All God's Creatures

by Carolyn McSparren

  "Look at him, Doc. Look there at his side."

  I had already knelt in the bed of clean shavings in the stall and pulled back Jake's lips. His gums were still pink, but not as red as they should be.

  He lifted his head, then flopped back down. I ran my hand down his flank. At the moment his pelt was so wet he looked as though he were carved from ebony, and his mane lay tangled against his shoulder.

  "Stay with me, baby. Mr. Rasmussen, hand me my bag." I gave Jake a shot of tranquilizer and started an IV drip of electrolytes on him at once. The way he was sweating, he needed to replenish the electrolytes in his body.

  Rasmussen hunkered down beside me. "What the Sam Hill's wrong with him, doc? I come out to check on one of my mares a hour ago and found him down in his stall. He don't act like he's colicking. He's got plenty of room to stand, but I couldn't get him up. Sony to drag you out in the middle of the night like this."

  I ran my hand back to Jake's loin and then leaned over and put my ear to his side. The gut sounds were good. But his whole side was pulsing. I had never seen a case like this, but I'd read about them. I wracked my brain. Took me a moment to remember the name for what Jake had. "Mr. Rasmussen, what your horse has is a tympanic diaphragm. Pretty rare."

  "Is it fatal?" He sounded desperate.

  "It certainly can be. His heart is beating in time with his diaphragm. His diaphragm is just a big band of muscle like a drumhead. Somehow his heart has kicked that drum head into beating at the same tempo."

  "That ain't so bad, is it, doc?"

  "He can't draw in a deep breath to get enough oxygen to his lungs." I pulled back Jake's upper lip. "See here? His gums aren't white, but they're paler than they should be."

  Mike turned frightened eyes on me. "What causes it?"

  "Nobody knows for certain. Did you work him hard today?"

  "No more'n usual. He come in, had him some supper like al ways."

  "I'd say its a combination of this heat and humidity. Not much breeze in the woods, is there?"

  "Shoot, hottem' the hinges of hell." Rasmussen reached down and stroked the stallion's shoulder. "Poor of boy. Is there anything you can do?"

  "We need to get him up on his feet somehow."

  "Doc, that horse weighs all of two thousand pounds." He looked me up and down. "You're a big woman and I'm no lightweight, but it'd take the Tennessee linebackers to haul that horse up."

  "If we can get ropes under his belly, we can use your tractor to winch him up."

  Mike rubbed his stubbled jaw. "Well, maybe." He hawked and spit into the dirt across the aisle. "Got a couple of old ropes we use on the bulls."

  "Get them, and get your tractor. Fast."

  Mike left the barn at a run.

  I turned to Jake and slapped his shoulder. "Pay attention, damn you." Jake looked up at me. Horses in pain will frequently simply turn their faces to the wall and die. It's important to keep them focused on something outside themselves. Now that I had Jake's attention, I wasn't about to lose it.

  "Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb," I sang. "A horse is a horse of course of course." I tried to think of other nursery rhymes or nonsense songs, but my mind went blank

  So I crooned, "Jake, if you die, sweetie, I will barbecue your goodfor-nothing hide. You'll never raise your big feet up to breed another pretty little mare. You hear that, horse? No more nookie." I slapped him again, harder this time. "Jake! Listen to me!"

  Jake groaned.

  "No way, horse!" I kicked him hard in his fat rear end. "Get up and fight for your life. You're just a big ole wuss."

  He rolled over onto his belly and heaved himself to his feet.

  "Good boy." I threw my arms around his nose. I couldn't reach any higher. I couldn't see over the top of him, much less reach around his neck. "That's it, baby." I called, "Mike! He's up." Now if we could just keep him up. I knew there was another treatment I should be giving him, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember what. What kind of a vet was I if I couldn't remember how to treat animals? Okay, so this was extremely rare. That was no excuse.

  He was up, all right, but just barely. He swayed on his platter-sized hooves. The tranquilizer should be taking effect.

  I thought the pulsing in his diaphragm had slowed, but couldn't be certain. I put my stethoscope against Jake's belly and leaned down to listen.

  Without warning, Jake sat down on his rump like a donkey with his front feet in front of him. He looked surprised. I certainly was. I'd never seen a horse do that except in trick shows.

  "Mike!" I yelled. "Hurry!"

  The tractor stopped in the aisle and Mike said, "Godawlmighty! Get up, you fool horse, you look like a damn mule."

  "Grab his halter," I said. "Keep his head up."

  "Sweet sufferin' Jesus."

  I reached the aisle outside Jake's stall and bent over with my hands on my knees. "You all right?"

  "Fine."

  Suddenly, it hit me. I remembered what to do for Jake. "Wait a minute, Mr. Rasmussen." I ran back to my truck, filled a syringe and ran back "You get on out of there. This is going to happen fast if it happens at all."

  He obviously didn't believe me.

  I wasn't certain I believed me either. I'd never done this before. I'd seen it work with cows, but never with horses.

  I said a silent prayer and pushed the syringe of calcium straight into the throbbing vein in Jake's broad black neck.

  He grunted.

  Then he pulled his long legs under him and surged to his feet.

  Rasmussen had to jump away to avoid being stepped on.

  "God a'mighty, woman, what did you do?"

  I stroked Jake's black nose, pulled his upper lip back and smiled. "His gums are turning red as a Brownsville peach. He's breathing normally."

  "That fast?"

  I nodded. "Look at his side." I leaned down and listened. "Perfect. He's fine."

  "It's a doggoned miracle."

  Jake took a mouthful of hay and eyed me suspiciously.

  "If you ever try to die on me again, horse, I'll take you out, you got that?" I started to giggle. A moment later both Rasmussen and I were sitting on a bale of hay in the aisle laughing our heads off.

  As I drove out of his paddock, I checked the dashboard dock.

  The whole episode had lasted under an hour. The quarter moon was already down, leaving only stars so thick that they really did look like milk pouring from a jug. I rolled down the window of my truck and drank in the scent of Delta dust. Somewhere to my left a barn owl screamed.

  I was fine. The horse was fine. I could climb back in bed, cuddle against Morgan, and thank God I remembered in time about the calcium shot. No one knew precisely how it worked or why, but it did, both on cows and horses.

  I was a miracle worker.

  At least Mike Rasmussen told everybody I was. Before the week was out I had two whole hunter-jumper barns to worm, and an entire hunting pack of Penn Marydel hounds to vaccinate. That was the first month the McLain-Scheibler Clinic ended up in the black. All thanks to Big Jake and Mike Rasmussen.

  Chapter 8

  Eli turns a cow into a bowling ball

  Eli and I scrimped and saved anyway we could. Pharmaceutical companies were happy to give a line of credit to most veterinary services, but they were hesitant to grant much leeway to a pair of crazy women who were living in the country and expecting to build a practice in a used double-wide trailer.

  We couldn't work without drugs. So everything else in life ran to peanut butter sandwiches and make-do. When Eli's Wellington boots-knee-high black rubber boots that she wore while slogging across pastures-developed a split along the sole, she tried first to fix them with duct tape. Didn't work.

  Eli wore a size nothing, so she took a child's size in Wellingtons, but even those weren't cheap. We shopped yard and estate sales for things like used file cabinets, and at one house, Eli found a pair of canary yellow rubber children's rain boots that fit her for only fifty cents.

&nb
sp; I snickered.

  "I am trying to live within our means," she said huffily.

  I didn't mention the boots again.

  We still hadn't broken through to the big beef cattle ranches, but we did get the occasional call to a dairy farm. I suspect that in most cases the farmer had already tried several other vets before he called us, but we never asked. We simply prayed that every odd call we took would lead to an ongoing relationship with a new client.

  We didn't have enough business to divide our calls, so we often went out together. One rainy dawn, our answering service took a call from Roy Wilson, who owned a dairy farm thirty minutes away if I drove and forty-five if Eli drove. So I drove.

  Mr. Wilson said he had a cow that was having trouble calving. Cows have a great facility for picking the worst possible weather in which to calve.

  Eli and I hoped Mr. Wilson would have his cow up in his barn and under cover, so we could work on her in relative-or at least dry-comfort.

  "I just pray the calf s still alive," I said. Cows can spend eighteen hours calving and still deliver a healthy calf and recover.

  Now horses are a different matter. Once a mare's water breaks, she'd better have a live foal on the ground in twenty minutes. When a vet is called to a mare that's having trouble foaling, she can seldom save the foal, and sometimes not even the mother.

  Eli preferred cows. Not nearly so fragile as horses.

  When I pulled up in the morass of mud in his paddock, Roy Wilson sauntered out to meet us with the rain running off the brim of his elderly Stetson. The man acted as though we had all the time in the world.

  "I hate to wear these stupid boots," Eli whispered. "Maybe I can wear my sneakers."

  "And catch pneumonia and leave me all the work? Forget it, Miss Eli. What do you care what he thinks about your boots?"

  Eli opened the passenger door and looked down. The mud in the paddock looked as thick as oxtail soup. She jammed her rain hat on her head, reached behind the seat for her rain jacket and pants, struggled into them, and pulled on her yellow boots.

  The rain suit was nearly as yellow as the boots. "You look like a canary" I whispered.

  The look she gave me would have peeled paint.

  "She in the barn?" Eli asked Mr. Wilson.

  "Down in the pasture. Won't move. Gonna have to take your truck to get to her."

  "Hell," Eli whispered.

  He came around to the passenger side and scrunched in beside Eli. He was not a small man, and he smelled of wet wool and chewing tobacco.

  "Is there a road?" I asked.

  "Track's good most times, but could be a tad slick in this mess. Back out, turn right and follow the road around to the left."

  "What are we looking at?" Eli asked.

  "Cow's an old hand at this. Usually drops 'em where she stands like squirting ketchup out of the bottle. Calfs still alive, or was last time I checked. She's been straining about five hours now. Must be breech. Have to pull it."

  Pulling a live calf with the block and tackle was vastly preferable to cutting up a dead one in its mother's uterus and pulling it out piece by piece. "Let's hope it's still viable." I said.

  "Big sucker. Fine Guernsey. Don't want to lose it."

  "We'll do our best. Shit! " The truck hit a deep puddle and slued sideways.

  I managed to straighten it and plowed on. This was more a cow track than a road. Apparently, generations of Guernseys had used this path to come from the pasture to the barn morning and night for milking. Their hooves had dug ruts much deeper than the roadbed. I prayed the undercarriage of my truck would survive intact. McLainScheibler could not afford to have an oil pan replaced.

  "Stop. We're here."

  I patted the brakes. The rear end threatened to slide away, but came to a shuddering stop. I heaved a sigh of relief. "Where is she?"

  "Yonder." Wilson pointed out the passenger side window.

  Silhouetted against the rainy early-morning sky on the very top of a hill stood a lone cow. While we watched, she strained and lowed in obvious discomfort.

  Wilson was already out of the truck and trudging up the hill. Several times he had to catch himself on his hands to keep from sliding back down again.

  Eli and I each stuck four pairs of shoulder length obstetrical gloves into one of our pockets, a stethoscope into the other. I slid a coil of rope over my arm.

  "We can't work on that cow up on that hill," I said. "I don't care what Wilson said about moving her. We have to get her down to the truck somehow."

  Eli dashed the water out of her eyes. "Please, Lord, let it stop raining."

  We struggled up the hill. I slid down on my hands and knees once. Eli had to shove my rump to get me moving again. She was always much more agile. Even so, Wilson had to pull her the last couple of feet.

  "Hey, doc, them's some fine rain boots you done got on," he snickered as he hauled her upright. "Never did see no yaller gumboots."

  Eli ignored him and walked to the uphill side of the cow where she could brace herself against the cow's flank. She listened to her vital signs, felt for the calf, and said, "There's a second heartbeat. Calfs still alive."

  "We've got to get her down to level ground," I said, "We're going to have to use a block and tackle."

  "She ain't goin' nowhere. I done tried." He smacked the cow. "Damn fool cow! Move! Cows are dumber than dirt."

  We wasted ten minutes trying to move the cow. She simply dug all four cloven hooves deeper into the mud and refused to budge.

  "Okay," Eli panted. "You're going to have to go back down to my truck and get the block and tackle out of the back."

  I sighed and prepared to slide down the hill.

  "Don't need but one of us," Wilson said. "You dirty enough already. I'll bring up what we need."

  "You know what to get?" I asked.

  "Don't teach your Granmama to suck eggs," Wilson said. "I been doing this for nigh onto fortyyear." He looked up and squinted. "Dang. I do believe the rain's lettin' up a tad."

  "Thank God. Now, go."

  Both Eli and I stayed on the upside of the cow, but I had sense enough to move back a ways. I have never had the fondness for cows Eli has. I prefer not to be impaled on horns, even short ones, nor stomped with cloven hooves or lashed across the face by a tail.

  The cow didn't seem to resent having Eli braced against her. She continued placidly chewing her cud, unconcerned about the enormous bundle of flesh and bone trying to work its way out of her. For the moment at least, the contractions seemed to have stopped.

  Then, without warning, she swayed once and toppled over straightlegged, with all four feet pointing down the hill. Her bloated body landed on top of Eli.

  I screamed.

  Eli screamed. Actually, she wheezed as though somebody had just sat on a whoopee cushion. "Maggie! Get me out of here!"

  The cow lay across her thighs and hips so that her legs and feet stuck out on the downhill side of the cow's belly. She could breathe. "Ow!" she yelped. "Fool cow! Maggie, her hipbone's gouging my liver out."

  I grabbed the cow's head and tried to drag her down the hill and off Eli. Eli wriggled backwards for a moment, then sank back into the mud.

  "Wilson!" I shouted. "Get back up here."

  Eli opened her mouth to shout just as the heavens opened and dumped a torrent of rain into her open mouth. She gurgled and spat.

  "Damnation, Eli, with all this mud, you ought to slide out like a greased pig."

  The cow lifted her head and bellowed. "Oh, shut up," Eli said and smacked her on her shoulder. "Move!"

  "Wilson!" I hollered. What was keeping the man?

  Then from the downhill side of the cow I heard laughter. Not chuckles. Guffaws. Roy Wilson was laughing!

  "Cut that out and help me drag Eli out of here!"

  He appeared around the tail end of the cow, block and tackle over his shoulder, a broad grin on his face. I decided to beat him senseless with it the instant he got Eli out from under the cow. He leaned on the cow
's flank to brace himself and reached down to grab Eli under her shoulders.

  Without warning, the cow slid straight down the hill in the mud.

  Eli's legs popped free. She raised up on one elbow. All three of us watched the cow turn slowly with all four legs in the air, then continue her slide head first, picking up speed as she went. We watched in fascination until she fetched up against the side of our truck.

  "Gawd," Wilson breathed.

  "Amen to that," I whispered.

  "Come on," Eli said. "Dammit, Maggie, get me up."

  We all slipped and slid after the cow. I went most of the way on my bottom. Eli used her fancy new yellow rainboots like skis. Somehow she managed to stay on her feet.

  When we were about five feet away, the cow struggled to her feet, turned to stare at us, bellowed once, and spread her hind legs.

  By the time we reached her, the calf lay on the ground behind her.

  "Doggone," Wilson breathed.

  "Put the block and tackle back in the truck and hand me a stack of towels out of the rear cabinet," Eli said. She dropped to her knees beside the calf. It blinked at her.

  In this downpour the calf couldn't be dried off, but the rough towels would stimulate it. Eli checked the calfs vitals. "Perfect." She nodded with satisfaction. Its toboggan ride seemed not to have harmed it in the least.

  The calf was already struggling to its feet. Its mother watched Eli with narrowed eyes, bellowed once, swung her head and slammed Eli into the side of the truck.

  Wilson slid into the passenger seat and held the door open for Eli. "Y'all best leave her alone and get your tails in here fast. She tends to be a might ill-tempered if you mess with her calf."

  "Now you tell me." Eli pulled herself up by the side of the truck, accepted a grubby hand from Wilson, slid in beside him and slammed the passenger side door.

  I bolted for the driver's side, as the cow noticed me and started after me, bellowing at the top of her lungs.

  I jumped in, slammed the door and started the engine just as Momma's heavy head landed hard where my shoulder had been a minute earlier.

  I rolled down my window and punched her smack in the middle of her forehead. "Get out of the way." I leaned forward. "Wilson, is there room to turn around?"