Animals Don't Blush
Page 1
ANIMALS DON’T BLUSH
David R. Gross
Book Publishers Network
P.O. Box 2256
Bothell, WA 98041
425-483-3040
Copyright c 2015 by David R. Gross
All rights reserved. Do not reproduce or transmit any part of this publication in any form without prior permission from the author. This includes the use of any electronic, mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system(s). Requests for permission to reproduce this work may be submitted to Dr. Gross at gross1@illinois.edu
Disclaimer: This is a seriously fictionalized memoir. I changed the names of most of the real-life people to save them, or their heirs, any possible discomfort. The cases and events are real, but most did not happen in the time or order presented. All the animals were actual patients, although I forgot their names and made up new ones. None of the animals ever blushed at anything I did to them.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
LCCN 2015947881
ISBN 978-1-940598-81-9
Editor: Julie Scandora
Cover designer: Laura Zugzda
Typographer: Melissa Vail Coffman
eBook: Marcia Breece
Other books by David R. Gross:
Animal Models in Cardiovascular Research
Travels with Charlize: In Search of Living Alone
Succeeding As a Student
Contents
Dedication
Part I: Summer 1960
Chapter 1: Skipper Jones
Chapter 2: In the Beginning
Chapter 3: On the Road
Chapter 4: The Sidney Animal Hospital
Chapter 5: Wild Horses
Chapter 6: The Joneses’ Ranch
Chapter 7: The L-Bar-J
Part II: Fall 1960
Chapter 8: The Labor Day Barbeque
Chapter 9: Skunked
Chapter 10: Black Cattle, Black Night
Chapter 11: The Stockyards Café
Chapter 12: Chicken Soup
Part III: Winter 1960‒61
Chapter 13: Siam
Chapter 14: Penelope
Chapter 15: Freddy’s Bar
Chapter 16: Troubles of the Heart
Chapter 17: Mangy Taco
Part IV: Spring 1961
Chapter 18: Turley’s Pigs
Chapter 19: Calving Season
Chapter 20: Distracted
Chapter 21: Frick and Frack and Wilma the Cat
Part V: Summer 1961
Chapter 22: The Elkhorn Ranch
Chapter 23: Leg Problems
Chapter 24: My Son, the Doctor
Chapter 25: Castrating
Chapter 26: A Future Vet
Part VI: Fall 1961
Chapter 27: A Hunting Accident?
Chapter 28: Frick and Frack Are Back
Chapter 29: Separation
About the Author
DEDICATION
Rosalie and I were married for almost fifty-three years. I miss her everyday and will always do so. She never read this book. I asked her, and she responded, “I lived it. Why would I want to read about it?” Then she smiled that wonderful, woeful smile.
Part I: Summer 1960
Chapter 1: Skipper Jones
I gathered some of the things I thought I might need—a bottle of pentobarbital, an IV drip set, a 500 ml bottle of sterile saline, and hair clippers. The clippers tugged when I tested them on the hair of my forearm. I scoured through several drawers and found a new set of number forty blades. I called my bride of fifty-seven days to let her know I would be late. While I was talking to her, a dark-green, 1952 Chevy pickup, covered in a thick layer of dried mud and dust, pulled into the parking lot in front of the hospital. A man got out of the pickup, reached over, and lifted a dog out of the bed. Three paws, wrapped in what appeared to be blood-soaked dishtowels, dangled loosely.
***
It was my first weekend on the job, mid-June 1960. “I’ll be happy to handle the Saturday calls and any emergencies this weekend,” I had told Dr. Schultz.
I was on the last scheduled call of the day when Dick Mathes reached me on the mobile radio. “John Jones is bringing in his cow dog, got caught by the mowing machine. His ranch is about thirty miles from town in the Badlands. He called about three, so he should get here soon.”
When I arrived at the animal hospital, Dick met me at the garage door.
“Barbara and I are on our way to visit relatives in Glendive, so you’re on your own. I expect all you’ll do is put the dog down, anyhow.”
***
A petite, young woman, blond hair, dressed in clean but worn Levis, a denim shirt, and cowboy boots jumped to the ground from the passenger side of the pickup. She turned to lift down a young girl, her blond hair almost white. An older boy, another towhead, jumped out unassisted.
The way the rancher carried the dog into the hospital told of his gentle nature. His face was weathered, his hands were thickly callused, and his chest was massive. He had the beginnings of a potbelly but small hips and surprisingly short legs. He was in his mid to late twenties.
I held the door open and directed the Jones family into the exam room. Skipper, a two-year old border collie bitch, black and white with wide-set, expressive, brown eyes, thumped her tail on the stainless steel top of the examination table.
The man covered his guilt and anxiety talking fast. “I was mowing meadow hay and didn’t know Skipper was following along. Just before I reached the end of the meadow, I made a quick turn and caught her. When she yelped was the first I knew she was even there. I picked her up and ran about a quarter of a mile to the house. I told Kathy to call while I wrapped her legs in some clean towels to staunch the bleeding. We all piled into the pickup and drove in as fast as we could.”
Skipper raised her head, the rancher patted it, and the dog lay back down on the table with a sigh. There were lacerations on both front legs and the left hind leg. It appeared that some metacarpal and metatarsal bones were broken. The left hind leg looked strange. When I palpated it, the dog flinched. There was dried blood, dirt, and hair contaminating all the wounds.
Skipper’s heart rate was fast, but her pulse was reasonably strong. When I pressed then released the mucous membranes over her gums, the capillary filling time was slow but not slow enough to indicate severe shock. The dog was stoic, but I could see the pain in her eyes.
“What do you think, Doc?” asked Jones. “Do we have to put her down? It looks awful bad, don’t it?”
“Well, I think there’s a reasonable chance we can save her. I need to clean up her wounds, control any infection, and set the broken bones. The major problem will be the extent of damage to the tendons. Tendons don’t heal easily, and they are difficult to approximate.”
The rancher frowned.
“Sorry... it’s easy for sutures to pull out of tendons, so it’s difficult to hold the cut ends together. If the tendons aren’t cut all the way through, we can suture them, and they might heal enough for her to get around without too much trouble.
“First, I’ll have to treat her for shock, then anesthetize her, and spend a lot of time cleaning up the wounds before I can start to put her back together. I can’t really tell you how extensive the repairs will be until I get everything cleaned up. Certainly, the least expensive thing to do would be to put her to sleep, but I spent most of the last six years learning how to deal with this sort of thing. I am pretty confident I can save her.”
Jones searched my eyes.
I did my best to look professional and self-assured.
“How much, Doc?”
“It would be three dollars to put her to sleep
, probably at least a hundred if we try to save her. Here’s the deal. I’m new. I’m anxious to prove what I can do, and I want the challenge of trying to save this dog.” I glanced at the two children. “It appears to me that Skipper is pretty special.”
He reached out and petted the dog’s head again. Skipper responded with a single tail thump that seemed to resonate through the room.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Jones—I’ll make a hundred dollars the limit.”
Jones looked at me and blinked his eyes, fighting tears.
“Well, I don’t know... I gave twenty bucks for her, and she’s one of the best cow dogs in this part of the country, but a hundred...
“I’ll do everything possible to keep the cost down, but I can’t promise anything more than to limit everything to no more than a hundred dollars. Most of that will be drugs and supplies. I’m essentially donating my time, knowledge, and effort.”
Both children were searching their parents’ faces, first their dad’s and then their mom’s, their eyes and heads moving back and forth, almost in unison. Neither of the children said anything. Both reached up simultaneously and patted Skipper’s head. The dog raised her head slightly. Her tail beat a rhythm on the tabletop.
“OK, Mr. Jones, how about this?” I said. “Let me start the intravenous drip and give her some anesthetic. We’ll treat her for shock, and once she’s anesthetized, she won’t hurt anymore. If you decide you want to put her to sleep, we can go ahead and do that. The IV and the anesthetic will only cost you a couple of dollars extra.”
“What do you think, Kath?” asked the rancher.
She shrugged. “It’s up to you. It’s a lot of money, and she might still be a cripple. Is that right, Doc?”
The boy couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “Please, Dad.” Then he clenched his mouth shut.
The little girl chimed in. “Yeah, pleath, Dad, we have to.”
The rancher sighed. “OK... you guys understand this means no Christmas or birthday gifts this year?”
The boy and girl looked at each other.
“We know,” the boy said.
“Pleath, Doc, make her all better,” the little girl added.
The rancher gave his wife a questioning look. She nodded her agreement. No Christmas or birthday gifts for her either.
I clipped the hair over the cephalic vein, the large vein on the top of her front leg, occluded it with my left thumb, and slipped in a twenty-gauge needle. I hooked up an IV drip and secured the needle to the leg with adhesive tape. I ran in about two hundred milliliters of saline as fast as it would go and then slowed the drip to a drop per second. After the dog’s heart rate slowed, I anesthetized her with half the normal calculated dose of pentobarbital and put in an endotracheal tube.
“The tube in her windpipe is to make certain she can breathe without any trouble,” I explained, “just a precaution. I’ll call you as soon as I finish with her and let you know how things go. It will probably take several hours, so don’t worry if you don’t hear from me until late. OK, Mr. Jones?”
“Look, Doc, every time you say “Mr. Jones,” I look around for my dad, and he died five years ago. I’m John; this is my wife, Kathy, our son, Ferdie, and our daughter, Jenny.”
“Hi, Kathy,” I said nodding at her. I reached out my hand to Ferdie.
“Ferdie, how old are you?”
“I’m gonna be ten in a couple of months.” The boy talked and looked like a miniature of his father, sans the potbelly.
“Wow, I thought you were at least eleven. Jenny, you’re how old?”
“Thixth.” She was missing her front teeth.
I smiled. “Well, I’m very happy to meet all of you, and I promise I’ll do the best I can for Skipper.”
The rancher put one meaty arm around Kathy’s shoulders and gathered his children in with the other. “OK, group, we did everything we could for Skipper. Doc promised to do his best, and the forecast is for rain in a couple of days. I’ve got to get the hay in. Let’s go home. Doc, you’ve got our phone number?”
“Got it,” I answered.
“OK then. See you.”
After they left, I called Rosalie. “I’m here alone, and I’m going to need your help to do some surgery on a dog.”
“OK, I can stop dinner, put everything in the refrigerator, and be there in ten or fifteen minutes.”
While I waited for her to arrive, I gathered all the surgical instruments I thought I might need, made up a pack, and put it into the autoclave. I had just started clipping the hair away from the wound on the left forelimb when I heard Rosalie enter the waiting room.
“I’m here. Where are you?” she called.
“Wait! Don’t come into the exam room yet.”
I went out to the waiting room. “Listen, this is not pretty. The dog got in the way of a mowing machine, and three of her legs are practically cut off. I’m going to try to patch her up, but I need you to get me anything I might need while I’m scrubbed in. Think you can do that?”
She nodded. I kissed her on the cheek, took her hand, and led her into the treatment room.
“Oh,” she said, backing up. “It smells.” She puckered and twisted her mouth to the left, wrinkled her nose, and squinted her eyes.
I had neglected to warn her about the odors that an outdoor dog, blood, and dirt would generate.
“Whoops... sorry. I’m so accustomed I hadn’t noticed. Now that you mention it, the smell does kinda permeate the room.”
She held her hand over her face looking directly at Skipper on the table. All four legs were sticking over the edge. The three injured paws hung down at right angles, pointing at the floor.
“You didn’t notice? Peeugh... I don’t feel so good!”
“Tell me what all you did today,” I suggested. “Talk to me. Don’t look at her; look at me. Do you need to sit down? What were you making for dinner?”
“You can’t be serious? You want to talk about food?”
She went into the waiting room, dragged a chair to the doorway of the exam room, and sat down putting her head between her knees.
After fifty-plus years experience as a veterinarian, I’ve observed a basic difference between men and woman. When a woman is feeling light-headed or woozy while I’m working on their animal, they will go away and sit down until it passes. Men, and especially teenage boys, will grit their teeth and continue to watch until the back of their head bounces off the floor.
I clipped all the hair from the lower part of each injured leg and cleaned off the dirt and foreign material. I carried Skipper into the operating room and taped a small piece of cotton so it fell over the open end of the tracheal tube.
“Baby, you OK? Can you come in here now? I need you to watch her breathing while I’m doing other things. The cotton moves every time she takes a breath. See how regular it is?”
Rosalie joined me in the exam room.
“Yeah,” she answered, nodding her head.
“OK, let me know if her breathing pattern changes or stops.”
As I disinfected the skin around the wounds, I explained what I was about to do. “I’m going to have a surgical gown, gloves, cap, and mask on and won’t be able to touch anything that’s not sterile. Everything I might need is in this cabinet,” I said, showing her. “I’ll put everything I can think of on this sterile instrument tray before I start, but if I need something more, you’ll have to get it for me. The most likely will be more suture material.”
I showed her how to identify and open packs of suture and how to drop them onto the instrument tray without contaminating anything. I opened a pair of size eight-and-one-half surgical gloves and dropped them on the instrument tray. With everything arranged, I put on a surgical mask and cap, scrubbed my hands and arms, and put on a surgical gown. Rosalie, following my instructions, tied it in back, careful to avoid touching me. I put on the gloves throwing the sterile paper wrapping into a kick bucket.
I draped each wound with sterile towels and then put a
large drape over the dog covering everything but the wounds. First, I cleaned the left forepaw carefully trimming away dead and injured tissue.
“This is good. The superficial flexor tendon is not transected.”
“Transected?”
“Not cut all the way through. I can suture the part that’s cut, and it should heal. I can also realign the metacarpal bones by palpation and splint them; that should work.”
Rosalie smiled, “If you say so.”
I closed the skin over the reconstruction and turned my attention to the right forepaw. As I dissected, there was a sudden spurting of bright red arterial blood. I applied pressure with a gauze sponge, searched for the end of the vessel with a mosquito forceps, found the artery, and clamped and ligated it.
“I don’t know if there’s enough blood supply to keep this paw alive, but it seems to be reasonably warm, and we’re kinda in luck. Both the superficial and deep flexor tendons are intact; the suspensory ligament’s just nicked. This might work.” I was more hopeful.
I aligned the fractured metacarpal bones and closed the skin.
“This left hind leg isn’t as badly cut. I’ll align the tibial fracture when I have a Thomas splint ready.”
“What’s a Thomas splint?” Rosalie asked.
“I’ll show you in a bit.”
Rosalie put in a stellar performance. She reported changes in Skipper’s breathing and twice followed my instructions and administered small additional doses of the anesthetic. As the surgery progressed, she watched with more interest as I cleaned and reconstructed the tissues. She started asking questions about what I was doing and why. I put in the last skin suture and stretched my back. It was after nine.
“OK, I’m putting sterile bandages over each skin wound, and I’ll cut the hand off this plastic rectal sleeve like this and then cut what’s left in half leaving two tubes.”
“What’s a rectal sleeve?” Rosalie asked.
“Oh, sorry, we use these to do rectal exams on horses and cattle. See, it pulls all the way up to my shoulder,” I demonstrated. “Then when I take it off, I just invert it and the manure’s on the inside.”