“I’ve mentioned my PITA charge before, DeGroote,” I said icily. The Pain In The Ass surcharge for recalcitrant or unpleasant clients is a useful innovation when dealing with such as DeGroote. He has even paid it, on occasion.
He thrust open the driver’s door and descended with a grunt. DeGroote and his entire brood are as blond as golden retrievers. The sons and daughters have some of the amiability of that happy breed; the old man does not. He wore green overalls with smears of cow manure down the bib, a billed John Deere cap, and a mutinous expression. “Ingrid was complainin’ so much about that durn horse and the lameness, I brought it over myself.” He nodded respectfully to Madeline, blushed in Allegra’s direction, and assessed young Turnblad with a speculative glance. Then he leaned against the side of the truck and spat another wad of tobacco juice onto my lawn. “Well, get to it, doc. Time’s money.”
I walked to the back of the trailer, trailed by my dog and my wife. Joe Turnblad, after a moment’s hesitation, came with us. Madeline smiled encouragingly at Allegra, who slipped between Joe and me with a determined air.
Ingrid, for such is DeGroote’s eldest daughter’s name, backed her reluctant gelding off the truck and onto the gravel. It was a sorry excuse for a horse. Swaybacked, ewe-necked, cow-hocked behind, and pigeon-toed in front, the god of horses had not missed one conformation flaw in the design of this particular animal. Its coat was an uninspiring shade of liver and it had a small, mean eye.
Ingrid patted its sweaty neck and looked at me with hope-filled eyes. They were the same washed-out blue as her father’s. “What do you think, Dr. McKenzie? He pulled up lame for sure this morning. He’s been a little off all week. But I had a heck of a time getting him out of his stall this morning.”
Allegra patted his neck, too. “He’s beautifully groomed,” she said with great tact. Either that, or she didn’t know a horse from a donkey. “You must love him very much. You did just the right thing in bringing him to us.”
Ingrid gave her a grateful look.
Mindful of DeGroote’s impatient grunt, I said, “Ingrid. Will you walk him up and down the drive, please?”
She tugged at the lead line, and the poor beast stumbled forward. He was limping heavily on the right fore. And his gait was not so much a stumble as a combination hop and scramble. I held my hand up. “Stop.” I raised one eyebrow at Joe Turnblad. “Do you have an opinion?”
He smiled at the girl. “What’s his name, Ingrid?”
“Sultan,” she said. She turned pink and looked at her feet.
Joe patted Sultan on the neck. The horse jerked back and glared at him. Then he stood directly in front of the animal and bent forward to pick up the left fore.
“Wrong foot,” Allegra said pleasantly.
So she did know a horse from a donkey.
Joe’s chin jutted. He dropped the left fore and picked up the right.
“Wrong stance, too,” Allegra said. “Watch it. Unless you want to get kicked.” She was wrong about the kick, though. Sultan was a biter. He leaned forward and sank his teeth into Joe’s shoulder. Oh, dear. The poor boy’s second assault by equine—and the day wasn’t over yet.
Joe jumped back and the horse let go. As I had noted before, Joe displayed no animus toward the horse, a point that counted heavily in his favor.
A little instruction would not be amiss at this point. I moved to Sultan’s right flank. “Always approach a horse from the side. If you are investigating a possible wound, approach the afflicted area with the same degree of circumspection.”
Splat! DeGroote’s third wad of tobacco landed neatly on top of the second. “I’m not payin’ you by the word, am I, doc?”
I ignored him and addressed my student. “Slide your hand down the shoulder, down the forearm, and over the hoof. Then tap,” I struck Sultan’s ankle with my knuckles, “and lift when the horse moves forward.” I kept the upturned hoof between my knees and brushed away the straw accumulated there. There it was, the dark, bruised spot on the sole that indicated the site of the abscess. Sultan reared, and I dropped the hoof. I felt Madeline’s warm hand on my arm. “I think we can leave this to the youngsters, Austin.”
I took a deep breath, more to taste the morning air than anything else, of course. “I’m fine, my dear.” I looked from Joe to Allegra and back again. “I assume one of you, at least, has some questions?”
“Is he pastured with other horses?” Joe asked. “Could be a kick.”
“It’s not a kick,” Allegra said. “Sultan’s a Quarterhorse. And he’s got the typical Quarterhorse hoof, which is to say, it’s too small for his size.” She patted Sultan’s sweaty flank. “Did you just put him out on grass, Ingrid? We may be looking at a case of founder.”
This was a good question. An oversupply of spring grass can founder many a horse. It is a common complaint in the months when the grass is lush.
“Laminitis hits both feet at once,” Joe with the certainty of one who had thoroughly read the text. “The lameness comes from a kick to the shoulder.”
“None of that’s right,” Allegra responded, with the wisdom born of experience. “And besides, the sore is in the hoof, not the shoulder. You can see it just from the way he’s holding it up.”
Young Allegra was right on the money. It can be difficult to pinpoint the source of a lameness, but Sultan was, indeed, sore in the hoof. There is no substitute for the experienced eye.
“Well, he hasn’t foundered,” Joe said with certainty, “And if it’s navicular, it’s an atypical case.”
There is no substitute for the well read, either. Joe was also right on the money.
“Then, maybe it’s a stone bruise?” Allegra said. Even my un-intuitive ear picked up her uncertainty.
“Nope,” Joe said. “Navicular, possibly.”
I decided it would be wise to intervene before Allegra clobbered her rival with the nearest blunt instrument. “Allegra is closest to the proper diagnosis, Joe. Pick up the hoof and examine the sole, young lady.”
She did so. “I was right, I think. See? There’s the bruise, right there.”
“There’s heat in the ankle,” Joe said, as he bent next to her. Joe’s hair, I noticed, was the color of a Hershey bar, too. It had been a long while since Madeline had included sweets in my diet. “You don’t get heat in the ankle with a stone bruise.”
“Correct again,” I said. “Drop the hoof, back off, and we will proceed.” I raised an eyebrow in Madeline’s direction. “My dear? The twitch?”
Madeline went to the van, retrieved the disinfectant kit and bucket, the twitch, and the farrier tools. She set these at my side. She then applied the twitch expertly to Sultan’s muzzle and spoke softly into his ear.
Sultan sneered at me. But he stood angrily in place while I selected a short, curved scalpel from my kit. Then I stood with my back to the horse, picked up the affected hoof and wedged it between my knees. I cut quickly into the discolored area of the sole. Pus spurted from the cut and ran freely over the hoof walls. I felt Sultan relax as the painful pressure was alleviated. I even felt a grateful puff of air in my ear. The poor fellow felt better, and wanted to let me know it.
“Behold the abscess,” I said. I continued to hold the foot aloft. “And what is the next step?”
“Pack it with antibiotic and wrap the hoof,” Joe said.
“Soak it first, fool,” Allegra said.
They glared at each other. Madeline handed me the squeeze bottle of Betadine and I splashed the hoof cavity generously. “Soaking in a solution of Betadine and warm water is indicated, certainly,” I said as I straightened up. “But Ingrid will want to take the horse home, first.” My wife, already anticipating my next move, handed me gauze, Vetrap, and a roll of duct tape. “No veterinary practice should be without duct tape,” I instructed. “You will note, Mr. Turnblad, that I stuff the hoof cavity with sterile gauze, then contain the pad of gauze thusly . . .” I wrapped a roll of Vetrap around the hoof and pad, then swathed the whole shebang with du
ct tape. “As you see Mr. Turnblad, Miss Fulbright, the hoof is protected from detritus, but the abscess is allowed to drain into the gauze pad. Ingrid? When you return home, you should indeed soak Sultan’s hoof. Miss Fulbright, could you share with us the procedure for caring for the abscess, please?”
Allegra smiled triumphantly at Joe and said rather pertly, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to tell us, Mr. Turnbald?”
“Turn-blad,” he said, with a slight grinding of teeth. “And you’re right, Miss Fulbright, I haven’t a clue.”
“Hmmm. Well. I’m sure you’ll get to wound care one of these years. In the meantime, there’s no substitute for hands-on experience, right, Mrs. McKenzie?”
Allegra gave Ingrid succinct instructions on the length of time needed to soak the hoof, the ratio of Betadine to water for the solution, and the number of times the procedure should be repeated each week. I handed Joe a vial of antibiotic and a syringe; he injected the horse handily, and the treatment was over.
“He should be ready now, Mrs. McKenzie,” Joe said. He clapped the horse on the neck.
Madeline released the twitch and rubbed Sultan’s muzzle to restore the circulation. The horse placed his chin on her shoulder. He rolled a cross and baleful eye at Joe, the source of the painful needle. Then he heaved such an enormous sigh of disgust that a chuckle went around the assembled observers.
“You’re all right, Sultan,” Madeline soothed him. She smiled at our two candidates for employment. “And you’re all right, too.” She winked. “It’s just that sometimes you’re the bug, and sometimes you’re the windshield.”
Four
THE DeGrootes were billed and then dispatched. Allegra and Joe stood somewhat uncertainly in the middle of the barnyard. They carefully avoided looking at one another. They even more carefully avoided looking at me.
I myself was not sure what to do next. Clearly, our candidates were evenly divided. Just as clearly, neither alone would suit. Joe lacked practical large-animal experience; Allegra the theoretical. We did not have sufficient funds to hire both.
King Solomon’s position was not, as I now recall, an enviable one. Particularly as it pertained to babies. Which is what these two children looked like to me.
“Austin,” Madeline said decisively. “Stop chewing your mustache.”
“My dear?”
“Why don’t you let Joe give you a hand in the barn.” This was not a question. “It’s almost time for evening chores. Allegra? I could use a hand with dinner. And I want you to see the rest of the house. Let’s save the chat about the job until after we eat.”
I tried to recall to whom King Solomon was married. I could not. Whoever recorded those biblical events could not have been as luckily wed as I am, or the individual would have not failed to note the role of his queen in the successful management of the state of Israel.
“Excellent suggestions, my dear. Mr. Turnblad? If you will follow me.”
It took some time to acquaint Joe with the evening clinic routine, not because it was onerous, but because the young man was full of questions. We generally stable Pony and Andrew at night in the spring, and he was full of admiration at Lincoln’s expertise in rounding up Pony and getting her into her stall. He expressed a desire to know more of the work involved in Obedience and Herding trials. I taught him the rudiments of calf handling as he successfully (this time) set up the feeder for the little Red Angus. And his experience with the care of small animals surprised me. He was quite competent with the two cats recovering from spaying procedures, and the marbled black-and-gray part Labrador puppy, whose hip I’d pinned after discovering him on the verge of Route 15 the day before, a victim of a careless driver.
“Saw a lot of broken hips and legs in the clinic in New York City,” Joe said, as he probed the surgery site with the right degree of gentleness. “Feels like it’s knitting fairly well. I see you have a portable X-ray? That’s great to have on hand in cases like this, sir. So is the rest of that stuff.”
He nodded at the small array of diagnostic machines that lined the far wall. My clinic itself is modest; one might even say minimal. I had obtained most of my machinery as Cornell auctioned it off as obsolete. Victor Bergland had barely been able to conceal his derision when he attended the opening-day ceremonies. No such snobbery characterized Joe’s response.
“A clinical chemistry analyzer, too. Stocks for the large animals, operating table, lots of lights, and portable anesthesiology equipment . . .” He grinned. “We could have used a lot of this at the shelter where I worked as a kid. What more could you want?”
“A larger patient load, perhaps,” I admitted.
“An assistant could free your time up to attend to more patients, sir.”
“Hmph.” I eased the Lab pup back into its cage and hardened my heart to its whimpers. Lincoln touched his nose to the Lab’s in reassurance, and I eased the wire door closed. “Madeline will be expecting us for dinner.”
It was chilly as we crossed the yard to the house. The temperature had dropped significantly, as it will in central New York in early spring, and we came through the back door to be greeted by warmth and the delicious scent of coq au vin. I disencumbered myself of my waterproof boots and looked at my home with happiness.
After Madeline’s sledgehammer assault on the interior walls of the farmhouse, our kitchen became a large, expansive space suitable to accommodate any numbers of students, friends, colleagues, and neighbors. The usual appliances occupy one end, our large mahogany table the other, and the woodstove sits benignly in between. The site is one to which Lincoln and I always repair with pleasure.
But the air was unusually fraught on this early evening. Even Lincoln seemed to feel it. He curled on his thick bed by the stove, stuck his nose under his tail, and watched us all with interest.
Allegra greeted me with deference. She fondled Lincoln’s ears with delight. She smiled at Joe with a snarl that demonstrated the whiteness of her eyeteeth. Joe offered Allegra a more artful insult by ignoring her—a beta dog often behaves as if a new and unwelcome member of the pack does not exist. Madeline tells me there is nothing more infuriating to a woman. As if any man or woman could ignore my splendid wife! In any event, Allegra’s putative hackles were much in evidence. I was not unaware of the reasons for this dissension, of course. I greeted my wife with a kiss and a regretful sigh.
“You were a long time, Austin.”
“Joe was most interested in the surgery. He has a swift and sure hand with injections.”
“And you noticed how good Allegra was with Sultan?”
We exchanged significant glances.
“I have yet to arrive at a recommendation. What are your thoughts?”
“We’ll talk about it after supper.”
While the two candidates assisted Madeline in the final preparation for our meal, I sat at the kitchen table and placed the résumés side by side. Young Joe was a scholarship student, albeit tuition only. He had worked full time throughout his undergraduate career.
The part of Connecticut from which Allegra hailed implied that she needed no financial assistance other than that provided by her wealthy father, as did the lower echelons of her academic career: the Chapin School; Swarthmore; and a year abroad in France. And now Cornell.
“Hm,” I said. Allegra glanced my way and chopped onions with an increased feverishness. Joe uncorked a bottle of Australian Shiraz with a spuriously unconcerned air.
Madeline set a plate of carrots, celery, and a no-fat yogurt dip in front of me. She threw her arm around my shoulder. We read along together while the youngsters shuffled nervously around the room.
Joe hailed from the Bronx. Since high school, his summer jobs had been with the Bronx division of the ASPCA and a small-animal clinic not far from the home of his grandmother. Hence his expertise with small animals. I was sadly familiar with the duties allocated part-time workers in such places. He would have seen a great deal of the nastier side of human nature, and even more of animal su
ffering. “Brave man,” I murmured.
“Some wine before dinner, sir?” Joe set a very full glass of the red at my right elbow. Allegra nipped in like a herder after an errant weanling, replaced the glass with one half full, and removed the glass to my left, which is, of course, the proper way to serve wine, no matter how informal the occasion. Joe retreated to the stove in a sulk.
I laid the top sheets of both résumés aside and reviewed the sections relating to personal pursuits. Allegra had competed successfully on the three-day event circuit for the past several years, a recreational pursuit that demands thousands of dollars. She had competed last year at Earlsdown itself. Joe listed his hobby as hiking—an excellent sport—that requires nothing more than the cost of a good pair of boots. Allegra spent a fair amount of time singing with various theater groups.
I chewed celery with little enthusiasm. A difficult choice, indeed. Madeline bent to my ear and whispered, “What’s up?”
“Could we perhaps make our decision based on need?”
“Allegra’s left her family. She wouldn’t tell me why.” Madeline dipped a carrot into the yogurt and thrust it between my teeth. “She’s stony broke. So’s Joe. The stony broke part, at least.”
I reflected for some moments, to no avail.
Allegra responded to Madeline’s request to set the table with nervous alacrity. By the time the table was laid and we were seated, Madeline had reminded me twice to stop chewing my mustache. To forestall any potentially uncomfortable discussion at dinner, I spoke at length on the media’s almost willful misrepresentation of Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease, to the enlightenment of both young hopefuls, I believe.
With the service of coffee and sherbet at the conclusion of the meal, conversation slowed, stalled, and languished into silence.
The silence was broken by the shrill of the front doorbell.
“I’ll get it,” Joe and Allegra said simultaneously.
Madeline shook her head. “Sit down, kids. It can’t be a patient. Nobody ever comes to the front door. Austin will get it. Who is it, Austin?” The question was delivered in the apparent belief that I could see through three inches of solid oak.
The Case of the Roasted Onion Page 5
