"I'll call you as soon as I have some results, Elspeth."
She nodded. Tears ran steadily down her face. I departed without looking back. Damn! Some days this job just tore me apart.
I arrived home wondering how I was going to evaluate this sample properly. Clinical pathology had always been one of my strong points in the final years at college. The answer to Tikkie's illness was there for discovery—somewhere in that tube with the lavender top.
I dug through the box of goodies that I had bought before leaving the college. The hemocytometer for doing a total count of the cells and the stain for evaluation of the individual cells would both give me clues.
Owning a microscope that required power was a major impediment. Microscopes work on the principle of light refraction, and my light source was an electric bulb. I lifted the microscope from its wooden case and set it up on the kitchen table. If I could just wedge the flashlight under the stage in some manner, I was sure I could get enough light to do an evaluation.
I took a glass hematocrit tube and watched pink blood flow into it. I just couldn't believe the colour of this sample. There had to be some sort of explanation.
I touched the end of the tube to a microscope slide; fluid flowed onto the glass surface. With another slide, I stroked across the drop to produce a thumbnail-shaped smear. I waved it around in the air to dry it and applied the stain. Setting the slide on a paper towel to dry, I went about trying to figure out a way to use the apparatus.
I removed the light source from beneath the microscope and struggled to position the flashlight in such a manner as to shine the light up through the stage. No matter how I positioned it, I couldn't get enough light to illuminate the slide. I was wishing I had one of the old microscopes that utilized a mirror to reflect light through the lens.
Maybe I could just convert this one. I rustled through the boxes and suitcases in search of a mirror. Other than the big one on the wall, there was none. I looked at it skeptically. There was no way that I'd be able to jam a corner of it under the stage—it was just too big.
I took the mirror off the wall and worked the cardboard backing free. I'd never miss a little corner of it, anyway. I wrapped a towel around the mirror and was poised with the pliers closed over it; just a little piece would do. For several minutes, I pondered the wisdom of this move. The thought of seven years of bad luck starting now was less than appealing.
Crack. "Shoot!" I wanted a bigger piece than that. I looked at the meagre scrap that I held in my fingertips and shrugged. I decided to try it. I propped the sliver of glass beneath the microscope stage and shone the flashlight against it. It might be possible; I could see some light.
Setting the microscope outside on the lawn, I ran back inside for my slide. I slipped it onto the stage and rotated the scope into the sunlight, then propped the sliver of mirror under it. I focused the lens on low power and was delighted that I was able to make out cells. This was going to work.
Rotating the lens to a medium power, I surveyed the slide. My God! The entire view was taken up with blue. Mammalian red cells are more highly specialized for the carrying of oxygen than are the red cells of birds and reptiles; in order to cram more hemoglobin into the cell the nucleus is dropped. Normally one would have to look around the slide to see any number of nucleated cells. Tikkie's cells were almost all nucleated; one would think it was chicken blood!
I put a drop of oil in the centre of the slide and rotated to the oil emersion lens to get maximum resolution to the cells. I fiddled with the sliver of glass until enough light shone through. Everywhere I looked were cells with huge purple nuclei that looked like early lymphocytes. No wonder poor Tikkie was in such a sad state! She had leukemia.
I moved the slide around, checking cell morphology. No doubt about it! Those cells were of the lymphocytic series—and those sadlooking red cells! The few that were present were sick and punched out. This was a hopeless picture.
Poor Tikkie. Poor Elspeth!
I called my client. "I'm sorry, Elspeth; there's no doubt about it. It's not a common condition, but it certainly explains why she's in such a terrible state."
"Can you come and take her? Jim and I talked this through, and if there's nothing we can do for her, we want to have you put her out of her misery. She was such a fine, wee cat; we just can't watch her like this anymore."
When I arrived to pick Tikkie up, Elspeth was again alone. Her eyes were red and she looked truly exhausted. "Just take kennel and all; we won't be needing it any longer. Why couldn't she have just gone in her sleep?"
"I can imagine how hard this is for you, Elspeth. I hate it myself—but there's no question that it's best for her." I looked at the miserable creature in the kennel and again at the tender-hearted woman who loved her so.
"I tried to get Jim to stay home and give her to you, but no way. He just can't stand to be around at times like this. He can go fishing and pull the fish out of the water and knock them on the head. He says that it's different."
"I'm sorry I couldn't help, Elspeth."
"You have, Dr. Perrin, you've helped us both find peace. Tikkie will be out of her misery, and I finally know there's nothing more I can do to help her."
I'd never been a particularly patient person, but waiting for someone to finish gossiping on a party line had to be the ultimate in pain and suffering. Today, the time seemed like an eternity and my patience had worn very thin before one of the neighbours finally finished her conversation. It was hard to believe that in this day and age I was unable to have a private telephone, but in West Creston a party line was the only service I could get.
When I was finally blessed with a dial tone instead of an agitated "Line's busy!" I checked in with the Kemles for my messages. Vern Petersen had called. He was having problems with pink eye in some newly purchased calves and wanted advice on how to handle the situation. Vern ran a small feedlot on Highway 21 below the town of Creston. I had met him briefly at a beefgrowers' meeting and was anxiously awaiting an opportunity to set foot on his farm.
The first time I called, his wife informed me that he was out working a few of the worst calves through the chute. She assured me that he would return my call in a few minutes and that he was anxious to resolve his problem.
While I waited, I built a salami sandwich. I had wandered through the Creston Valley Co-operative last thing the day before; it was a treat to have some real groceries for a change. I finished my sandwich and a second one. I glanced at my watch. It had been over half an hour since I'd talked to Mrs. Petersen, and I didn't think it should take that long for her to find her husband.
On a whim, I picked up the phone. Sure enough, it was busy again! This time it was humming with voices I didn't recognize; surely to God there wasn't yet another family that shared this line. What a hell of a way to run a business—with a phone that constantly rang busy not because I was overworked, but because I had neighbours who loved to talk.
After five minutes of checking the phone at regular intervals and dealing with the anger of the lady on the line, it was free. I hated pestering someone to get off the phone, but what else was I to do? Vern answered on the first ring—his aggravation was evident.
"Was about ready to give up on you and get back to treating those calves," he snorted. "I've been trying to phone you every five minutes and your phone's been ringin' busy!"
"I'm sorry about that, but I'm on a party line out here, and it's worth your life to try and get on. So you're having some problems with pink eye in your feedlot?"
"God, yes! Have never had it like this. It started with one calf the day they came off the truck. Its right eye was watering and half closed. I thought he'd just bumped it on the truck during the trip over here, but the next day both eyes were closed and a couple of the other calves were in trouble. I'm trying to treat eight of them in the chute right now; the first ones are looking worse than ever."
"Have you run them right into the head gate and opened the eyes to get a good look?"
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"Yeah. You get one good look at them before you spray them; after that, they won't open their eyes for anything."
"And you're treating them with pink eye spray and nothing else?"
"Didn't know there was anything else I could do. That's why I'm callin' you for help!"
"What do they look like before you treat them? Is there a little white spot in the very middle of the eye? Do the ones you've been treating for a long time develop a pink cone in the centre?"
"That's exactly how they look. The first calf I told you about is completely blind now and has pink cones like that in both eyes."
"What are the flies like? Have they been worse than normal for this time of year?"
"Yeah...Yeah, I'd say they're worse than I've had for some time. Do you think that has something to do with it?"
"Yes, undoubtedly with its spreading, but you probably imported the first case on the load."
"What do you suggest we do about it? I'm about sick of runnin' those calves through and there are new cases every day."
"How about keeping those calves in the chute until I get there. I'll give them an injection under the lining of the eye. That's about the best way I..."
"Dave! Dave!" came a breathless voice over the phone. "It's Blaze! He's stuck upside down in the drainage ditch over in the pasture!"
The booming voice was obviously Bea's.
"I was just down there, and he was flailing around on his back and fighting to get up! The way he's thrashing, he's bound to hurt himself. His head looks pretty bashed up already. Fred's off to town and I don't know what to do with him! Can you come and help?"
"Keep the calves in, Vern!" I blurted. "I'll get there as soon as I can!"
"Oh, Vern, it's you!" Bea shouted. "Sorry to butt into your conversation like this, but I didn't know what else to do."
Slamming down the receiver, I rushed out of the house and rummaged through the car. I grabbed my lariat and a twenty-five-foot length of one-inch cotton rope that I had just bought for casting horses. Looping them over my shoulder, I sprinted down the drive.
I reached the road with Bea nowhere in sight; knowing her, she was probably still on the phone apologizing to Vern. I ran down the roadway until I could see the drainage ditch angle off through the pasture. Fred had plowed a trench across the field to help control the direction of the water flowing through his property during spring runoff.
Stepping over the barbed-wire fence, I jogged beside the trench until I came over a rise and spotted the horse. He was lying completely motionless, his feet pointing into the air and his backbone lodged in the trench. His head was hanging back, all but out of sight in the depths of the ditch. As I approached, I wondered if the horse was dead. It wasn't until I got closer that I could see the rapid expansion and contraction of his chest.
Climbing into the ditch some distance from his head, I crawled forward until I could touch him and examine him without being injured by the thrashing of either his head or his feet. He was pointed downhill, and his head was lodged in a portion of the ditch that was somewhat deeper than the rest. The bridge of his nose was resting on a boulder that had been washed clean by runoff waters. It was now covered with blood and dirt from the constant thrashing and banging of Blaze's head.
Blood trickled from a gash at the corner of his muzzle. His eyes were puffy and partly swollen shut. There were abrasions on the bridge of his nose and a lot of the hair and the surface layer of skin had been rubbed from his forehead. His coat was soaked with sweat, the normally grey hair now a shiny black. A frothy lather had accumulated between his hind legs.
Inching my way forward, I pushed up on his head with my right hand and pried on the boulder beneath his forehead with my left. The rock rolled free, but the intervention set Blaze off on a wave of frantic struggling. His forehead struck the ground with a sickening thud, and the tip of one of his flailing front feet struck my shoulder and knocked me over backwards.
I broke out in a cold sweat as I picked myself up and realized how close I had come to serious injury. I had foolishly allowed myself to get in range of those feet and felt fortunate to have come away unscathed.
I crawled out of the ditch as Fred and Bea came running across the pasture.
"Fred just pulled up as I was coming down!" Bea gasped. "Land sakes, how'd he ever get himself in such a predicament?"
"We need to get something under his head so he doesn't do himself any more injury!" I hollered as they approached. "If we build his head up a bit higher so that he can bridge with his neck, I'm sure he can help flip himself over. A few flakes of hay or straw and a blanket would do just fine."
Fred ran off to the barn as I attached ropes to Blaze's legs to prepare for an attempt at righting him. Several times, the horse erupted in a fit of panic, and his hooves lashed wildly in all directions. His bouts were unpredictable and seemed to have little to do with my activities. By the time Fred arrived with a bale of straw and a saddle blanket, I had the ropes secured.
I crammed as many flakes of straw as possible under Blaze's head and covered them with the saddle blanket. As if on cue, the horse thrashed and flailed about. We pulled sideways on the ropes and flipped him over. Exhausted by his efforts, he lay on his side, his chest heaving and his nostrils flared.
We allowed him to rest in that position for several minutes, then Fred knelt down beside him and slipped on a halter. I pulled the ropes off his feet, and we waited for the horse's breathing to settle down.
I gave him a sharp smack on the rump with the flat of my hand, and he struggled to right himself. I pulled on his tail as Fred tugged on the halter shank. With a desperate heave, the horse got his feet under him and took a few unsteady steps towards level ground. Every muscle in his body quivered, and he stood there swaying back and forth. Like a drunken sailor, he took the odd step forward and an occasional step to the side. It was ten minutes before I dared to release his tail and allow him to navigate on his own steam.
Blaze was a woeful site to behold. His muzzle only inches from the ground, he looked as if he had gone the distance in a heavyweight boxing match.
I pried his eyes open one at a time, looking for serious injury. Aside from an accumulation of mud on the corners of his lids, there was little damage to the eyes themselves. His forehead was a raw mass of oozing tissue, and a small gash was still weeping blood.
"I can't see anything that actually needs stitching, but I better give you some medication to put into those eyes."
I was talking to myself all the way to the house and wondering if veterinary practice would always be so unpredictable. I returned with a bottle of penicillin, an injection of Butazone, and a tube of eye ointment.
"This should help keep his muscles from cramping up." I drove the needle into his jugular vein and slowly injected the yellowish liquid. "You'll need to give him a shot of penicillin every day for a while too, Fred. None of those abrasions can be sewn, but the whole thing could turn into an infected mess if you aren't careful."
After showing Fred how to apply the eye ointment, I released Blaze's halter shank and let him go. I felt good about the way things had gone. It wasn't until I was climbing the stairs to the verandah that Vern Petersen again came to mind. I was anxious to get on my way before he got impatient and let those calves out of the corral.
I washed up, changed my clothes, and decided to give him a call to let him know I was coming. I picked up the receiver and was beginning to dial when I heard it—the familiar sound of my neighbour's voice, "...and there he was upside down in the ditch...Sorry! Line's busy!"
"My God, this place is even worse than Grampa's," I groaned, as Gordon parked his car in front of the dilapidated grey building at the south end of Canyon Street.
"I gotta agree it's not the best, but right at the moment it's the only place in town I know that's available and in your price range. Come on, let's go in and have a look. Looking doesn't hurt."
"Are you sure? My eyes are sore already!" I gazed at the old false fr
ont of the building with the huge flakes of paint peeling from its surface.
"It used to be Gunnar Larsen's Photo Studio." Gordon stepped around a wizened old man leaning against the corner of the building. A native Indian, he appeared to have survived some rough times. His stature was stooped, his clothing disheveled, his unkempt hair as white as snow. A scar ran diagonally across his face, and his left eye was a shrunken mass of scar tissue.
"Hello, George." Gordon acknowledged the old man, then opened the right-hand door in an alcove that housed two entrances. "That one's Anthony's Barber Shop." He pointed to the half of the building that had the word Barber painted across the glass window front. George turned to view us with his good eye, then shuffled off down the street.
"Watch it." Gordon took a giant stride to avoid the broken boards in the threshold. "The landlord promised me last week he was going to fix those."
Following Gord's lead, I entered a tiny room that was chopped in half by a partition wall. On the inside of the wall, cabinets jutted out to claim another three feet of available floor. Bending down, I grasped the faceted glass knob and gave it a pull. The top of the door sprang out two to three inches before the catch at the bottom released.
"They never spared on expense when they built things back in the thirties."
"Nothing but the best." Gordon sported the impish smirk that I would come to know so well.
"Isn't that about the sickest colour you've ever seen? Why would anyone paint wallpaper such a washed-out green and match it with a red carpet?"
"I don't think that's actually wallpaper. If you look closer, you'll see that it's roofing paper glued onto the wall."
I scraped at it with my fingernail. "That's exactly what it is. What's back here?" I wandered through a doorway into a confined little room.
"That's where Gunnar used to develop his pictures."
Fumbling along the walls, I tried to locate a light switch. "There has to be a light in here somewhere. No one would have a room—even a darkroom—without some kind of light."
Don't Turn Your Back in the Barn (Adventures of a Country Vet) Page 6