"Nope. Better back up. You got about five feet between you and the calf"
I twisted to look back over my shoulder as the cow butted the tailgate.
"Shee-ut!" said Wilson.
"Move, cow, or l swear I'll back right over you! " I shouted over my shoulder. Then I threw the track into reverse. The cow moved.
I was forced to back most of the way to the farmyard before Wilson pointed out a gravel area where I could turn around without getting stuck in the mud.
When we reached the barn, I glanced over at Wilson. He was still shaking with glee.
"All right, dammit, what's so funny?"
He didn't answer until he was safely outside the track and leaning in Eli's window. "Doc," he said to Eli, "when I started up that hill, all I could see sticking out from under that cow's belly was the soles of them yaller rain boots of your n."
"And?"
"Ain't you never looked at'em?"
"My soles? Of course not."
"Doc, the soles of them boots got fat yaller and red duckies painted on 'em big as life."
Eli closed her eyes. "Wilson," I said, "if you ever tell one soul..."
"Shoot," he said as he climbed out of the track. "I'm gonna be too busy tellin' the good of boys down to the sale bam 'bout this fancy new technique y'all lady vets done invented to deliver stuck calves."
"Wilson," Eli warned.
"Dam sight easier than a block and tackle." He grinned. "Just take of cow up top of the nearest hill, then roll her down like a bowlin' ball." He hunched against the renewed rain and waved at us over his shoulder as he raced through the downpour to his bam. His shoulders still shook.
Neither Eli nor I spoke a word for several minutes. Once we were safely off Wilson's gravel road and onto paved county road beyond, Eli said very quietly, so quietly that I knew she was close to a major explosion. "I do not care if new black Wellington boots cost more than the national debt. I do not care if we have to deliver twenty cows to pay for them. I do not care whether we meet the mortgage or the car payments or our salaries. Tomorrow morning I intend to call State Line Tack and order the finest children's Wellington boots they have and get them mailed to me overnight." She took a deep breath. "And you better not say one word."
"My lips are sealed."
"Maggie, by the time Wilson tells this story to all his good of boy friends, you and I will have arrived to deliver his calf wearing pink polka-dot tutus and toe slippers. We'll be stuck with kittens and puppies for the rest of our lives."
"It's not that bad."
"The hell it's not." She turned to look out her window. "I'll never be able to show my face at the Monday morning cattle sale again."
Chapter 9
In which Eli discovers the power of publicity
Farmers and cattlemen have always been notorious gossips. They all start their days before dawn, then long about eight o'clock a good many of our local farmers repair to the Wolf River Cafe or some other local cafe for a late breakfast and another cup of coffee. They swear business is transacted at those coffee klatches, but I discovered as a young vet that the 'business' in question was usually somebody else's and none of theirs.
The story of Eli's boots would have made the rounds within twentyfour hours. I figured she'd want to keep a low profile until the laughter died down some. I planned to attend the cattle sales in Collierville without her for the next few weeks.
At ten-thirty the following Monday morning-a blessedly sunny day-she stuck her head in my office and handed me a cup of coffee.
"Come on or we'll be late," she said.
"Huh?"
"The cattle sale in Collierville starts in thirty minutes."
"Oh. Yeah. Wouldn't you like to stick around here and handle the small animal cases?"
She glared at me. I shut up and followed her out to my track.
She climbed into the passenger side, clipped on her seatbelt, and drank some of her coffee as we backed out and started down the road toward town.
Finally, she turned to me and said, "If you think I intend to let some gossipy old farmer keep me from doing my job, you got another think coming."
With that, she kicked off her sneakers, and pulled on the rubber duckies.
Eli was endlessly patient with animals, even those that stomped and bit her. And with children. Eventually, however, the steam built up and she blew. Until we both mellowed, she and I generally had one big battle per year, usually over something silly. No matter who was at fault (never me, of course) I apologized. I knew she simply couldn't.
By the time we pulled into the parking lot at the sale barn among the mud-spattered stock trailers and the big diesels that pulled them, I was sure she'd commit mayhem on the first man that snickered. We'd probably get ridden out of town on a rail.
We climbed out, and Eli strode off toward the nearest group of cattlemen. Her chin was so far in the air she could hardly see where she was walking. Around a sale barn, watching where you put your feet was important. Cow patties were wet, nasty, slippery and stank.
"Morning," she said airily and tossed her hair. In the early'70s she wore her brown hair shoulder length, so there was plenty to toss.
One especially grizzled old geezer grinned at her and tipped his battered Stetson. "What's up, Doc?"
"Everything's just ducky," Eli said.
He cut his eyes at his buddies, who covered their mouths to conceal their answering snickers. He glanced toward her feet. "Mighty nice boots you got on."
"Indeed they are. Yellow's my favorite color. What's yours?"
They jostled and punched one another 's shoulders. I had visions of Eli's punching them out and landing us in jail. I had started forward to intervene when the geezer said, "Gonna buy me a bunch of calves this morning, Doc. Want to do the brucellosis checks on them?"
"How's about checking on a bull I'm thinking of biddin' on?" asked his neighbor. They stood aside to include me in the group. "Y'all both gonna work this morning? If I was a bettin' man, I'd bet y'all are gonna be full up with work today." He started laughing. A moment later his four buddies joined him.
"Whoa!" I said. "Don't joke. I swear we'll bill you and expect to be paid."
A lanky fortyish man in clean chinos and polished brown boots walked up from behind the crowd. "No'm, we're all dead serious." He stuck out a lean hand. "I'm J. L. Maxwell." His hand was rock hard and so callused it felt like badly tanned leather.
I knew who he was although I had never met him. He had one of the largest herds of purebred Brahman cattle in the mid-south. Now I was really suspicious. If they were playing a practical joke, I'd be punching jaws right beside Eli. "I don't get it," I said. "You've been ignoring us for the last six months."
"Shoot, honey," one of the other geezers said, "Didn't know who you was 'til we saw them boots." Snicker, snicker.
"Like hell you didn't," Eli said. "How many four foot ten female vets you got in this neighborhood?"
"That was before we heard about what a fine job y'all did with that cow, mud and all. O1' Roy said both ofy'all come out to the pasture in the middle of the storm. Some vets around here done got above their raisin' Don't fancy pulling calves in rough weather in the mud."
"Yeah," said the heretofore silent member of the group. "And Mike Rasmussen told me you done saved his Big Jake's life." He nodded at me almost imperceptibly. "If y'all can handle cows and horses, you'll do 'til something better comes along." With that, he spit a stream of tobacco juice about six feet into the nearest manure pile.
"Come on, sweet thang," J. L. said, hooking his arm through mine. "Sale's starting. Got you some work to do."
We packed over fifty vials of blood to be sent off to Nashville to the lab for Brucellosis tests before the sale ended. When at last we climbed back into our truck about four in the afternoon, dirty and exhausted, Eli leaned back. "Who said any publicity is good publicity?"
"In this case he's right."
Eli wore those yellow boots until they literally fell off her f
eet. She tried to find another pair, but never could. She still has them wrapped in tissue paper in a box in the back of her closet. She says they're like the baboons on Gibraltar. As long as they're there, we will be too.
Chapter 10
In which we meet an extraordinary dog
Despite the cattle sales and Mike Rasmussen's praise for Jake's miracle cure, we were far from busy our first couple of years in practice.
Small animals came to us in dribs and drabs, but they paid more than their share of our bills. We could see a dozen in the time it took to drive forty miles to somebody's farm to treat a sick cow. And we saved gas in our elderly guzzlers. We thought gasoline cost a fortune, although it was a pittance compared to today.
We gave out our cards at dog and cat shows and at obedience and agility classes. We also schmoozed at the Jack Russell and Dachshund ground races. Little by little we picked up a few dog and cat owners like Mayrene Carteret.
She lived so far out in Fayette County that we were more convenient than vets in suburban Germantown and Collierville. Her rough-haired miniature Dachshund, Snooper, always placed in the goto-ground races in which the little dogs had to find their way through an underground maze to a caged (and perfectly safe) rat at the end. Eli and I both liked Dachshunds, and Snooper was one cheerful little guy and fast as greased lightning.
I learned in my first year of practice that a veterinarian treats not only the animal, but the owner. For a great many people, their pets are the most important creatures in their lives. There's proof that petting a cat or dog lowers blood pressure. Elderly people who own pets stay healthier longer both in mind and body. Seeing eye and other helper dogs don't simply assist with the physical problems of the disabled, they keep them psychologically healthier as well.
The corollary is that when a beloved pet dies, the owner may simply give up and give in to death or disease.
But nobody wants to watch a beloved creature suffer. We don't always pay attention to quality of life issues in human beings, but we certainly do in the animals we love.
Mayrene carried Snooper into the clinic just before closing time. In the early'70s we wouldn't have thought of making the clinic smoke free. Most of our clients smoked, although Eli and I didn't. Mayrene lit one non-filtered Camel off the end of the last inch of the one she'd been smoking when she brought Snooper in and put him on the examining table without a word. He was always a cheerful little critter, and that day was no exception. Except that he didn't wag his tail. His rear end collapsed.
Unfortunately, long-bodied dogs like bassets and Dachshunds are prone to spinal injuries. In a human being, a disk slips out of place, presses on nerves and causes horrendous pain. When a dog slips a disk, however, ninety-nine times out of a hundred the disk presses in on the spinal column. Suddenly and without warning, a perfectly healthy dog's back legs will simply cease to function. The dog often feels no pain, but he can't move his rear end at all.
In many cases surgical fusing or removal of the offending disks can restore movement. Sometimes the disks slip back into place on their own and the dog recovers as suddenly as he went down. The problem, however, will recur. Age and what my grandmother used to call 'the rheumatics' get us all sooner or later.
Plenty of dogs don't ever recover from that first horrendous paralysis.
I asked Dr. Parmenter to come out to assist in the disk surgery. If anybody could fix the problem, he could.
Snooper recovered from surgery beautifully, but showed no sign of regaining the use of his rear end.
After two weeks, Eli and I sat down with Mayrene.
"I can't bear to let him go," Mayrene said. She was no lightweight, and the bell bottomed jeans she wore strained across her tummy and stretched tight across her thighs. She had made a towel nest for Snooper in what little lap she possessed. When she bent over him, her long straight hair fell across him like a black curtain. I could see the light brown roots in the part. I guess she'd been too worried about Snooper to worry about touchups.
"He's pretty young for this to happen," Eli said. She reached over and stroked his long ears.
"There is one thing you could do," I said. "It's not a great solution, but it may be harder for you than for him."
"Who cares about me? I'll do anything-send him to specialists. I don't give a dam how much it costs. I'll take out a loan if I have to."
I shook my head. "Dr. Parmenter's as good as anyone in the world."
"Then..."
"Look at Snooper. He certainly doesn't seem put out by being half a dog, now, does he?"
"I can't stand to see him drag himself along. Don't you dare tell me that's a solution." Mayrene began to cry. "I'd rather you put him down right this minute. It may not hurt him, but it sure as shootin' hurts me."
"I wasn't suggesting that. There are two companies that make little carts for paralyzed dogs."
"Carts? I'm supposed to roll him around in a cart?"
"Mayrene, listen to me, honey. You buckle Snooper's hind end into his little cart, and the wheels act as his back legs. I'll guarantee you that after he gets used to it, he won't pay the last bit of attention to it."
"I've seen a couple of those things on television for dogs that lost a leg," she said. "I never really believed they could work."
"Works on dogs like Snooper that are paralyzed too, except the legs are still there. They simply don't touch the ground any longer."
She stroked Snooper's ears. "I don't know. Let me think about it.
She thought about it for about twenty minutes, before she agreed to try the cart. We measured Snooper and ordered one that afternoon.
When it arrived, Mayrene carried Snooper into the clinic in her arms. She looked haggard. "I don't know how much more of this I can take," she said. "It's eating me alive watching him."
"Don't give up until we try the cart," Eli said. "Come on, Snooper, old boy, let's see if we can get you mobile."
Snooper fussed about being buckled in, and he kept turning the cart over behind him when he tried to turn, getting himself tangled up and having to be righted. We adjusted and adjusted. Finally, Mayrene said she'd take him home and work with him there. She agreed to bring him back in a week.
I climbed out of my truck the following Monday morning, and Mayrene rolled into the staff parking area right behind me.
"Hey," she said as she opened the door. "I'm early, but I didn't want to take a chance on Snooper going after another dog. He'd take on a Great Dane."
"How's he doing?"
She opened the rear door of her van and grabbed Snooper before he could launch himself, cart and all, out of the car. The minute his forefeet touched the tarmac he trundled toward me. Mayrene clopped behind him. With every step her wooden platform sandals threatened to fall off and dump her onto the pavement. At that point Snooper seemed much better coordinated than his mistress.
"My Lord, Mayrene," I said as I intercepted him, bent over and petted him while the fore portion of him wriggled with pleasure. "This dog belongs on the Nascar circuit."
"Sure does." She turned, trotted to the far side of the parking lot, turned and clapped. "Come on, Snooper, come to Momma."
His little wheels practically burned rubber when he turned and raced across to Mayrene. If anything, he was faster than he'd been before. He certainly didn't seem the least bit put out by having a wheeled vehicle holding up his backside. We both stood there laughing while he did wheelies around us.
"Never tips over now," Mayrene said. "He's figured out just how tight a turn he can make before he winds up in a pickle. Ought to take him to the disco Saturday night. He's a darned sight better dancer than those Saturday Night Fever wannabes."
"He's this good in a week?"
"In twenty-four hours." We started toward the clinic. We could hear Snooper's little wheels rolling behind us. "The second day he ran off down the sidewalk. Damned near broke my neck trying to catch him. Thank goodness he's easy to track."
"Because of the noise the wheels make?
"
"Lord, no." She looked back and pointed. "I guess he'll never have control of his pee-pee again. Whenever he disappears I just follow the Yellow Brick Road and voila, there's Snooper at the end of it." She shrugged. "I just have to remember to keep him off the carpets."
Chapter 11
In which Eli receives an unusual Christmas present
Christmas for the young McLains and the young Scheibler usually spiralled out of control. I'm not talking about your garden-variety stress-last minute shopping for the unobtainable toy, battery envy and the like.
Add the problems of the beasts of the field, the aquarium, the aviary, the bam, and the zoo, to human problems.
By our first Christmas, the inside and outside of The Hideous House had been painted off-white. The carpet had been replaced. I picked the color by bringing a handful of west Tennessee dirt from my back pasture to the carpet store and telling the salesman to match it. That way, the mud that we tracked in wouldn't show as much. We had even acquired a cat, known only as That Cat. It liked people, and had probably been dumped by its owners, may they rot in hell. It refused to come inside The Hideous House, but graciously allowed me feed it on the back door step and rub its belly.
In vet school Eli swore that no matter how bad things got she would never live in a house trailer. She was, however, doing precisely that three hundred yards south of The Hideous House and a hundred yards south of the double wide house trailer that was the first incarnation of the McLain-Scheibler Clinic.
All in all, we were well content, despite the fact that we didn't have much money. Morgan made a fair to middling salary at the bank, but it was barely enough to cover our bills for equipment, pharmaceuticals, and general supplies. Eli and I were hard pressed to cover frivolities like food, utilities, telephone and gasoline.
Three days before Christmas Morgan brought home a Charlie Brown Christmas tree that he swore was being given away by the Boy Scouts. My mother lent us some strings of her old lights, big fat multicolored bulbs that refused to light if even one bulb went out. Morgan swore, but he finally got every light to work.
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