Brucellosis Vaccination 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I was up early and got to the clinic well before eight. I was hoping to get out to Bill’s place and finish his heifers before the day heated up too much.

“We have a call this morning to vaccinate some heifer calves,” I said to Dixie as soon as she came through the door. “It is going to be a hot day. We need to get out there right away, so we can be done before it really heats up.”

“Well, the good news is there isn’t much going on this afternoon,” Judy said. “We should be able to leave early before the day warms up.”

Dixie and I double-checked the truck to make sure we had everything. We will give a brucellosis vaccine to about twenty heifer calves this morning.

Brucellosis is a disease that is contagious to man, a zoonosis. There has been a federal program to eradicate the disease since 1934. The incidence is much reduced from those early years. 

In the 1930s, brucellosis, or undulant fever, was a disease in women and children. The disease has become rare with the widespread use of pasteurization of dairy products and the federal eradication program. Now it is mainly a disease of veterinarians and slaughterhouse workers.

The eradication program uses calfhood vaccination of all breeding heifers before they are a year of age and testing of adults. Infected cattle, and sometimes entire herds, are slaughtered.

Vaccinated heifers are identified with a vaccination tattoo in their right ear and either an official ear tag or, in the case of registered cattle, their registration tattoo is satisfactory. An official record of vaccination is made and submitted to the state veterinarian’s office. The identification process and the paperwork cause the process to be a little time-consuming.

Bill was waiting at the barn when we pulled into the breezeway.

“This is sort early for you, ain’t it, Doc,” Bill said as we stepped out of the truck.

“I was worried about your black cows. You know they suffer more in the heat,” I said with a smile.

“These cows are not bothered by the hot weather,” Bill said.

“Well, we need to get started,” I said. “Dixie wants to be out of here before it gets hot.”

“I’m still not understanding why we have to vaccinate these heifers for a disease that we don’t have in this state anymore,” Bill said. “I mean, Oregon is supposed to be brucellosis-free. I would think that we could stop this expensive vaccination.”

“Cattle move around a lot more these days than they did twenty years ago,” I said. “They did a study some years back, where they took four hundred head of cattle and put them through a sale. Then they followed them for the next week. It was sort of an eye-opener. In the week following the sale, those cattle spread across five states and were exposed to thousands of cattle as they went from one sale barn to another.”

“Well, I don’t go to a sale barn to buy cattle,” Bill said.

“No, but your neighbor probably does,” I said. “Actually, the only real source of brucellosis in this country today is the bison and elk in and around Yellowstone National Park. And, the experts think there is probably no way that we will get control of that situation.”

“So we have to pay extra, just so a bunch of city folk can go get gored by a wild buffalo,” Bill said.

I mixed the vaccine, and Bill ran the first heifer into the chute. I gave the heifer a dose of vaccine under her skin on her right shoulder and then placed an official tattoo in her right ear.

The tattoo had a number for the quarter, followed by an official shield, and then the last digit of the year. I used green ink because it would show up better on the black skin of these ears.

“Why is it that you have to do these vaccines?” Bill asked. “I mean, we can do the other vaccines. Why can’t we do this one?”

“This vaccine is called Strain 19,” I said. “If it is a live strain of the brucellosis bacteria. If it is not handled correctly, it can make a person sick. The book says that usually happens to young veterinarians who don’t have their safe practices established yet.”

“Do you know anyone who has ever had Brucellosis?” Bill asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “My grandmother, for one, she probably got it from raw milk. For that reason, my mother quit drinking milk when she was ten or twelve. The first veterinarian who I worked for in Enumclaw had it. His case was pretty severe and eventually resulted in him losing his colon. Then Dr. Haug from Myrtle Point had it. He told me he was sure he had caught it from a cow that he worked on way out in a pasture, and he didn’t have enough water to wash up with until he got back to his truck.”

“Okay, you convinced me. Let’s just get to work and get these heifers vaccinated,” Bill said.

With Dixie keeping track of the paperwork, I was able to get through this bunch of twenty heifers in less than two hours. The temperature inside the barn was already starting to warm up. It was hotter in the breezeway when we washed up and put everything away in the truck.

“I hope Judy has kept the book open,” Dixie said. “That clinic, without air-conditioning, gets hot on these days.”

“Yes, when we were building it, Jim said we would only need air conditioning for a few days out of the year,” I said. “I guess he was right, as far as the numbers go, but on these hot days, we just have to close down.”

When we returned to the clinic, Judy had the appointment book emptied out, and it was hot enough to call it a day.

“Give the answering service the phone and tell them the clinic is too hot for us to work,” I said. “I think I will get Sandy to gather up the kids and head up the river to soak our toes and wait for the evening breeze.”

“Give us a call before you go,” Judy said. “We will join you as soon as Kenny is off work.”

“That will be good. Maybe we can cook some hot dogs for dinner,” I said as I headed out the door.

Photo by Kat Smith from Pexels.

Rambo and the Eagle, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Walking down the fifth fairway at Pineway, I was relieved that I could see ball. 

“At least I am not in the ditch,” I said to Jim as we parted toward our respective balls.

Dr. French had always told me that the if you are paying attention to your practice, you will never have the time to be a good golfer. I could see his point, I took Thursday afternoon off to play with the Pineway Men’s Club and most of the time with a group or two once on the weekend. But I really felt that athletes are born, not made. Of course, with work and coaching, we could improve and reach our potential, but some guys are just born with a ball in their hands. We all knew them, they were stars in little league, and they excelled on the basket ball court. They are the ones who didn’t go out for football until they were seniors, and they made all league. The coach always tries to take the credit, but it is just the way it is.

And my slice was a good illustration. I could beat just about anyone on any one hole. But I could never hold my concentration for the next hole.

I got to my ball, it was in the short rough, about a foot from the ditch that ran down the right side of the fairway. It was a position I knew well. I could reach the green from this position on this short 5 par hole. This position actually set me up well with my ball flight. There was a slight dogleg to the the left, with my slice, I liked to call it a fade, I could start my ball left of the hole and it would run up the front apron to the green. I just needed to fade the ball, not slice it.

As I addressed the ball, I caught sight of Jack Wright’s cart starting down the eighth fairway. Rambo, his little poodle mix, always rode on the back of the seat in Jack’s cart. Rambo had already spotted me. I could hear him throwing a fit from two fairways over. 

Jack loved it, and here he came in his cart with Rambo barking up a storm over his shoulder. Just what I needed to hold my concentration on this shot.

“Good morning, Doc,” Jack said over Rambo constant barking, louder now that they were parked just across the ditch. “How is your game this morning?”

“It has been pretty good so far,” I said. “With a little luck, I will reach this green in two.”

“Rambo spotted you and wanted to say hi,” Jack said with laugh. “I think you are the only person he knows on this entire course.”

“Yes, I notice that almost every Thursday,” I said. “I don’t know what the problem is, I have never done anything to him other than his shots and stuff.”

Jack chuckled again, “He just wants you to know what he thinks of you.”

“Well, I guess it is good to be loved by my patients,” I said.

“I’ll let you get back to your game, good luck, and fly that ball right at the stick for a change,” Jack said as he turned the cart and headed back to his fairway. Rambo on the back of the cart, facing me and barking as loud as he could.

I addressed the ball again, trying to think what it was that I had done to Rambo to make dislike me so much. Then trying to brush that thought away, I took a deep breath and started my back swing.

I swung with all my strength, and caught the ball perfectly. The ball seemed to hang on the club face briefly, then sprang into a high flight. This was my Ping 5 wood, my favorite club. Probably because I could hit the ball straighter with it than any of my other woods.

The ball started out on a line about 10 yards left of the green and then started to fade to the right. Then the fade became a slice and it was struck hard enough that distance was going to be more than usual for this club. I held my breath and leaned to the left, as if to guide the ball a little.

The green ran on a diagonal left to right and the hole was cut in the far back corner. I had hoped to land in the fairway and run the ball up on the green but this ball was going much more to the right than I had hoped. Then it came down, and stuck on back edge of the green, maybe 10 feet from the hole.

I perfect shot and it surprised everyone, including myself. “Maybe I should talk with Rambo more often,” I said to myself as I picked up my bag and started toward the green.

Bruce West was coming down the sixth fairway. He pointed at the ball near the pin and asked, “Whose ball is that?”

Jim pointed at me, “Larsen’s, good shot, don’t you think?”

“If he makes the putt,” Bruce replied.

I could still hear Rambo barking as I walked up on the green. He was out of the cart and standing under the trees over by the eighth green, only thirty yards away. He pounded his front feet with each bark in a little bounce, just to add emphasis to his distaste.

Jack had loaded him up and headed to the ninth tee box just as I addressed my putt. I was relieved that the barking was fading off in the distance. 

One small breath, and I stroked the putt, straight putt, right to the bottom of the hole. “Take that Bruce,” I said as I stepped quickly to hole to retrieve the ball.

Eagles were rare birds for me on the golf course.

Photo Credit: Photo by Markus Spiske from Pexels

Piper’s Problem 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Piper, a small black and white Springer Spaniel, had been a frequent visitor to the clinic since I opened the doors. Grace, her owner, seemed to keep Piper pregnant as much as possible. Grace didn’t operate a puppy mill, but she did use Piper to supplement her income. The good thing about her relationship with Piper was she looked after her well-being and medical care.

Piper was seated on the exam table when I entered the room. She was usually standing and wagging her tail. 

“What’s up with Piper today?” I asked Grace will I patted Piper’s head.

“She is nursing a litter of six puppies this time,” Grace said. “They are almost two weeks old and starting to get active. I noticed that Piper was cross with the puppies this morning, and you know, that’s not like her. So when I got to looking, she had a breast that was swollen and hot to the touch. And this afternoon, it is discolored.”

Looking at the record, Piper’s temperature was a hundred and five. I rolled her over on the exam table. She laid there with her hind legs splayed out. I rubbed her belly, and she wagged her tail a bit. I ran my hand down her breasts on the left side, and there was no response. When I did the same thing on the right side, Piper growled as I got to her last breast between her legs. This was entirely out of character for Piper.

I rolled Piper to her left side so I could see the lateral surface of her breast. It was swollen and dark purple on most of the lateral surface, and there was an area the size of a quarter that was dark purple, almost black, and bulging.

“It looks like Piper is cooking a pretty good mastitis in this right inguinal breast,” I said.

“Yes, I see it now, and for her to growl at you like that, it must be pretty painful,” Grace said. “What do we need to do for her?”

Mastitis in the dog runs a pretty typical course,” I said. “We need to get her on some antibiotics and pain medication first off. But this breast will rupture and drain a bunch of bloody pus.”

“Oh! That sounds terrible,” Grace said. “Can we prevent that from happening?”

“Sometimes, in the early stages, we might be able to head off a rupture of the breast,” I said. “But when we have a dark, bulging spot like we see on Piper’s breast, in ninety-five percent of the cases, it is just going to rupture.”

“Are the puppies going to be okay if that breaks open?” Grace asked.

“Actually, the best way to manage this is for me to sedate Piper and open this breast and flush it out,” I said. “That way, it will be a little cleaner for the pups.”

“But, what if it heals without breaking open?” Grace asked.

“I want to be honest here,” I said. “This is going to break open, period. If we put her on antibiotics and some anti-inflammatories, we will make things more comfortable for her. But in the dog, most mastitis cases resolve with a rupture of the involved breast unless they are treated very early in the course of the disease.”

“Let’s put her on some medication,” Grace said. “I will watch it close, and maybe we will get lucky.”

So Piper went out the door on medication and with a hope and a prayer.

“Why don’t they listen to what you tell them?” Dixie asked after Grace and Piper were gone.

“I made the mistake of giving Grace odds,” I said. “If you tell someone there is a five percent chance of complications with a treatment, they will think it will never happen to them. But tell them there is only a five percent chance that the results will be favorable, and they will believe they will be the lucky ones. With mastitis in the dog, they never believe that the breast will burst if they haven’t been through it before.”

“So what’s going to happen when it breaks?” Dixie asked.

“My bet is she will call at three in the morning, hysterical over the mess and wanting Piper looked at right away,” I said.

“And I suppose you will do it,” Dixie said.

“I will try to convince her that she should wait until the morning, but I will probably end up looking at Piper early,” I said. “Money won’t be an object then.” 

***

When the phone rang the second time, I looked at the clock, four in the morning. I rolled over and looked at Sandy.

“Piper’s breast just exploded,” I said.

“How do you know that,” Sandy said.

I picked up the phone, “This is Doctor Larsen. How are you this morning, Grace,” I said.

“Oh! Doctor Larsen, you knew I would be calling,” Grace said. “Piper’s breast exploded sometime during the night, and bloody pus is everywhere in her box. I have the puppies all cleaned up, but can you look at Piper now, please.”

“I can look at her, but it will be a whole lot cheaper if you wait until eight,” I said. “And, it will be safer for Piper if I have some help. She will be fine. Just separate the puppies from her.”

“Are you sure?” Grace said. “It looks like it is still draining some bloody stuff.”

“As long as it is not bleeding bright red blood, she will be fine,” I said. “This is how nature solves the problem in the dog. I will clean the wound, remove dead tissue, and pack it with antibiotics. But, I will likely leave that wound open. It will heal better that way.”

“I guess I can wait until eight if it is safer for Piper,” Grace said. “I was hoping that you could close that ugly hole.”

“The problem, Grace, if we close that hole, we might trap some bugs and dead tissue in there,” I said. “Then it will just abscess again. By leaving it open, we can make sure that it will heal from the inside out. Sometimes, I can do a partial closure and place a drain. It depends on how it looks, but puppies tend to pull those drains out or break them off.”

“Okay, I will have Piper at your front door at eight,” Grace said. “I hope we won’t have to wait long.”

“The girls will be checking in a few morning surgeries, but we will bring Piper right back to the exam room,” I said. “I will want to get her taken care of first thing in the morning. She should be able to go home by noon or so.”

“Are the puppies going to be okay?” Grace asked. “I mean, can they be away from Piper that long?”

“They won’t think so, but they will be fine,” I said. “I will discuss some feeding changes for the pups when we see you in the morning.”

Grace was waiting at the door when I pulled into the parking lot at quarter till eight.

Grace’s hair was uncombed, and I think her blouse was on the wrong side out. But Piper was wagging her tail, obviously feeling better following the rupture of her abscessed breast.

“I’m sorry, Doctor Larsen, I’m a mess this morning,” Grace said. “I have been up with Piper since I called last night, and I am worried to death.”

“Piper is looking chipper,” I said. “Once that abscessed breast broke open, she probably started feeling better right away.”

“Yes, I realize that now,” Grace said. “I wish I had listened to you in the first place, then none of this stress would have happened.”

“That’s all behind us now,” I said. “If you can leave Piper with us now, we will sedate her briefly, just enough to allow us to flush this breast out and get all the dead tissue out of there. She will heal fine, and this hole will shrivel up in a few days, and Piper will act like nothing ever happened.”

“So you don’t want to close that ugly hole?” Grace asked. 

“It will heal much better and much quicker if we leave it open,” I said. “Remember, you wished you had listened to me before.”

“What should I do with the puppies?” Grace asked.

“When Piper goes home, I think you can put the puppies back with her,” I said. “You might want to start supplementing the pups with a weaning formula. Just mix it up, put it in a low bowl like a pie pan, and let them wallow through it. They will get more on them than into them at first, but if you start doing that now, they will be ready to wean much earlier, and they won’t be after Piper to nurse them all the time.”

“Is this breast going to return to function?” Grace asked.

“I don’t think so, but it won’t be much of a bother to her. She has many others,” I said. “She has had quite a few litters. It might be time to think about getting her spayed.”

Grace looked at Piper for a moment. “Yes, you are probably right. She has been such a good mom, but she deserves some quiet time now. She doesn’t have to be like my grandmother and die pregnant at forty-eight.”

“Some people don’t have that history to fall back on,” I said. “We are only a couple of generations away from very different times in the lives of women. And many dogs are still living in those times. Once Piper is healed up and the puppies are weaned, we should schedule her for some surgery. I will put a reminder in your file.”

We sedated Piper and flushed out a lot of pus and chunks of dead mammary tissue from the open wound on the side of her breast. After cleaning things up, I instilled some antibiotic powder into the wound.

We sent Piper home at noon. She was dancing on the floor when she saw Grace. 

“Let me look at this next week and call if you have any concerns about the puppies,” I said as Grace was being pulled out the door by Piper.

***

On her recheck, the breast was almost completely healed with only a tiny area of scab where the large gaping hole had been the week before.

“The puppies are doing great,” Grace said. “I wish that I had supplemented all her litters like I did this one. The pups are happier, and Piper actually gets some time to rest.”

True to her word, Grace presented Piper for a spay as soon as the pups were weaned and her breasts were back to normal.

Photo by Rubinstein Rebello on Pexels.