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

by Perrin, Dr. Dave

  Lizzy soaked up every morsel of Mrs. Melba's attention, staring back at her with big brown eyes. Occasionally, she stretched her Roman nose to nibble on the lapel of her owner's jacket.

  "So you want to be first, do you, Lizzy?" I squeezed between the rails on the front of the shed. Ducking the rafters, I continued to rub Lizzy's forehead until her "Mother" stepped into the pen to help. As if searching for treats, the goats circled around me, pulling at first a sleeve, then a pocket, then a pant leg.

  With Lizzy still competing for attention, we backed her into the corner. Before she realized what was going on, I introduced the tube into her nostril. She reared back, her eyes bulging in horror. She uttered a mournful little blat, like the sound of a baby crying for its mother, and the other goats scattered to the far end of the corral.

  "Take it easy, sweetie," soothed Mrs. Melba. "You know that Mom wouldn't do anything to harm you. This won't hurt a bit. It'll just feel funny when this nice man puts a tube into your tummy. We'll kill off all those nasty worms that are hiding down there."

  Her body rigid, Lizzy stared straight ahead as I passed the tube through her nasal cavity and into her pharynx. Moving it back and forth, I turned the tip upwards and pushed forward until she swallowed. To dilate the esophagus, I puffed on the tube and passed it down her throat into the stomach. After delivering the thiabendazole mixture, I followed with a syringe full of water as a chaser. With a puff of air, I emptied the tube and withdrew it.

  "See how easy that was, Lizzy; that didn't hurt at all. All those disgusting worms are going to die now, and you're going to feel so much better." Mrs. Melba continued placating Lizzy, but the look in the goat's eyes made it evident she wasn't buying it. The moment we released her, she scurried away to hide amidst the rest of the herd. Catching and handling the remaining four animals was far more difficult than it had been with Lizzy but, after a small rodeo, I tubed the last of them. We crawled out between the rails.

  "I thought you mentioned you had six nannies to deworm, Mrs. Melba."

  "I hope you don't mind my telling you, Dr. Perrin," she said in a disapproving tone, "that we goat breeders find it a sign of ignorance on the part of people who don't know goats, when they talk about 'nanny' goats and 'billy' goats. We much prefer to call a female goat a 'doe' and a male goat a 'buck.' "

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Melba, but didn't you mention that you had six 'does' to deworm?"

  Her smile was almost sinister. Whether it was in acceptance of my admission of ignorance or in anticipation of what was to follow, I wasn't sure.

  "We are finished the does, Dr. Perrin! All we have left is Sweet William."

  "Sweet William?"

  "Yes, Sweet William is my buck."

  Nearing the log shelter that housed William, I became aware of why I wouldn't strive for a large volume of goat work in my practice. Cuddly, nibbly, attention-loving nanny goats were one thing; stinky, obnoxious, unmanageable billies were another.

  Why the hell hadn't it dawned on me that I would be dealing with the notorious Sweet William? My feet dragged as I followed Mrs. Melba to his pen.

  As we got closer, the odour intensified. Between the rails on the front of the enclosure, I could make out the form of an enormous goat. He had a massive forehead that extended into a prominent Roman nose. His forelock was shaggy, his beard thick and greasy. Large floppy ears hung on either side of his face; his neck was broad and muscular. Comparing Sweet William to the delicate, gentle nannies, I wondered if he could possibly be a member of the same species.

  Standing in front of his paddock, I closed my eyes and focused on drawing in air. After four or five wimpy attempts, I was finally able to force in enough to call it a breath.

  William strained against the corral rails to reach us, peeling back his upper lip. As if frustrated by our lack of attentiveness, he went through the routine that characterizes a billy goat "in rut." Bending his head to his underbelly, he squirted jets of urine first onto his beard and then onto his forelock. Not content with that, he rubbed the poll of his head and his beard on both his sides, taking care to massage the urine into his hair. Excited now, he achieved an erection and ejaculated into his mouth and beard.

  Mrs. Melba expelled a long sigh. "He's really a dream to handle when he's not in mating season. When he's like this, I don't handle him much, and I certainly don't turn my back on him."

  As if to punctuate her statement, William returned to the depth of his log shack and first butted then mounted the rubber tire that had been hung there for his gratification.

  I summoned the courage to do what had to be done. Why was I contemplating this, anyway? If this woman had a skunk in a cage and wanted me to go in and wrestle it, would I feel obligated to do so? Was I looking for a gold star or a badge of honour? By the time I had made up my mind to crawl into the pen, my olfactory senses had faded, and I was almost able to draw normal breaths without the desire to gag.

  "Hand me the medication as soon as I have the tube in." I drew up the thiabendazole in the dose syringe and looked at it absently.

  Determined to get the job over with, I squeezed through the rails and entered William's domain. More curious than aggressive, he rubbed his forehead on my elbow. I pushed him aside, and he nibbled playfully at my coveralls.

  Desperate to avoid intimacy with William, I wondered how I could possibly hold the goat tightly enough to control him and get the tube into him without that wretched smell permeating my clothes and skin? I would have to burn these coveralls.

  I determined that the only way to proceed was to grasp William firmly by the neck and ears and force him to the back of the shelter. I moved towards him, and he backed obligingly into the corner. It was now or never. Grabbing him by the neck, I pushed my hip against his shoulder and forced him to the wall.

  William's neck was massive, and I was glad he didn't resist. He was still more curious than frightened. He was wondering, as I was, just what I would do next. The smell was so intense that I wanted to retch! How could he live with that stench?

  "Okay, Mrs. Melba, give me the tube."

  I was keenly cognizant of the fact that Mrs. Melba went through great pains to deliver the materials to me without entering the corral, and without coming into contact with Sweet William.

  Bloody woman didn't care what I smelled like! But she knew enough to stay outside. How did she talk me into this? I bet she had never found a vet fool enough to deworm William before.

  Stretching from the top rail of the corral, she tried to pass me the stomach tube. I reached as far as I dared without losing control of the goat and grasped the very tip of the tube with two fingers. As I brought the end to my mouth to hold onto it, it slipped and fell to the ground. Holding William against the wall with my arm, I stooped to pick up the tube. It was then that William made his move.

  "Look out!" screeched Mrs. Melba. "He's going to mount you!"

  The warning came too late. With a toss of his head, Sweet William freed himself from my grip and lunged forward. His front legs arched over my back, and the weight of his chest forced me to my knees. He lurched ahead, pushing my face to the ground. I felt a wet sensation as he slid his penis beneath my shirt collar and ejaculated over my neck and upper back. I struggled to get up but found myself pinned, as William rubbed his beard and scent gland into the small of my back.

  I positioned my hands under his chest and flung him over backwards. In a blind fury, I was no longer wary of his smell. As he scrambled to his feet, I pushed him into the corner.

  "Don't hurt him!" Mrs. Melba squealed in panic. "Maybe we should forget about him for today."

  "Forget about him? Never! Just get in here with that bloody syringe!"

  I crammed the tube into his nose and through his pharynx. He swallowed quickly, and I passed it on down. As though sensing the gravity of the moment, he stood stock-still, his eyes riveted straight ahead.

  "The syringe, Mrs. Melba!"

  Scrambling through the rails, she flushed the thiabendazol into
the end of the tube that I held out for her.

  "The chaser, Mrs. Melba!"

  She hurriedly produced the water and flushed the remaining medication into Sweet William. With a quick puff into the tube, I pulled it from his nose and released him. Shaking his head, William retired to the back of his pen, screwed up his lip, and watched me climb through the rails.

  I was regaining my composure by the time I reached the car and pulled off my coveralls. Mrs. Melba scurried behind me carrying my bucket and dose syringe.

  "Are you all right, Dr. Perrin?"

  All right! Why shouldn't I be all right? I always went around smelling like a billy goat; the back of my shirt was frequently saturated with semen.

  "Yes, Mrs. Melba...I'm just fine. Now I understand where the old saying 'hornier than a billy goat' comes from."

  Without a trace of a smile, she replied, "Buck, Dr. Perrin. William is a buck, not a billy goat!"

  For hours on end, I stared into the clear, starlit night thinking, hoping, dreaming about what the future held in store. Several times I gazed upon the brightest star and made my wish.

  Finally, I closed my eyes to visualize a well-appointed concrete block building on the edge of town. Its spacious waiting room brimmed with healthy flowering plants—on the reception desk, the window ledges, the counters. Two cozy examination rooms exited from the waiting room. The surgery sparkled of stainless steel complete with surgery lights, heart monitors, and gas anesthetic machines. The entire facility glowed, as natural light streamed in windows and skylights. The lab was the heart of the hospital; central to all stations, its counters were laden with microscopes, blood counting machines, and incubators. The kennel room was spacious with two banks of kennels—one for dogs and one for cats.

  At the rear of the hospital was a large-animal facility. From an unloading chute, an animal could be moved along an alley to a squeeze where it could be restrained and treated without endangering either the animal or the handler. In the centre was a surgery table used only for the occasional procedure on a horse or a bull. Next to it was the padded room for recovering patients. Its walls and floor were cushioned with so much foam rubber that I imagined floating on air when I stepped in.

  Star light, star bright...If only I could remember the rest of the incantation, maybe my fairy godmother or Gepetto's blue fairy would appear before me and wave her wand. I could see it all so clearly as I walked from room to room adding a counter here, a closet there, moving a telephone from one area to the next. Stopping at the reception desk, I browsed through drawer after drawer of patient files.

  When I opened my eyes, I was sitting on the top rail of the old verandah of an antiquated log house that I didn't even own. Although I was still without power, things had improved substantially over the last few days. The local dairymen and beefgrowers had confirmed their offer of a subsidy to establish my practice and provide reliable service for large animals. One of the dairymen, Phil Kemle, had volunteered to act as a temporary answering service, and the word spread throughout the valley that a new vet was in town and could be reached through the Kemles.

  A trip to Veitch Realty had been both depressing and uplifting. Depressing in that everything listed for purchase or for lease was more than what I wanted to pay. Uplifting because Gordon Veitch invited me to his home in Erickson for supper and a very enjoyable evening with his family.

  We had just finished eating when the telephone rang. Ruth answered it in her usual brusque tone, "Veitch residence, Ruth speaking... Yes. Yes, I do. As a matter of fact, he's here right now."

  Holding the phone out, she smiled, "For you, Doctor."

  "Dr. Perrin speaking." I was mystified by the unexpected call.

  "Dr. Perrin," said the woman, "I'm sorry to bother you after hours like this, but Gordon mentioned to me you were in town, and my dog just got hit by a car. He looks pretty bright and is able to walk, but he's bleeding all over from where he's banged up. There's a cut on the hind leg and a big hunk of skin missing from his front one, too—the wound on his hind leg looks pretty bad to me. I took a quick look at it but it grossed me right out."

  "Can you take a look at his gums?"

  "There's nothing wrong with his mouth!" She was taken aback by my stupid question. "It's his legs he's bleeding from."

  "I realize that. What I wanted you to do was check the colour of his gums to see if they're nice and pink, or if they've turned a real pale colour. It's a way of evaluating how much blood he's actually lost."

  "Oh, just a second, I'll go have a look."

  She was back in a few moments. "They're all black! Is that bad?"

  "Have a look higher up or further back in the mouth. The black colour is just pigment. If you look on both sides, you'll probably find a spot where the gums are not dark. When you do, just push on them so they blanch and see how long it takes for the colour to come back to pink again."

  I waited as she set down the phone and returned to the dog.

  "You're right. There's some pink at the back of his mouth, and when I push on the gums, they go pink right away."

  "That's good. That means he's not in shock, and it's very unlikely that he's bleeding internally."

  "Oh, good. Will you be able to come and have a look at him?"

  "I'll come over right away. Can you give me directions on how to get there? And by the way, what's your name?"

  "My name's Deb Anson, and I'm staying in unit three at Hi-way Cabins. How long do you think you'll be?"

  "I shouldn't be more than ten minutes."

  I returned to the table. Gordon had monitored the conversation and was smiling as if he'd just sold the half of main street that he didn't already own.

  Smirking at Ruth, he droned, "Deb sure didn't waste any time. This morning, when I had coffee with her, she said she was going to have to snare that big new vet in town. Looks like she's at it already."

  "Come on, Gordon," Ruth interjected. "She wouldn't run over her own dog just to get to meet Dave."

  "The hell she wouldn't! This morning, she didn't even have a dog. She said she was going to have to go out and get one so she could snag her long, tall vet."

  "You've got to be kidding," Ruth replied. "No one would go to that much trouble to meet somebody. She was probably joking when she said that!"

  "Tonight, she magically has a wounded dog! What more proof do you need? Deb's a very determined girl. She's over six feet tall and doesn't run into many guys that are taller than her."

  "I better go and have a look at the dog and see if there really is something wrong with him. Do you want to come along, Gordon? I may be in need of a chaperone."

  "I better not come." Gordon put on a deadpan look. "You haven't seen Deb when she gets mad."

  "Go with him, Gordon," Ruth interjected. "You've got the poor guy scared spitless."

  Within a few minutes, I was parking my Volkswagen in front of the Hi-way Cabins store.

  "The cabins are just around back on the lower level," Gordon volunteered. "Here comes Deb now." He pointed to the tall, solidly built woman who was climbing the hill to greet us. "She's closing in for the kill."

  "Hey, Gord," she shouted as she got closer, "if I'd known you were coming too, I'd have sold tickets to see the pair of you—the two biggest dudes in Creston crawling out of a Volkswagen!"

  "Probably lots of room for you in there too, Deb," Gordon retorted with a mischievous grin.

  She opened her mouth as if to reply, but instead walked around the vehicle and addressed me. "I'm Deb Anson, Dr. Perrin." She extended her hand and grasped mine in a hearty shake.

  "Glad to meet you. How're you making out with our patient?"

  "He's really been super! I just got him today from a fellow who had to leave town. I was taking him for a walk, trying to get him used to me, and he ran out in front of a car. The guy never had a chance to miss him. Can't blame him for hitting him...but the bugger never stopped—just kept on driving like nothing had happened. I'd like to get my hands on him! Can you imagine
having something like that happen and just driving away?"

  I shook my head and turned towards the crowd of boys that was milling around in front of one of the small log cabins. At the centre of their circle lay a large tan dog with floppy ears. His build and facial characteristics boasted of Doberman parentage, but the long, rough hair coat was a testament to his lack of purity.

  "Hey there, fellow, you sure look like you came out second best." I bent down and gently rumpled his ears. "Would you mind holding his head, Deb, while I check him out?"

  "His name's Theo," she informed me, as she held him firmly against her knee. Theo sported a silly grin, holding out his left front foot as if he wanted to shake a paw.

  "There's a boy." I lifted his leg and inspected the massive area that was now devoid of skin. "It looks as if this foot dragged along the pavement. There's not a bit of skin left to suture; I'm afraid we won't be able to do much more than bandage this one."

  "Will it heal? There's such a large bare spot. Looks like it'd take forever."

  "It'll heal, but unless we do some skin grafting, we'll have to put a lot of time into changing bandages."

  "Ohhh." She glanced at Gordon with a wicked little smile. Suddenly, her face took on a more serious expression. "Will that be expensive?"

  "Let's have a better look at the rest of the damage." I lifted his hind leg to examine the gaping wound in his thigh. "It looks like there's enough skin to close the wound here as long as the blood supply's still intact."

  "What do you think?"

  "I can't see anything that time won't heal. There's no question it'll take a while for some of the areas where the skin's totally missing to granulate in, but if you have the patience with him, he'll heal. He's going to have quite a scar on the front leg, so there'll be a patch without hair."

  "Well, you do the best you can for now. I'll follow your instructions later."

  "Okay." I wrapped my arms around the dog and carefully lifted him up.