was telling me that he would take George out behind the barn in the morning and shoot him. I don’t know if George heard his comments or not, but that next morning George was at the front door, wagging his tail and looking for food. It was just like that, and he was instantly well.”

George followed Jim and me to the barn, and I checked the heifer. She was two months pregnant.

This heifer had been born with tiny eyeballs in her eye sockets. Microphthalmia was a rare condition and could have been genetic.

“It will be interesting to see she has a calf with normal vision,” I said.

“Yes, it will be interesting,” Jim said. “But it doesn’t matter. We will keep it either way. Beth here gets along fine in her pastures.”

George escorted me to the truck, and I patted his head before I left.

Photo by Bojan Popovic on Pexels.