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

by Perrin, Dr. Dave

  "Russians no gut." His voice droned on in his native tongue, but this time he seemed not the least bit concerned that I wasn't following. I recognized a few of the words he had used previously and tried desperately to make sense of what he was saying. The only thing I was able to pick up on was his change of tone. He was subdued— completely detached.

  Finally, he whispered, "Russland Hell...Many Russians fall.

  Freunde die." Then as though waking from a trance, he punctuated with, "Not cry—not cry. Die Kompanie...Russians..." He made rapid forward movements with his hands and motioned dramatically to indicate a circle. His face was the personification of agony as he clenched his fingers together and obliterated the circle within.

  When he continued, he spoke with reverence. "Many die. Many prisoners."

  After a long pause, he said, "I prisoner...I prisoner."

  He began to speak in German, but caught himself. "Work hard... Prisoners die...no food. Eat roots...eat bugs...flowers."

  He paused for at least a minute as if recharging. His voice was barely above a whisper. "Winter hell; prisoners die."

  "Ich, like Heidi," he said pointing at himself. "Mein Bruder die. Mein Freund die. Many prisoners die."

  He looked up into my eyes and said in a hushed tone, "Not cry...Pile...dead...wood," he indicated, crossing his arms to show again and again that he stacked up the bodies like cordwood.

  "Bruder...Freund..." He lost me again as he went on in German but pointed to his head and placed one arm over the other, indicating that he stacked his brother and best friend head to head. He talked on rapidly, his arms and hands gesticulating. He was obviously approaching some sort of climax.

  He could tell that he had lost me again and, laboriously, patiently, went through the motions of pouring from a container, then slowly said, "Gasoline." Motioning upwards with his hands, he alluded to a big fire. "Germans on fire! Germans on fire!"

  He paused and looked down, then almost inaudibly whispered, "Viel Rauch, viel Gestank. Not cry."

  He looked up into my eyes for a minute without saying anything. His face had lost the look of tension, the urgency. Finally, he smiled and once again extended his hand.

  "Danke, Herr Doktor."

  "Goodbye, Mr. Schmidt." I watched him march, ramrod straight, to the waiting taxi.

  The Remple boys were a handsome pair—tall, blond, blue-eyed. As near as I could tell, they were identical twins. I never really knew which one I had just come into contact with. Their father ran a small hog operation in Wynndel, and I had dealt with them a number of times as they came in to discuss problems pertaining to their father's animals.

  They were literally beaming the day they brought a bouncy yellow Lab puppy in for vaccination. I found it somewhat unusual and gratifying that teenage boys could be so responsible and openly demonstrative of their love for that ball of yellow fluff. They doted over his every move, handing him back and forth from one to the other while they waited for their turn.

  Doris got their case history as I finished up in the exam room; I could see the boys showing off the pup to her as if exhibiting their first-born son.

  "So you have a new baby," I said, as they proudly brought him back and gently deposited him on the exam table.

  "We have! Paul and I went over to Nelson and picked Buddy up yesterday. We wanted to get him in and have him checked out and vaccinated right away. They told us we have two weeks to have him examined by a vet and make sure he's all right. If you find anything wrong, they said we could have another dog."

  I had been presented with the opportunity I'd hoped for—I now knew which one was Paul and which one was Barry. As long as they didn't change positions, I would be able to call them by name. The boys watched attentively as I examined their new friend—both peering over my shoulder as I checked his eyes, ears, and oral cavity.

  "Fat chance that we'd take him back even if there was something wrong with him now," Paul commented, "so make sure you don't find anything!"

  "He's got a really good bite." I showed them how well the upper and lower arcades of the teeth meshed together in the front. "That's very important for a hunting dog."

  "You don't have to tell us how good Buddy's teeth are," Barry said, extending a hand that was covered with scratches. "They seem to line up really well!"

  I palpated the pup carefully to rule out hernias and other congenital abnormalities, then listened to his chest and the thumping of his heart.

  "Heart and lung sounds are good," I said to the boys, who watched my every move. "It looks like you have chosen a happy, healthy puppy."

  I plucked a thermometer from its disinfectant bath. As I applied lubricant and inserted the thermometer into the puppy's rectum, the boys exchanged glances, and Paul slowly retreated to the waiting room. Barry smiled from ear to ear and shot his brother a look that had some special meaning attached.

  "Temperature's normal," I pronounced.

  Grabbing the two vials of vaccine that Doris had laid out on the counter, I popped the cap from the needle and plunged it into the vial containing the liquid diluent.

  "This is the part that you've been waiting for, Paul!" his brother hollered. "You better hurry up, or you'll miss out on his shot."

  I rehydrated the vaccine, then quickly did the vaccination.

  "You missed it, Paul! We come here and pay all this money and you missed it," Barry taunted.

  Paul gazed out the waiting room window in a contemplative fashion, ignoring the barbs that Barry was hurling in his direction.

  He said nothing as his brother handed him the dog and went about settling their account with Doris.

  I next saw the brothers when they brought Buddy in for his second vaccination. I presumed that the boys were in the middle of a disagreement of sorts, because they were both rather sullen, and there was no chatter or fussing over the puppy. One of them brought Buddy in while the other sat glumly in the waiting room.

  "Well, how's he been doing since the last time we saw him? Have you had any problems with him?"

  "He seems to be doing fine. He's eating us out of house and home and is growing like a weed."

  I examined the pup in silence and was just mixing up the vaccine when the brother that I deduced to be Barry hollered to the waiting room. "You better hurry up, Paul, you wouldn't want to miss the shot!"

  "You not too fond of needles, Paul?" I asked, as he directed his gaze out the window and away from the pup.

  Paul was about to answer when his brother did it for him. "Paul's a real boob around needles. He always faints at the sight of them. If he were back here, he'd faint for sure. He always does when we get needles at school. He usually doesn't even make it to the shot—he faints in the line when he sees the needle."

  Paul opened his mouth as if to respond but closed it again.

  "That's why he sits out there," Barry went on. "He doesn't have as far to fall if he's close to a chair."

  Paul continued his impassive stare out the window in obvious anticipation of what was coming.

  "It's the same at the farm," Barry went on. "Show Paul a drop of blood, or a scalpel, or a needle, and we end up scraping him off the ground. I can remember when we were kids and we went to the circus, there was a guy who could pop his eye right out of his socket and into his hand."

  "My Lord," interjected Doris, "that would be enough to make me faint, too!"

  Paul rolled his eyes, knowing that he was really in for it now. His brother was on an all-out rampage.

  "He fainted right in the middle of the crowd in front of everybody—just toppled like a great big tree." Barry illustrated the fall with his hands and emitted a big "Crrraaassshhh!" for emphasis.

  I didn't see much of the Remple boys or Buddy over the ensuing six to eight months. I had passed them on the street corner once or twice and noted that Buddy appeared to have grown into a strong, healthy specimen. One Saturday afternoon, we had just about finished with our morning appointments, when one of the boys arrived.

 
"Just wanted to make sure that you were here before we brought him in," he started. "I know you're supposed to be closed already. Buddy's cut his foot. We were running him out on the dike when he went into the ditch on the side of the road and came back limping and bleeding all over the ground. Of course, Paul had to leave him all to me because he can't stand the sight of blood. It was bleeding pretty good too, so I covered it up with a sock that we had in the truck and wrapped some duct tape around it."

  Barry ran back outside and returned within a few minutes with Paul and Buddy following close on his heels. Buddy appeared subdued and hobbled with a pronounced limp. The sock dragging with each step, he left a trail of blood on the floor. Paul's movements were slow and deliberate. His face was ashen, and he focused his gaze on the ceiling to avoid looking at the blood that seemed to be all around him.

  "Paul's been a real hero today," joked Barry, as he led Buddy to the examination table. "He's seen more blood today than ever before, and he's still on his feet!"

  Doris's eyes grew bigger with each step Buddy took into the room. Every time he put his foot to the ground, he left behind a pool of blood that soaked into the carpet.

  "Let's get him on the table quickly, Barry, or Doris and I'll be here all night washing the carpet."

  Barry quickly bent down, scooped the dog up, and placed him on the table. Buddy struggled for a moment as his feet slid on the stainless steel surface but soon settled into his master's arms. Gently pushing him on his side, I grabbed his right front foot, cut the duct tape, and pulled off the blood-soaked stocking.

  "We need you back here, Paul," Barry mocked in a loud voice. "It's time to get a look at the cut. You wouldn't want to miss out on that for anything in this world!"

  Paul remained in his chosen seat, staring sullenly out the window and refusing to give Barry the satisfaction of a response.

  "That's a boy, Buddy," I crooned. "This isn't going to hurt too much."

  The dog had a nasty gash running from the front of the main pad to the very back, literally severing it in two and exposing the pale pink tissue. The sulcus of the pad was packed with clotted blood, and the wound was wide open and full of dirt and bits of grass.

  "Man, Buddy, you sure did a number on that foot of yours!" I wiped away debris from the outside of the wound with a piece of gauze. "You must have found a big piece of glass out there."

  "How serious is it?" Barry asked, looking tentatively over my shoulder at the gaping wound. "Will it heal up all right, or is he going to have a limp for the rest of his life?"

  "As you can see, the wound's pretty deep, but it's not involving either a joint or a tendon, so when it heals there should be no reason for a limp."

  "Oh my," said Doris, arriving with a stainless steel bowl full of water, "that really is a nasty cut!"

  I grabbed a three-millilitre syringe from the counter and filled it with Lidocaine, then put a bottle of Bridine and a stack of gauze sponges within easy reach. Buddy was being most cooperative and lay quietly in Barry's arms. Blood oozed steadily from the wound margins and kept up a steady drip, drip, drip onto the surface of the table.

  I started by scrubbing the blood from around the edge of the paw and worked my way into the crevices between Buddy's pads, trying to remove the majority of the gross contamination first. The water in the bowl was taking on a deep crimson hue and a considerable amount of blood was accumulating in a gelatinous mound on the table. Barry had stopped talking and was no longer as attentive as he had been at first. I noticed that it had been a few minutes since he had hurled any torment in his brother's direction.

  "Could you get me another bowl of clean water please, Doris? I want to give the cut itself a real good scrub before we freeze it."

  I had just refocused the surgery lamp to get a better view of the wound when I noticed that Barry was indeed looking peaked. His face was pale and his grip on Buddy seemed far less firm.

  "Are you all right, Barry? You look like you should maybe sit down!"

  "No, don't be silly! It's Paul that can't handle this stuff. I'm just fine."

  He struggled to perk himself up and even managed a feeble smile but, by the time Doris arrived with the fresh water, it was painfully obvious that he needed some air.

  "Doris, you better hold Buddy for us; Barry isn't looking too good!"

  "No, no, I'm fine," he responded, glancing furtively in Paul's direction.

  "I'll just give you a hand while the doctor freezes his foot," Doris said, tactfully moving in next to him.

  I returned to cleaning up Buddy's wound but was distracted by Barry's wan complexion. He was about as white as he could possibly be; beads of sweat were forming on his brow. I spread the wound wide open and poured Bridine soap to its depth. Making a pass with a gauze sponge, I removed a piece of grass and two small chunks of gravel that persistently clung to the severed pad. I swiped at a gob of dirt on the opposite side, and all hell broke loose.

  The artery had been sealed off by the pressure of the wrap but when I was cleaning the clot dislodged. A jet of bright red blood erupted like a geyser from the base of the wound, hitting me on the forehead and covering the surgery lamp with tiny red droplets. Instantly, I grabbed a pair of mosquito forceps to clamp the vessel, but not before blood had sprayed like a mist over the edge of the table onto Barry's hand and arm.

  One look at the boy said it all!

  "Paul, get in here! Quick! Take Barry out of here!"

  Barry relinquished his hold on Buddy and struggled to pull himself to an erect position. The look in his eyes told me that he had lost total contact with reality. I made a dash to get around the table and support him before the inevitable fall. He made no attempt to cushion his descent. He fell over from full height and crashed on the floor, his head hitting with a frightful crack.

  Paul and I reached Barry at the same time. He was out for the count, his face completely drained of colour.

  "Is he still alive?" asked Paul, with the faintest hint of a smile. "Boy, he sure keeled over, didn't he?"

  "He sure did, and he really whacked his head."

  By the time I got back with a cold towel, Barry had opened his eyes. Paul was standing over him with a wicked grin.

  "Welcome back, brother," Paul crowed. "You don't look so good!"

  He helped his twin into an upright position and soon had him sitting in the waiting room with his face in his hands. Doris and I were able to get on with suturing Buddy's foot. By the time we applied the bandage and returned the dog to the waiting brothers, Barry had recovered some of his composure. Although he mentioned having a slight headache, he didn't appear too much the worse for wear.

  The brothers paid their bill and were on their way out the door when Paul turned to me with the biggest smile. "Dr. Perrin, I want you to know how much this day has meant to me—it's certainly one that neither of us will ever forget!"

  The import of that statement was not lost on Barry, who responded with a sheepish smile.

  Then Paul launched his parting shot. "Dr. Perrin, from your perspective, would you say that Barry toppled over like a great big tree?"

  Both boys stood framed in the door, one chagrined and one triumphant.

  "Yeah, Paul. Now that I think about it, that would describe it quite well—he toppled like a great big tree!"

  The rain fell continuously in the form of a fine drizzle. The flimsy cotton gown that covered my body was soaked through and clinging to my skin. My hair was saturated. Rivulets ran down my face onto my back and chest. Droplets formed on my nose and hair; I frequently had to lean back and shake my head to dislodge them, lest they fall onto the surgery site or into the heifer's abdomen.

  The cold of early morning crept into my body; as I began to close the uterus, I shivered convulsively. I kept telling myself to hurry, to get this over, but there was no way my numb fingers would co-operate. Only by plodding along methodically, driving and tightening one suture after the other, did the surgery progress.

  By the time I finished c
losing the abdomen, the morning had eroded, and I felt about as spry as the critter looked. My back was stiff from bending over her; I found it difficult to stand erect. Stumbling to the surgery box, I picked up my shirt and vest and struggled to force my arms through the sleeves.

  Considering the circumstances, the surgery had gone remarkably well. Going into it, I would have bet on a dead calf—how happy I was to be proven wrong. The Charolais cross heifer had been bred by accident and was calving at just seventeen months. Although the owner recognized she was pregnant and was anticipating difficulties, he assumed she was still several weeks away from delivery. When she didn't show up for morning feeding, he began a search of the rambling hillside where the cattle ranged. He found her at the back of his property. She had been labouring for most of the night.

  I hadn't been enthused to hear that the animal was somewhere on the mountain a half mile from my vehicle and power. We trekked uphill on a narrow cow path that meandered next to the fence line. It was slick, and the overhanging bushes were dripping with water. We hadn't gone a hundred yards before my coveralls were soaked through. Water penetrated the inside of my boots, and I could feel the chafe of my jeans against my legs.

  We reached the end of the trail and thrashed through the bush for a couple of hundred yards before we spotted her. She had chosen to calve in a small clearing at the base of a big rock outcrop. Steam rose from the heifer's back in the chill mountain air. Exhausted from straining, she lay with her head along her side, making an occasional weak effort to push.

  I could see neither the head nor the feet of the calf extending beyond the vaginal lips. All that was visible was a sheet of dark, discoloured membrane and a firm, rounded object that would prove to be the calf's tongue.

  It didn't take a genius to see that a caesarian was the only option; a trek down the mountain was necessary to retrieve my surgical supplies and water. By the time we made the return trip, I was drenched. I laboriously shaved the heifer using nothing more than a razor blade, then finally got on with the surgery.

  It was one of those procedures where every step had been a struggle but, now that it was over, it all seemed worthwhile. Just watching that vigorous newborn calf as it steamed in the late morning air gave me the energy to get on with cleaning up my mess.