Animals Don't Blush

by David R Gross

  George leaned over her shoulder. “Just eat the tenderloin part of it,” he told her quietly, pointing to the inside of the T-bone. “That’s the most tender and flavorful. We’ll pack up anything you don’t eat, and you can make a stew from it or feed it to Mister.” Then he was gone again.

  “Aren’t you surprised to find a plush place like this here, with the smell of the stockyards just outside the door?” Rosalie asked me.

  “It is unique, isn’t it?”

  During the meal, we chatted about Sidney and about what I had been doing all week. Rosalie filled me in on what the Jones family was doing. After our visit to the ranch for Sunday dinner, she and Kathy talked almost daily. I finished my steak and most of the potato. Rosalie ate just the tenderloin portion of her steak and maybe a fourth of the potato. There was still an inch of wine left in the bottle when we pushed our plates away and leaned back, satiated. Only one other booth still housed customers.

  George appeared at my shoulder. “You guys done?”

  “Stuffed, George,” I answered.

  “You spoke the truth. That was the best meal ever,” added Rosalie.

  “Molly,” George spoke to the waitress, “please clear their plates and bring back Mrs. Gross’s steak in a doggie bag.” He split the remaining wine between our glasses.

  “You ready for dessert?”

  “Mr. Kemper, I can’t possibly eat another bite,” Rosalie said.

  “George, please,” he insisted. “You’ll make me feel ancient if you don’t call me George. How ’bout you, Doc?”

  “I think I have barely enough room for a cup of coffee, but not much else,” I replied.

  We invited George to sit down for conversation, and Rosalie effortlessly proceeded to extract his story.

  “I was raised on a ranch in the Badlands but left home before the Simpson brothers started school. I served in the infantry in World War II and fought in France and Germany. While in France, I met and fell in love with a French girl. After I mustered out of the army, I returned to France and married her. Her family is the third generation to own and operate the same maison in Reims. We lived in France for six years while I learned the restaurant and hotel business. I finally convinced Marie to come back to Sidney with me in 1952, and we opened this place, but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, get used to living away from her family. She returned to France last year. I stayed here. We aren’t divorced, but I suppose that will happen eventually. She doesn’t want to live here, and I don’t want to live in France. Luckily, we don’t have any children to complicate things.”

  “So, does Doctor Schultz bring his family here?” I asked. “He’s never mentioned the place to me.”

  “Rarely. When they do, it’s usually with the whole Watts clan, Mrs. Schultz’s family. When that outfit is here, the place becomes somber. They’re the most disliked family in the county. I don’t know of anyone who has had business dealings with them who thought it was a pleasurable experience. How are you getting along with Mrs. Schultz?”

  “Well, about the only time I have contact with her is when I get my check at the end of the month. She’s not overly warm and makes no attempt to be friendly, but the checks all clear,” I said.

  “Well, Doc Schultz is a good guy, but if you have to do business with the Watts clan, you’d best be careful. I just bought some land, about a hundred acres, from the lawyer brother, and he did his best to screw me, but unsuccessfully.” George smiled.

  “Oh? Whereabouts is the property?” I asked.

  “It’s just this side of the bridge, on the south side of the road. There’s been a ‘for sale’ sign on it for some time. You’ve probably seen it.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s a nice spot; has some river frontage too, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I’m in the process of fixing up the house. I think I’ll keep my house in town as a rental property once the farmhouse is finished.”

  “Well, George, we might be interested in renting your place if we can afford it. We’re getting pretty tired of living underground,” I told him.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you paying to rent that basement?” he asked.

  “Seventy-five a month,” answered Rosalie.

  “Well, my house only has two bedrooms and one bath, but the rooms are all pretty good size, including the kitchen. The basement is unfinished, but it’s dry and good for storage. I could let you have it for a hundred a month.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” said Rosalie, looking at me for confirmation.

  I nodded. “Let us know when you’re ready to move. We’ll need to buy some furniture, but in a few months we can probably manage.”

  “I’m buying all new kitchen appliances for the new place, so I can leave you the stove and refrigerator,” said George.

  The bill for our meal was $14.50 including the wine. Last of the big spenders, I left a $3.50 tip for Molly.

  Chapter 12: Chicken Soup

  Dr. Schultz, raised on a pig farm sixty miles west of Des Moines, Iowa, was a veteran of World War II. When the war ended, he returned to Iowa and took advantage of the GI Bill. He attended Iowa State University and graduated from the veterinary school there in 1951. During his second year of vet school, he married Cheryl Watts, who was majoring in home economics until she found a husband. Their first son was born six months after their wedding. They lived in Veterans Village in a Quonset hut, as did many other veterans and their families. Since her hometown did not have a veterinarian, her wealthy father convinced the couple to make their home in Sidney where he set Schultz up in practice.

  Dr. Schultz was a good mentor for me. He was unassuming and competent and encouraged me to attempt whatever I felt comfortable doing. He was always willing to offer help and advice but only if I asked for it. He probably knew everything worthwhile there was to know about doctoring pigs and cattle and was happy to let me do most of the work on horses and small animals.

  Dr. Schultz and I were sitting in the office chatting when the phone rang. Dick answered it.

  “Sidney Animal Hospital.... What?... Well, cook it.... Oh, OK, I’m sorry. I’ll ask one of the doctors.”

  He stood in the doorway to the office. “What do you do for a chicken with a broken leg?”

  We answered in unison: “Make chicken soup!”

  “Tried that. She was irritated with me and let me know it. It’s a pet rooster.”

  Dr. Schultz turned to me. “You’re the small animal expert. I don’t want any part of this deal. In fact I’m going out to feed my pigs.”

  Unable to escape his Iowa pig farmer genes, Dr. Schultz kept a boar and half a dozen sows around at all times, selling weaned piglets to farmers with feed to spare. He kept his animals in the hospital barn in the winter and in some outside pens when the weather was warm.

  “Well,” I said, “tell her I can probably set the leg and it should heal but it will cost the same as for a cat or dog. I’ll have to anesthetize it, set the leg, and put it in a splint. Then I’ll have to take radiographs to make certain it is properly aligned. It will probably cost her at least twenty-five, maybe thirty dollars.”

  “That ought to bring her to her senses,” Dick muttered returning to the reception desk.

  “Doc says he can fix it, but it will cost you twenty-five or thirty dollars, needs X-rays, and he’ll have to set it and splint it.... Yeah, well OK. He’s here now. If you bring it in right away, he’ll take care of it.”

  Even in 1961, exotic pets were becoming a part of the practice.

  ***

  Janice Freeman was not the person I was expecting. She was almost as tall as I. A luxuriant mass of light-brown, curly hair with a few streaks of gray sprang in multiple directions from her head. Her eyes were widespread, child-like, pale blue. Her fingers were long, the nails painted bright red. Her handshake was as firm as any man’s, but her hand was soft, feminine. She wore no wedding ring. She was dressed in very tight new jeans, pressed, with sharp creases front and back. Her white oxford blouse wa
s tucked into her jeans emphasizing her attributes.

  “Dr. Gross, thank you for agreeing to take care of Banty. He’s my baby.”

  The bantam rooster tucked under her left arm was pressing into her bosom. Considering the obviously fractured left tibia, he was seemingly content to be held, at least in that position.

  “I’m always happy for a new experience,” I said, “and treating a chicken with a broken leg will be an entirely new experience for me.”

  “Well,” she said, “Banty is not an ordinary chicken. He’s my buddy, and I want him whole and healthy.”

  “OK,” I said. “Let’s take him into the treatment room and see what can be done. How did this happen?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” she said. “He was out in the back yard. I have a chicken-wire protected area with a converted doghouse for shelter for him. The pen is strong enough to keep out hawks, as well as ground predators. When I went out to feed him this morning the pen was intact, but I found him like this.”

  “Is he always this calm?” I asked.

  “When I hold him he is,” she said.

  “Well, that’s good. The biggest problem I thought we would have is anesthetizing him so I could set the leg. Giving him an anesthetic could be fatal. If he remains as calm as he is now, we might be able to do what we need to do without anesthesia.”

  Miss Freeman continued to hold the rooster under her arm while I constructed and fit yet another Thomas splint. I was getting quite adept at fashioning these devices. The rooster didn’t respond to the manipulation of his broken leg the whole time I was fitting the splint. Once I had the splint constructed, I taped his foot to the end of it, easily manipulated the fracture to align the ends, and taped the leg in place.

  “Now let’s get some radiographs to make certain the fracture is aligned properly,” I said.

  Taking the radiographs proved to be more difficult than setting the leg. Miss Freeman and I put on lead aprons, and she held Banty with a hand on either side of his body, With one cumbersome lead-lined glove, I tried to hold the end of the Thomas splint in position for a slightly oblique anterior-posterior view of the fracture and the X-ray cassette under his leg with the other gloved hand. Banty managed to free both wings and commenced to twist and turn while beating his wings, squawking all the while. Miss Freeman let go, and I was holding the bird by the splint, with the impossible-to-manipulate glove. I shook off the opposite glove and managed to grab him before he escaped the table.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t expect him to struggle like that. We were hurting him, I think.”

  “I don’t think so,” I answered. “I think we put him in an abnormal position, and he was responding to that.”

  I held the bird with both hands, the glove still on my right hand. Banty started pecking with enthusiasm and evil intent on the glove.

  “Can you try to hold him again, Miss Freeman? Maybe pick him up and put him under your arm again. He seems comfortable with that.”

  She did, and Banty calmed immediately. I took a clean towel from a drawer and, with her help, wrapped the bird with the towel, leaving just the splinted leg free. Once his head was covered, Banty became still.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have wrapped him like this from the onset. It would have made things easier.”

  With Miss Freeman holding him, still wrapped in the towel, I was able to get the two radiographic views I needed. I exited the darkroom with the still dripping films in their holders. Banty was unwrapped and again content under his mistress’s left arm. I held the films up to the viewer and pointed out the site of the fracture.

  “The alignment is very good,” I said.

  “Would it be possible for me to have a copy of those X-rays?” she asked.

  I was puzzled. “I really don’t have any way to copy them,” I said, “and I’m supposed to keep all radiographs as part of the patient’s records.”

  “OK, I understand. What if I come back with my camera and take a photo of the X-rays here? Would that be OK?”

  Now I was really puzzled. “Sure, I guess. Do you think that would work? Why do you want them?”

  “Just like to have them.” She smiled.

  Miss Freeman returned that same afternoon setting up a very expensive-looking thirty-five millimeter, single-lens reflex camera on a tripod. She took several photos of the X-rays on the view box, changing settings each time.

  When I arrived at the hospital the next morning, that day’s edition of the Sidney Herald was on my desk. On the front page was a photo of Banty walking on his splint and another photo of his radiographs. The headline proclaimed: “New Vet Does His Thing.”

  I looked at the masthead of the paper and found Janice Freeman listed as the special features editor.

  Part III: Winter 1960‒61

  Chapter 13: Siam

  Winter took a firm grasp on the practice. Outside, the incessant wind pushed the cold through any amount of clothing and outer garments. Dr. Schultz and Don were out on calls. I was in the office, warm, cozy, dozing with my feet up on the desk. I heard a car drive up and someone getting out and then screaming, the sound tomcats make while fighting over a female in heat.

  I walked into the waiting room as Mrs. Neilsen came through the door. The head of a Siamese cat poked out from its baby blanket wrapping, the source of the awful racket. Mrs. Neilsen was white haired, trim. She changed arms holding the constantly wailing cat while removing a long overcoat. She was dressed neatly in a wool suit.

  “Mr. Mathes,” she addressed Dick, “is one of the vets here to take care of Siam? She has been carrying on like this since early this morning. I don’t understand it. She was fine yesterday, playful, ate her dinner. I just don’t understand what’s going on. She’s in terrible pain.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Neilsen. This is Dr. Gross. He’ll take care of Siam.”

  I walked over and held out my hands. “Hello, Mrs. Neilsen. Let me take her, and we’ll see what we can figure out. Something is certainly making her terribly unhappy.”

  The caterwauling continued as I took Siam into the exam room and put her on the stainless steel exam table. I removed the hand-knitted, powder-blue baby blanket from around her and just managed to catch her as she tried to jump off the table, holding her by the scruff of the neck. Her back arched, her abdomen tucked in pain. The scleras of both eyes were rife with bulging blood vessels and were a brownish color, rather than their normal white. The mucous membranes of her mouth were also off-color, and her perfusion time, the time it takes for the membranes to turn pink again after pressing a finger and blanching them, was slower than normal. Her heart rate was fast, but her heart sounds were normal, as were her breath sounds. Her rectal temperature was a little lower than normal. Her hair coat was shiny, well cared for, but her screaming intensified when I gently palpated her abdomen.

  “Well, Mrs. Nielsen, Siam has some serious abdominal problems, but I’m not certain what they are. I need to do some blood work on her and take some radiographs, X-rays. I’m going to give her a tranquilizer to make her more comfortable and make it easier for me to position her for the radiographs. You can leave her, or if you prefer, you can wait in the waiting room. It shouldn’t take more than an hour or so, and I should have some answers for you.”

  “That’s fine, Doctor. I’ll just wait until you can tell me what is wrong. Her screaming is awful, is it not?”

  I gave the cat an intramuscular injection of Acepromazine. Dick came into the kennel room as I put her in a cage and handed me a folder containing the cat’s records. I looked through the file as I walked to the waiting room.

  “Let me get a little more history while the tranquilizer is taking effect,” I said to Mrs. Neilsen. “You say the signs of pain started just this morning?”

  “Yes, she ate her dinner last night, finished it right off. Generally, she is a little fussy, but last night she seemed very hungry, almost wolfed it down. Then, after I finished doing the dishes from dinner, the mister and I were in the
living room. I was darning some socks and had my mending basket on my lap. I dropped a spool of thread on the floor, and she was playing with it, batting it around the room, and chasing it.”

  I looked up. “A spool of thread. Did she unravel it?”

  “Now that you mention it, she did unravel it. It was just some ordinary black mending thread, and I have several spools of it, so I didn’t care. She was having such fun with it. Before I went to bed, I picked up the spool from the floor. It was empty. I didn’t think anything of it, just assumed I would find the thread the next time I vacuumed the carpet.”

  “You know, my mom has a habit of sticking the needle she’s using into the spool of thread when she’s done mending. Do you do that?” I asked.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I sometimes do. I usually stick it through the paper on the end of the spool. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes, was there a needle on the spool when you picked it up?”

  “No, now that you mention it, I don’t remember that there was, but I didn’t think anything about it. I don’t always attach the needle to the spool. You don’t suppose she ate a needle. Oh my word!”

  “It’s a possibility and would explain her symptoms. If she did swallow a needle, it should show up on the radiographs. It sounds as though the tranquilizer has taken effect. I’ll get started.”

  Cats with sore abdomens are difficult. I had to rule out pyometria, an infection of the uterus, an abdominal tumor, kidney problems, a host of GI problems, and a long list of other things. First, I got a blood sample and took the time to do red and white blood cell counts and a differential blood cell count. The white blood cell count was a little high, but the differential count was within normal limits. I asked Dick to help me by holding Siam in position to take radiographs of the thorax and abdomen, both lateral and dorso-ventral. I took the plates into the dark room and developed the film. When I put up the films in the viewer, the problem was obvious. I called Mrs. Neilsen into the treatment room and showed her the radiographs.