The True Nature of Things, From the Archives

By guest author John Marble

If you are going to be successful running a small business in a small town, especially a small town that you weren’t born in, you had better be able to get along with the locals. In Doc Larsen’s case, of course, this meant not only getting along with the cats and dogs and cattle, but being able to sooth the humans. Dave’s bedside manner was based partly on distraction. If a gal came in with a broken-legged dog, Doc would soon have her talking about her high school graduation party. A fellow whose favorite cat was dying of kidney failure? “Gosh, I see your grandson’s doing pretty well on the wrestling mat this season.” With me, he always talked about fishing.

And so, toward the end of cleaning up a nasty prolapse on a recalcitrant cow, I wasn’t really surprised when the Doc mentioned that he’d been spending some time up at Lost Lake, dragging in fat trout just for fun. He began to give a short lecture about the nature of catch and release as a management tool, but I cut him off. Knowing that Thursday afternoon was his traditional off-time, I jumped right in:

“How ‘bout we just run up there on Thursday and catch some fish?”

The presentation was perfect, I guess, and the hook was set.

“Uh, OK.”

On Thursday we slipped the boat into the water and made our way out to the deep hole. We were casting Wooly Boogers: heavy wet-flies made of hair and feathers and wire, designed to sink to the bottom and look like immature insects. I had learned about wet fly fishing from my father-in-law, a highly-skilled fisherman. Unfortunately, he wasn’t much of a talker or a teacher. I knew that you could catch a lot of fish on wet flies, but I never knew why. All I knew was that fishing wet flies required a much greater degree of focus and maturity than dry fly fishing did. There’s just something exciting about a rising fish breaking water and grabbing a fly. It’s like a shiny piece of aluminum to a raven. It just gets your attention.

Doc and I were pretty busy dragging in big fat trout with those ugly-bug flies, but I couldn’t help but notice that fish were rising occasionally, taking flies off of the surface.

Cast, cast, cast.

“So, Doc, how come we’re fishing wet flies when there appears to be a pretty good hatch going on?”

Cast, cast, cast.

“Well, it has to do with the bugs: they spend 99% of their time on the bottom, or making their way toward the surface. Doesn’t it make sense than that we should imitate them as wet flies, rather than the few seconds that they spend fluttering around on the surface? It’s just the true nature of things.”

Cast, cast, cast.

“Well, Doc, speaking about the true nature of things, I have a question for you on a completely different topic. And I’m afraid it is one that might be a little close to home.”

Cast, cast, cast.

“Alright. Shoot.”

(Here I should probably pause to remind folks that at this point, Dave Larsen was working his way up the ladder in Sweet Home hierarchy. He was a local businessman, a Rotarian, he was on the School Board and he did business with nearly every person in town. He had the pulse of the community, and that’s why I wanted his opinion.)

Cast, cast, cast.

“So, Doc, this “Golden Boy”, the one who’s in the paper every week, the one with all these big plans for developing Sweet Home into a tourist mecca, the one who’s leasing all of these properties down by the river…you know who I’m talking about?”

“Oh, yes. I know exactly who you mean.”

Cast, cast, cast.

“Well, do you think that guy is for real?”

Dave glanced my way for just a fraction of a second.

“Oh, hell no he’s not for real. I don’t know exactly everything he’s up to, but this whole thing is going to wind up blowing up in Sweet Home’s face. And it probably won’t take too long. And some people are going to lose a bunch of money”

Cast, cast, cast.

“So, why do you suppose he’s doing all this? And why are people so excited about the whole story?”

“Well, it’s just like these flies. They look kind of like the real thing. This guy is a great story-teller, and people in Sweet Home are hungry for a good story. In fact, they’re just starving for a good story.”

With that, Dave cast out again, then turned to me and peered over the top of his glasses.

“It’s just the true nature of things.”

And that, right there, was a fine teaching moment.

John Marble

Smoke’s Fracture 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

A slight fog hung low across the moist grass as the early morning sun evaporated the dew. I always liked these sunny spring days that were intermixed with wet showery days.

There were cars already in front of the clinic when I arrived.

“We have a full morning, and Ed is waiting for you to return his call,” Judy said when I walked in the door. “We already have a couple of people in the exams room, but Ed sounded frantic.”

“Did he give you any idea of his problem?” I asked.

“You know these guys,” Judy said. “They only want to talk to the doctor.”

I stepped into my office and called Ed.

“Ed, this is Doc. What do you have going on?” I asked.

“Doc, thanks for calling me back,” Ed said. “I’ve been sitting here shaking. It’s Smoke, my young gray gelding. He has a broken leg. And he is in a hell of a fix. He can’t lie down, and he can’t walk. I don’t know how long it has been since it happened. I just found him this morning.”

“Are you sure it’s broken?” I asked.

“Oh, yes!” Ed said. “It’s just dangling, and it must hurt like hell. He cries out every time he tries to take a step.”

“What do you want to do with him, Ed?” I asked. “Depending on the leg and the break, the new vet school in Corvallis might be able to repair it.”

“No, Doc,” Ed said. “It would be hell just getting him over there. I just can’t see him suffering, Doc. I tried to shoot him. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Can you come out and up him down for me?”

“Sure, I can do that, Ed,” I said. “I have people hanging from the rafters here at the clinic. How long do you think he can wait, Ed?”

“Doc, can you come now?” Ed asked. “Please. The wife is locked in the bedroom with her head buried in the pillows, and I’m a mess. I can hear Smoke squealing every time he touches that foot down.”

“People here can just wait, Ed,” I said. “I will be there as soon as possible.”

I grabbed a couple of bottles of euthanasia solution, three large syringes, and a couple of fourteen-gauge needles.

“Judy, I have to run out to Ed’s place,” I said. “When Dixie comes, you guys deal with people as they want. They can wait if they want or leave their pets. I will probably be close to an hour, but you know how that can go. It could be longer. You better get on the phone and reschedule everything you can that isn’t an urgent appointment.”

It was a short drive to Ed’s place in Holley, and I probably drove faster than I should have. Ed was standing at the gate to his pasture when I pulled into his driveway.

“He’s in the far pasture, Doc,” Ed said. “I think the ground is pretty good all the way out to him, and you can drive right up to him.”

“Okay, Ed,” I said. “Are you going to be okay to give me a hand? I didn’t have anyone at the office to bring with me this morning.”

“What am I going to have to do?” Ed asked.

“I just need you to hold a lead rope if you’re up to it?” I said.

“Okay, I can probably do that and just look the other way,” Ed said. “Let me open the gate, and I will get in and ride out with you.”

Ed’s hands were shaking as we drove out through the pasture. When we got close, I saw Smoke struggling to stay on his feet.

“Is Smoke insured?” I asked.

“Insured? Doc, he’s just a horse,” Ed said. “No, he’s not insured.”

Ed had fractured the cannon bone on his right rear leg. The lower part was just dangled. Every time Smoke tried to move and the hoof touched the ground, he would squeal. Smoke had genuine fear in his eye as I snapped a lead rope to his halter, and I handed the rope to Ed.

“Ed, there is no way to do this easy,” I said. “Lying him down is not an option. I will give him a massive dose of euthanasia solution, and he will be dead when he hits the ground, but it won’t be pretty.”

“I think I’m okay. Let’s just get it done,” Ed said. 

I filled two sixty cc syringes with euthanasia solution and retrieved a large twelve gauge needle from the truck.

“My bet is Smoke will rear up with this injection, and he will go over backward or more likely just collapse in a pile because that one hind leg won’t support him,” I explained to Ed. “Either way, as soon as the injection is done, you let go of that lead rope, and just him go.”

“Okay,” Ed said. “I guess I’m ready.”

“He might squeal, Ed,” I said. “Are you sure you can handle this?”

“Let’s just get it over with,” Ed said.

I leaned hard against Smoke to help give him a stable stance. Holding off his jugular vein, I slipped the 12 gauge needle into the vein. Then, with quick movements, I attached one syringe and then the other to the needle. With the large bore needle, I could push the plunger with ease. I emptied the two syringes in a matter of a few seconds.

I stepped back, and seeing Ed still holding the lead rope tight, I pulled it from his hands and let it fall to the ground.

When the drug hit, Smoke reared up and squealed loudly. When his right hind leg provided no support, he collapsed to his right hip and hit the ground in a heap. As I had promised Ed, Smoke was dead when he hit the ground.

Ed turned and walked several steps away. I thought he was going to vomit, but he was in control and came back in a moment.

“I don’t know you do it, Doc,” Ed said. 

“I’m a farm boy, Ed,” I said. “I learned many years ago that when there is something unpleasant to do, it is best just to get it done. No big fanfare. Just do it, and it is over. It is like a person dying. Everyone expects some profound last words. But that seldom happens. They just fade away.”

“What do I need to do now?” Ed asked.

“You can call the rendering company,” I said.

“I was thinking I would just bring the backhoe out here and bury my right here,” Ed said. “This is on top of a little rise, and it should be a good resting place for him. Do I have to talk to the county about that?”

“Not at this point,” I said. “It probably won’t be long before they require a permit and make you pay a fee. I know one family who has buried three Great Danes in their small backyard in the middle of town. One of these days, the bureaucrats will take control of that stuff.”

“Let’s go,” Ed said as he pulled the halter off Smoke. 

“Have you looked around to find out how he broke that leg?” I asked. “A few years ago, I saw a couple of calves break legs on an exposed root in a creek bank. This could have been something like that, and it might be wise to try to find it.”

“I’ll look after I get Smoke in the ground,” Ed said.

I dropped Ed off at the gate, said goodbye, and headed back to the clinic to salvage as much of the day as possible.

***

The following week, Ed dropped by the clinic.

“Doc, I found the spot where Smoke broke his leg,” Ed said. “It wasn’t ten yards from where  I found him. He must have been spooked or something. He ran right through an old downed oak tree and hung his leg in a tangle of branches. The damn thing is, I was going to clear out that old tree last summer and got sidetracked. I never got back to it. Damned if I didn’t kill Smoke, just as if I had shot him.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Ed,” I said. “Things just happen on the farm.”

“You can bet I won’t put things off in the future,” Ed said.

Photo by Susanne Jutzeler from Pexels.

The Flutter in the Night 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I woke slightly as something fluttered in the bedroom, but not hearing it again, I rolled over and went back to sleep.

“Dave, Dave, wake up!” Sandy said as she shook my shoulder.

I rolled onto my back and looked up at Sandy standing beside the bed with her shower cap on.

“Dave, there’s a bat in here,” Sandy said. She spoke in a hushed voice, but she still had a grip on my shoulder.

Then I noticed the flutter again.

“How did it get in here?” Sandy asked.

“Charlie could have brought it in, but he would have killed it,” I said. “Maybe it just came through the window with him.”

Charlie was our large Siamese cross cat who was a ferocious hunter. I had removed the screen on our bedroom window, and I left the window open enough so Charlie could come and go during the night. It was common for him to bring critters in and leave them for us, often at the foot of the bed.

“You need to get up and kill this bat,” Sandy said, shaking my shoulder again. “I’m going to make sure the kids have their bedroom doors closed.”

Sandy headed off down the hall in her nightgown and shower cap. I crawled out of bed and grabbed a magazine from the nightstand. 

Now standing naked with a rolled-up magazine, I positioned myself in the bedroom, where I could see the length of the hallway with the light that Sandy had turned on as she headed down the hall. As he entered the bedroom, I could see the bat swoop toward the ceiling. I waited till he turned to the left toward me, and I made one swat that caught him mid-flight and bounced him off the far wall.

“Get me a jar with a lid,” I said to Sandy as she returned from down the hall.

“Did you get him?” Sandy asked.

“Yes, but I need to put him in something,” I said. “We need to send this guy in to be tested for rabies.”

“What difference does it make?” Sandy asked.

“Were any of the kid’s bedroom doors open?” I asked.

“Yes, both Derek’s and the girl’s room had open doors,” Sandy said. “Why do you ask?”

“A rabid bat in a house with sleeping people or pets, especially sleeping children, is considered a rabies exposure by the public health people,” I said. “We need to send this bat in to be tested.”

“Wouldn’t they know if they had been bitten?” Sandy asked.

“The book says no, the bite and can be almost undetectable,” I said. “The risk of an exposure is too high, so everyone is considered exposed. Everyone has to get a post-exposure rabies vaccine.”

“What about Midge and the cats?” Sandy asked.

“Would you get a jar for me,” I said. “I’m starting to feel like an idiot, standing naked over a mostly dead bat, waiting for it to come back to life and fly away.”

Sandy retrieved a pint canning jar and lid from the kitchen. I carefully scooped the bat into the jar without touching it and screwed on the cap.

“Midge and the cats will be fine because they have rabies vaccinations,” I said. “I will have to booster them, but that is all. If they aren’t vaccinated, the recommendation is to euthanize them. Under special considerations, they can be kept in isolation for six months, but that is discouraged.”

“Six months seems like a long time,” Sandy said. “Why so long?”

“Rabies can have that long of an incubation period,” I said. “In fact, I think a dog in England came down with rabies after it was released from its six months of quarantine.”

“Are all of us going to have to get shots?” Sandy asked with obvious concern.

“The bat is in the jar. You can take your shower cap off,” I said. “We will worry about what we will have to do after we get the test results. There is no sense worrying about something that probably not going to be a problem.”

“I didn’t want that bat to get in my hair,” Sandy said as she put her shower cap back in the bathroom. “And you look pretty stupid running around naked with a rolled-up magazine in one hand and the bat in the other. It’s a good thing the kids are asleep.”

“Put this in the refrigerator, would you, please,” I said as I pulled a pair of pajama pants out of the drawer.

“I’m not putting that in my refrigerator,” Sandy said. “I will set it outside.”

***

I picked up the jar with the dead bat inside when I went out the door to go to the clinic.

“What are you going to do with that?” Sandy asked.

“I am going to send it to the diagnostic lab and have it tested for rabies,” I said. “I will have the courier pick it up on their noon trip.”

“If they consider we were exposed, won’t the county pay for the testing?” Sandy asked.

“The less the county knows, the better,” I said. “If this bat tests positive, we will have a big hassle with the county public health folks. They will be going by the book, and we will have to have all the kids and you take post-exposure treatment. I will probably only need to booster my rabies vaccine.”

I wrote the pathology request with a little story about Sandy in her shower cap and me batting the bat out of the air in the middle of the night. That report has been lost to history, but the pathologist got a kick out of it at the time.

We were lucky, and the bat tested negative for the rabies virus. At that time, about ten percent of the bats tested were testing positive in Oregon.

Photo by Todd Cravens on Unsplash.