Don't Turn Your Back in the Barn (Adventures of a Country Vet)

by Perrin, Dr. Dave

  "She must be out in the barn," I admitted sheepishly to Doris. "I guess you were right—there really is something wrong with the cow."

  I drove right to the barn and shut off the ignition. I was about to get out when I heard Doris gasp.

  "Oh, my God!" she whispered.

  From around the corner of the barn appeared Mabel. Slowly and deliberately, as if she were a fashion model, she sauntered to my car door. She was attired in a hot pink see-through negligee and nothing else. No socks, no shoes, no bra, no panties. Nothing! She walked in her bare feet as elegantly as if her stage were carpeted. Her face was relaxed, seductive—yes, sexy—as she meandered towards me.

  She was just a few feet away when she saw Doris. Until then, she had only watched me watching her. She put her hand to her mouth as she stifled a scream, then turned and fled to the house. Doris and I sat in silence for several minutes before I started the car.

  "The poor thing," Doris murmured, as we drove down the lane.

  "Well, Doris, let's look at the bright side. We've got lots of time for supper."

  "Dave, I've been here for a week, and you've done nothing but work the whole time! Why don't you get away from here and do something fun for a change?"

  Those words sounded strange coming from the man who had spent most of our early years together trying to motivate me to be more productive. My father had become quite involved with helping me fix things around the office and took great pride in coming along on farm calls.

  It was early Sunday morning, and he had just finished splicing the last of the wires back together on the telephone. The evening before, one of my clients had really gotten under my skin. Most people hated to bother me outside office hours, but there were a few who thought nothing of it. I'd just nicely gotten to sleep when the phone rang. A group of people had been arguing at a party about how much it cost to "fix" a dog. Max knew I wouldn't mind if he called to ask. I hung up the phone with such vigour that it pulled away from the wall, and several of the wires happened to separate.

  I didn't sleep well. I had been working day and night for the last few months, and things were starting to get to me. I spent the first half of the night fuming about being woken up with such a dumb question, the last half worrying about missing an emergency call because my telephone was no longer functional. I finally got out of bed, found a screwdriver, and began taking the telephone apart. A stream of profanity woke my father and induced him to take over the interim repairs.

  "You've got to start taking more time for yourself, Dave."

  "From the way you're talking, you obviously have something in mind!"

  "Well, the Rayfields did invite us to go down the lake and join them today," Father insisted. "Don't you remember?"

  Our final call on Friday had been to the Rayfields, and they invited us to stop for a hamburger with them. David Rayfield had started a glass shop about the same time that I started my practice, and we were constantly commiserating with one another about the rigours of starting a new business in a small town. Over supper he decried not having enough time to enjoy the fruits of his labour. I spent most of the evening nodding my head in agreement.

  David was particularly excited about a new boat that he'd recently purchased, and he was bubbling on about how much fun he and Isabel were going to have with it this weekend.

  His last words stuck in my mind. "We'll be staying at Mountain Shores Resort if you decide to get away for a bit of a break yourself."

  We finished breakfast. The phone, though functional, was mercifully quiet.

  "Let's take a drive down the lake then." I felt strangely empowered by my decision to get away for a few hours. "I'll put a message on the answering service and tell them I'll be gone until later this evening."

  By nine o'clock we were passing through Wynndel on our way to Kootenay Lake. We couldn't have picked a more beautiful morning to escape. The sky was blue and there wasn't a cloud in sight. The sun was already sneaking over the mountain peaks and filtering through the roadside trees onto the windshield. It was warm and close in the car; I rolled down the window to relish some cool, fresh air. The radio was tuned to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation and a panel discussion about whether or not Richard Nixon should be impeached for his actions in Watergate.

  "I'm so damned sick of hearing about that break-in," Father moaned. "Do we have to listen to it again? Politicians have been crooked for as long as there's been government, and they're talking as if this is something new."

  "Yeah, I know. It's not big news because it happened, but because they were stupid enough to get caught."

  I flipped the dial to the Creston station, and we listened to the final throes of "Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree." Father sat back and relaxed as John Denver began crooning his "Rocky Mountain High."

  The drive from Creston to the ferry along Kootenay Lake can only be described as spectacular and, today, its scenic beauty added to the euphoria that came from escaping my duties at the office. I was strangely taken by the grandeur of my surroundings, viewing country that I passed on a regular basis as if I were seeing it for the first time. We drove by the last of the open fields of the Creston flats. As we followed the curving ribbon of asphalt, we gazed upon the marshlands of Duck Lake and the Kootenay River drainage. The water surface and the air overhead were speckled with waterfowl that flocked to the preserve for its protection. Pairs of ducks and geese circled constantly. I glanced towards the lake; a pair of trumpeter swans flapped lazily by, heading in the general direction of the Creston Valley.

  Further north, marsh grass and cattails made way for the rocky shores and deep blue waters of Kootenay Lake. Stony beaches blended with banks of high rock walls and the occasional stretch of sand. All were encroached upon by pine, fir, and larch trees that struggled to establish a root system in the rocky ground.

  The lake stretched as far as the eye could see, hemmed in on all sides by rugged mountains. Even this late in the summer, white caps of snow graced the highest peaks.

  David and Isabel were just leaving the dock when we arrived at Mountain Shores. David was hesitantly backing the big boat from the pier as Isabel, adorned in bathing suit and life jacket, hung nervously over the bow, pushing against a neighbouring boat with an oar. Her worried look turned suddenly to a smile as she saw us. She waved, then hollered something to David, who turned and shot us a half-hearted smile.

  David idled the engines, and the boat bobbed precariously between the pier and the adjacent craft. He hit the throttle with a short burst; the boat shot forward and rammed rather forcefully into the pier. Isabel extended the oar for me to grab, clutching desperately to the hull of the boat.

  "We still aren't much at parking this thing," she hollered over the din of the engines. "I think it's a little bit more than we bargained for!"

  "It's a beauty." I grabbed the oar and pulled the boat into the pier. "I've never seen two seventy-five-horse motors on a boat this size."

  "The people we bought it from used it for water skiing," Dave shouted, "and does it ever go!"

  The look on Isabel's face suggested that it really did go—maybe faster than she would have wanted. As I held the boat next to the pier, Father climbed over the side and settled himself on a back seat. I hopped in and pushed away from the dock. David gave a couple of bursts in reverse, then shifted to forward and maneuvered smoothly away from the surrounding boats into open water.

  "Hallelujah," muttered Isabel. "I can't stand docking this thing."

  Dave opened up the engines, and we literally flew across the water towards the rocky shore on the opposite side. The wind whipped against our faces as we listened to the thump, thump, thump of the boat's hull against the choppy surface of the lake.

  "Do you want to try water skiing?" Dave yelled over the noise of the racing engines.

  "I've only tried once before," I responded, moving to the seat next to him, "and they couldn't get me up out of the water."

  "They obviously didn't have enoug
h power to pull you up," Dave snorted. "I guarantee you that we won't have the same problem with this boat!"

  "We could maybe give it a try later." I displayed a decided lack of enthusiasm. "It would be nice to actually get up on skis."

  With that, Dave eased off on the throttle and allowed the boat to coast to a halt.

  "You shouldn't have said you'd go," Isabel warned. "He's been dying to find someone to drag around out here!"

  Within five minutes, I was bobbing around in the middle of the lake. I watched as Father paid out the loops of tow rope and David idled the boat gently away from me. After a couple of half-hearted attempts in which I allowed the tow rope to be yanked from my grasp, I managed to struggle out of the water and found myself flying effortlessly along in the wake of the boat. I was busy congratulating myself on how well I was doing, when I saw David making circles with his hands as he talked. I knew I was in trouble when he made the first turn. Without slowing down in the least, he turned sharply to send me flying at the end of a wide arc. The speed picked up dramatically as I jumped outside the wake into choppy water. The skis were pounding as I swung at the end of the rope, and all I could think about was how to fall with the least amount of pain.

  I survived that first swing and maneuvered once more into the wake. I was even thinking that this could be fun, when Dave turned the boat in the opposite direction.

  Oh no, this was it! I thumped over the wake into the chop on the other side. I stared in horror as the boat picked up yet more speed and the waves chattered under my skis. I could see Isabel and Father yelling at Dave, but he seemed determined to make this the ride from hell.

  My shoulders were aching from the pull of the rope, and my knees were throbbing from the pounding of the waves. I was at the absolute end of the arc when I decided that I'd had enough! I didn't really fall; I just let go. The sudden loss of momentum made me flip over backwards, and I hit the water with my legs outstretched. I felt the skis ripped from my feet and then the impact of my body with the water. My legs burned as though on fire and my colon screamed as it rapidly filled with cold water.

  I floated for several minutes before I could even look at the boat.

  For a while I was certain I had ruptured my colon; the pain had been that intense. But as the minutes passed and the pain subsided, I knew I would likely survive. All I could think of was getting out of the water into the boat and wringing Rayfield's scrawny neck.

  "Grab the rope when I come around!" Dave hollered over the sound of the motors.

  "I've had enough! I took a ten-gallon enema, and I'm definitely done for the day!"

  "Oh, come on!" Dave jeered. "You can't tell me that one little fall's going to put you off. The only way you'll get to shore is if you ski in—we don't give rides to pussies!"

  I patiently lay back in the life preserver as the ski rope went by me the first time. He continued to circle, and it became obvious that we were at a standoff. I finally grabbed the line and found myself perching for a takeoff one more time.

  The rope was taut and the boat leapt forward. My knees buckled; I almost let go. Throwing up a huge plume of water, I hung on resolutely and finally struggled up. I was apprehensive of David's intentions; I knew he would try and dump me again. As long as I could stay in the wake, I would do just fine. I focused on the opposite shore where we'd started and hoped that he would cool it. We were almost there, and I was congratulating myself on how well I had done, when he cranked it again.

  "Rayfield, you S.O.B.!"

  I could feel myself accelerating as I got closer to the end of the arc. The skis were chattering over the waves; my legs were rubber. I was having difficulty keeping my balance, sawing back and forth in a desperate attempt to stay erect. I knew my demise was near. The image of my recent enema was still firmly impressed upon my mind; no way was I going to fall ass-first again!

  I focused on the water that sped by beneath me. My only hope was getting from here to there with a minimum of pain. I hadn't long to wait; as I wobbled, my ski dug into a passing wave, and my legs splayed widely. I reefed hard on the tow rope, determined to fall face-first. I remember the rope being ripped from my hands and the rude, painful contact with the water. I remember the breath being knocked out of me, the feeling of water invading every portal of my body, the coughing and sputtering for air as I popped to the surface. I became aware of a trickling sensation over the bridge of my nose and, when I pawed at it, my hand came away red with blood.

  They circled closely around me. I could see from the looks on their faces that I wouldn't be refused entry again. My head was aching terribly, and my shoulder felt as if someone had tried to rip it off.

  As though in a dream, I paddled to a ski some distance away. Everything seemed to be functioning even though I certainly felt worse for wear. Blood was streaming steadily down my face and onto my chest. I fumbled cautiously for the source and decided I had a gash somewhere over my left brow.

  By the time I rounded up the other ski, David had maneuvered the boat close enough for me to pass them on board. Father threw over a rope ladder, and I clawed my way up and flopped over the other side. Everyone stared at the blood that flowed down my face to form a puddle on my belly.

  "How bad is it?" I asked Dad, as he leaned over to take a closer look.

  "Could be worse, but it's going to need a few stitches."

  Isabel threw me a towel, and I lay back with it pressed firmly to my face. By the time David managed to dock the boat, I was feeling somewhat perkier, and the bleeding had slowed to a bare trickle.

  I glared at him. He gave me a timid smile, then busied himself with tidying up the boat. "You damned near killed me out there—I thought it was supposed to be fun."

  "Well, it was! You looked like you were having a good time."

  "Yeah, sure! My ass feels like someone drove a truck up it, and I've got a pounding headache."

  "I've got just the cure for that!" he declared. "You need to come over to the camper for a couple of stiff drinks of rum."

  I returned to the car and slid up in front of the rear view mirror. Father was right; the wound needed to be sutured. After a bit of digging, I found what I was looking for—silk suture with a long, straight needle. I rubbed my hands with alcohol and opened the package.

  Taking a deep breath, I peered into the mirror and drove the needle through first the lower side of the wound, then the upper. Tears pooled in my eyes, and blood trickled from the wound once more. Hardly able to see what I was doing, I pulled the wound edges together and knotted the silk.

  "Oh, Dave!" Isabel shrieked, as she came around the corner. "What's that dangling from your eye?"

  "It's just suture material—haven't gotten around to cutting it yet."

  "You mean you're sewing yourself up? I can't believe it!"

  "Well, someone has to do it, so I may as well get it over with."

  Three more stitches closed the wound and, although it induced tears and sweat, it was over with a minimum of discomfort. We spent the remainder of the afternoon and a good part of the early evening swilling rum and Coke, eating snacks, and playing cards.

  Although I had stopped drinking towards the end of the evening and was a long way from being hammered, I wasn't sober either! It was after midnight when Father and I took our leave of the Rayfields and began our trip back to town.

  My head was throbbing, but I still felt mellow. All the way home, I could think of nothing other than how great it would feel to hit the pillow. I could almost feel the warmth of the covers.

  All of a sudden, I saw lights flashing behind me. "Oh no! That's all I need!"

  I pulled over and sat with resignation—the red light of the police car flashed intermittently across the windshield. My heart was pounding as the door of the police cruiser opened and a young officer I had never met sauntered slowly towards us. I suddenly felt weak. I could see the headline in Thursday's paper—Local Vet Charged with Drunk Driving.

  I looked across the car at Father and shook m
y head, then rolled down the window. The officer was tall and lean. He wore the barely visible mustache that branded him a new recruit.

  "You're Dr. Perrin, aren't you?"

  "Yes," I croaked. I watched as his tongue flicked out and played absently with the tip of the fine blond hair that adorned his upper lip.

  "It seems there's a bit of an emergency, and we've been asked to keep an eye out for you. There's a dentist with a sick dog at the Creston Valley Hospital. He's been creating quite a ruckus. Do you think you'll be able to help him out?"

  "Yes, sure! I'll head to the office right now if he wants to meet me there."

  "Okay, I can tell him to go right down then? The folks at the hospital will be glad to hear that." He smiled, tipped his hat to the back of his head, and returned to his vehicle.

  "Thank God," I muttered. "Wouldn't that have been a fitting end to the day?"

  "Yeah, wouldn't it just?" Father agreed.

  A man waited on the sidewalk outside the office as we drove up to the clinic.

  "Are you Dr. Perrin?"

  "Yes, I am. I hear you're having a problem with your dog."

  "Oh thank heavens, I finally found you," he gushed, on the verge of tears. "Jessie's really in a bad way, and she's getting worse by the minute. I'm Dr. Walker, from Missoula, Montana. I just took a swing up here to drive through the Kootenays and have a look at the country. Jessie was fine until Nelson, then she started acting strange. Over the last couple hours she's been getting worse and worse. When I couldn't get you or the other vet in town, I tried the hospital for someone to examine her—no one was willing."

  "Let's have a look at her." I turned to the new Lincoln Continental that was parked in front of the office.

  Dr. Walker hustled quickly to the back door and flung it open. There stretched on her side was an old German Short-Haired Pointer. Her head was extended, and she was gasping for air.

  "She's been breathing like that for the last hour. I knew she was in big trouble; I just couldn't get anyone to help."