“That’s disgusting,” she said.
“Not so bad. The amount of information gained from palpating the abdominal organs is essential. Anyhow, I’ll slide each of these tubes over a foreleg to protect the wounds from getting wet when I build the plaster splint.”
I dipped gauze impregnated with plaster of Paris into warm water squeezing out most of the water.
“I’m going to form a three-sided splint extending up here to the elbow,” I lectured. “The front of the leg will be open, just covered with a light bandage and tape. That way I just cut the tape to check and treat the wounds and re-tape when I’m done.”
Rosalie cocked her head to the side, smiling. “You just have to teach, don’t you?”
“What are you talking about,” I said.
“You’re always lecturing. When we have kids, you are going to try to teach them something all the time.”
“Is that bad?”
Her smile expanded, crinkling her eyes. “No, it’s good. Continue.”
After the plaster dried, I removed the splints, setting them aside to cure.
“I’ll make the Thomas splint out of this.” I showed her a three-eighths-inch-diameter, six-foot long aluminum rod.
“You still haven’t told me what a Thomas splint is,” she said.
“Hugh O. Thomas, in 1876, published a description of an apparatus consisting of a proximal ring that fits around the thigh with two long rigid rods extending beyond the foot. His invention places traction on the leg, stretching it so it holds the bones in place. He developed it to treat hip and joint disease in humans, but it works really well for upper leg fractures in dogs and cats.”
“See, you’re at it again, Professor,” she laughed. “I feel like I’m back in a lecture hall.”
“Never mind,” I said. “I thought you were interested. You asked.”
“I am, I am,” she giggled. “Don’t stop now; it hurts so good.” She tickled under my chin with a forefinger.
I pretended to bite her finger, then took a gallon jug of disinfectant, and bent the middle of the rod into a circle around the jug, the two ends extending straight down on the same plane as the circle. I removed the jug, padded the portion of the circle between the two straight rods with cotton, and covered that with adhesive tape. Fitting the circle over Skipper’s thigh, I fitted the padded portion between her inner thigh and abdomen bending the bottom of the circle to make the angle comfortable. After I was satisfied with the fit, I bent the rods in front and back of the leg to conform to the natural bends at the knee and ankle. I then bent the bottom of the two rods to form a platform two inches below her extended leg. Finally, I taped the leg in place inside the splint after palpating and setting the fracture.
“Oh, so now you’re interested.” Rosalie had moved in close to watch, and I nudged her with my knee. “You’re blocking my light; back off, girl.”
“Sorry.” She smiled and leaned her head on my shoulder.
I put a thin layer of cotton in each of the hardened plaster splints and, after aligning the fractured metacarpal bones, fit the splints to each leg.
“I’ll cut a small window in the tape each day,” I explained.
“I know; you told me,” she reminded.
Finally, I took radiographs of all three legs.
“Check it out,” I told her, putting the X-ray films on the viewer and pointing to the fracture lines. “Everything lined up to perfection.”
“Big deal,” she replied. “Didn’t seem to me you worked that hard at it.”
I stuck out my lower lip.
“OK, Tarzan, you can beat your chest. I’m proud of you.”
I gave Skipper a shot of antibiotics. Fitting the dog into a cage without banging the splints or pulling out the IV drip took some doing. When the dog was finally in the cage, I gave her a pat on the head and straightened up. Rosalie, standing behind me, gave me a big hug.
“I’m going to have to stay with her until she wakes up enough so I can remove the endotracheal tube,” I said.
“So, it looks like you’re under control here. How about I go home, finish making dinner, and bring back a picnic? I’m starving,” she complained.
“That’s a great idea. I’m hungry too. Isn’t this a lovely way to spend a Saturday night?”
Rosalie left, and I cleaned up and put things away, checking on Skipper every five or ten minutes. Her pulse remained strong, and her breathing was regular and deep.
When Rosalie returned, I went to the car to help bring in our dinner.
“I made a new casserole called Rice Veracruz. It has ground beef, onions, rice, tomato sauce, black olives, chili powder, cumin, and some other seasonings in it. I hope you like it. I also brought a thermos of hot coffee. The Pyrex dish is cherry cobbler, and I have a salad and some iced tea. You take the food, and I’ll take this paper bag of dishes and things,” she directed.
We finished eating, and I checked on Skipper. When I jiggled the endotracheal tube, the dog swallowed, so I removed the tube. Skipper lifted her head and gave me a blank stare. I gave her a pat on the head.
***
The next morning, Skipper was banging around her cage, distraught. As soon as I took her out of the cage, she calmed down. I lifted her up so she could stand, but she was clumsy on the splinted legs. She gradually gained her balance, hopped forward two steps, lost her balance, and fell. She struggled to stand, wagging her tail in wide circles when I helped her up.
I carried her into the treatment room and put her on the exam table to check her wounds and give her more antibiotics. When I was done, she resisted my putting her back in the cage.
“Well, I’m sorry, Skipper. I forgot you’ve probably never been inside a house, never mind a cage.”
I carried her out to the barn and left her standing on the concrete walkway while I put some clean straw into one of the box stalls. I called to her, and she hobbled over, went directly into the stall, and lay down on the straw with a contented sigh. I gave her some clean water and half a can of dog food. Still prone, she wolfed down the food and lapped with contentment at the water.
***
Over the next ten days, Skipper progressed remarkably well.
“Well, Skipper, old girl,” I said, as I examined the second splint, “everything is dry.” I put my nose close to the wound and sniffed. “No infection, you are doing great!” Skipper reached over and licked my face. “OK, OK, enough.” She beat a staccato rhythm on the examining room table with her tail.
That evening, I thought a little extra air circulating through the barn would make the dog more comfortable, so I left the barn door open a few inches.
When I arrived the next morning, the stall door was open, and Skipper was gone. I searched throughout the hospital and all around it outside. Then I climbed into my practice truck and extended the search, driving ten miles in the direction of the Joneses’ ranch. However, I found no sign of her. Dejected, I went back to the clinic and called the Joneses to tell them what had happened.
“It’s OK, Doc; we’ll find her. I’ll take the pickup and travel the roads to town to look for her,” Kathy said.
For the next week, I fought periods of depression. When out on calls, I drove slowly checking both sides of the road. John put an advertisement in the local newspaper, and the radio station did a human-interest story. I talked to a reporter doing a follow-up story.
“We can only hope she’s making her way home,” I told the reporter. “But with three broken legs, it’s going to be very difficult for Skipper. I’m hoping someone will spot her and will call us or the Jones family so we can get her back.”
The twelfth morning after Skipper’s escape, I was in the office working on case records when the phone rang.
Dick Mathes answered. “It’s John Jones,” he called out.
My gut rumbled.
“Hi, Doc.” The voice on the line was cheerful. “Skipper showed up this morning. She was at the door when I went out to do chores. She’s sorry looking,
but the hind leg splint is still on. The casts on her front legs are worn down some, but she seems to move OK. She ate a powerful amount of food. What do you want I should do?”
“John, that’s great news. Can you bring her here this afternoon? I’ll check her over.”
***
Skipper stood on the exam table smiling and wagging her rump, sneaking a lick to my face every time I got close enough. Her ribs protruded, but she seemed normal otherwise. John, Kathy, Jenny, and Ferdie all crowded around the table, each with a hand on the dog.
“Well, Jones family, I think we dodged a bullet. She’s in great shape, considering what she must have gone through to get all the way home. Everything seems to be healing nicely. I’m going to replace these splints on her front legs, redo the tape on the Thomas splint, and give her a big dose of antibiotic. Bring her back in two weeks, and we’ll take X-rays to make certain her bones have healed. She’s one amazing dog.”
***
Being able to help Skipper and her family is one of the reasons I became a veterinarian and the reason I continue to stay connected to it these many decades later. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me start again...
Chapter 2: In the Beginning
The Holstein bull raged in the steel stanchion, two thousand pounds of fury jumping, kicking, pushing, and throwing his head from side to side. The banging and clanging of the stanchion echoed in the barn. The bull’s eyeballs bulged, his pupils dilated, and snot spewed from his nostrils. He jerked his head up and to the side ripping the nose tongs from my hand. Dr. Schultz jumped back as the steel tongs flew past, grazing his forehead and knocking off his Cubs baseball cap.
“Damn, Dr. Gross, that was close. Can you grab him and hold him, or should I let Don do it?”
I wasn’t making much of an impression on the man I hoped would offer me employment.
There was a six-foot-long rope attached to one handle of the nose tongs. The rope passed through a hole in the other handle. When the rope pulled tight, it was supposed to hold the tongs closed.
I grabbed the tongs and returned to the fray. Wrapping my left arm around the bull’s neck, I grasped his lower jaw and pulled my body into his head. He easily lifted my two-hundred-plus pounds off the ground, but I held on while he did his best to shake me off. I replaced the tongs in his nostrils, clamping down hard. I slid my free hand down the rope keeping the tongs closed tight while I wrapped the rope twice around the steel bars on top of the stanchion. Putting all my weight into the effort, I pulled the bull’s head back up and to the side.
All we were doing was getting a blood sample for a brucellosis test. Don Gordon and the dairy farm owner had brought the milk cows into the barn and locked them, six at a time, into their stanchions. We had finished the thirty-five cows. The bull was last.
In 1960, veterinary medicine was male dominated and macho. Patients had a monetary value, and nobody expected veterinary care to exceed that value. Chemical restraint of animals was in its infancy. Choices of antibiotics were limited. Clients expected their veterinarian to be tough, wise, skilled, and able to handle any animal, any disease or injury, and any situation. There were no board-certified specialists, and advertising in any form, except for a modest listing in the Yellow Pages of the phone book, was considered malpractice. In my class of sixty students, there were only three women. All but a few of the class came from agricultural backgrounds. Today’s veterinary school classes are 75‒85 percent women, and almost everyone comes from a suburban background.
***
The summer of 1959, I was home between my junior and senior year in veterinary school, working for the Agricultural Research Service of the USDA. Most of the work I was doing was on the Navajo reservation in northern Arizona, but I spent weekends at home in Phoenix.
I stood on the front stoop dressed in clean Wrangler jeans, a starched, button-down collar, long-sleeved, light-blue Oxford shirt, the sleeves buttoned, despite the one-hundred-plus Phoenix temperature. I wore flat-healed cowboy boots and my silver Resistol 5X beaver cowboy hat pushed back from my forehead. I was a shade less than six feet three. The back of my shirt was wet. My five-year-old car was not air-conditioned.
I knocked on the door, and Mr. Bockserman answered. A blast of cool air from the swamp cooler running on high speed hit my face. He was about five feet ten, his dark hair cut in a flattop. He wore metal-rimmed glasses and a wrinkled short-sleeved sport shirt. The single pocket of the shirt held two cigars and a ballpoint pen. A curl of smoke rose from the cigar in his mouth, his right eye squeezed partially shut to avoid the smoke. His jaw was square and strong. I saw a small patch of beard he had missed just below his left ear.
“Hello, sir. I’m Dave Gross, here to take Rosalie out.”
I extended my right hand. He took it and squeezed. I squeezed back. He smiled and let go.
“Rosie, your date’s here. You did tell us he is Jewish, did you not? Come in; we’re letting the hot air in.”
The house was similar to the one I grew up in, both built soon after the Second World War. We entered directly into the living room. Opposite the front door was an open doorway into the eat-in kitchen. On the wall to the left was another open doorway to a hall, two bedrooms, and a bath.
Mrs. Bockserman came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. She was pleasingly plump, only a couple of inches shorter than her husband. She pushed stray strands of short gray hair back over both ears and offered me a soft, warm hand. Her smile was conspiratorial.
“I’m happy to meet you at last, Dave. Maxine has talked about you for some time.”
It was a setup. Maxine was married to a friend, a student in the class ahead of me in veterinary school. Before marrying Phil, she had worked in the office of an insurance company where Mrs. Bockserman was the executive secretary. After Maxine had met Rosalie, she and Mrs. Bockserman had shifted into matchmaker mode.
“I’m concerned that Rosie is not dating Jewish boys,” Mrs. Bockserman had said. “She says none of them are interesting.”
“I know someone perfect,” Maxine had responded. “He’s tall, has dark, curly hair, blue eyes, and was captain of the swimming team in his second year of veterinary school. It’s very unusual for anybody to continue to participate in a varsity sport and still make good-enough grades to stay in vet school.”
Her mother had kept mentioning me to Rosalie, and Maxine had never missed the opportunity to tease me about the tall, thin, beautiful daughter of her friend.
Both Rosalie and I had finally given in to the incessant prodding and agreed to meet. I had called her and suggested we go out for a Coke. Neither of us had been willing to invest much in that first date.
Maxine had not exaggerated. A vision, five feet seven with long, dark-brown hair almost reaching to the small of her back floated into the room. High arching eyebrows accented wide-set, fawn-like, dark-brown eyes. There was just hint of blush on her cheekbones and wide smile. She came towards me moving like water down a gentle incline. I was mesmerized.
I bet I can span her waist with my hands, I thought.
I was driving a 1954 Oldsmobile, handed down from my dad. We walked to the car, and as I held the door open for her, I noticed the chestnut highlights in her hair. My German shepherd, Mister, was in his usual place in the back seat.
Before I met Rosalie all the girls I had dated had made a big fuss over Mister, but he mostly ignored them. I held the car door open, and as soon as she sat down, Mister was all over her. She gave him a perfunctory pat on the head, but he would not leave her alone. He kept nuzzling her and pushing his head under her arm. He insisted that she pet him. I twisted in the seat to order him down and noticed he had an erection. The dog was always very discerning.
I drove to the corner, braked the car, and turned. When I accelerated again, something in the accelerator linkage stuck, and the engine started racing. I stomped on the brake with all my weight and managed to keep the car in control. In those days, few major intersections were without a gas
station. I swerved into the one on the nearest corner, slammed the transmission into neutral, and turned off the engine.
Rosalie pushed her door open and leaped out. When she was ten feet away, she turned to stare at the car with her mouth open.
I exited the car with as much dignity as I could muster, in the process managing to knock off my hat.
The mechanic on duty unstuck the linkage, and I managed to talk Rosalie back into the car. We sat in a booth at the Carnation on Central Avenue and talked for almost an hour, each nursing a single Coke. Along with a lot of other information, I found out she was finishing a degree in elementary education at Arizona State and commuted from her home to Tempe every day. She had one more semester of class work, plus her student teaching, and would finish the following April.
The next night, we had a real date, went to a movie. We were together every night I was in town for the rest of the summer and wrote to each other every day after I went back to school.
When I came home at winter break, I gave her an engagement ring.
***
The second Tuesday in March, the secretary of the director of the teaching hospital posted a new three-by-five-inch index card on the bulletin board in the student locker room. Dr. Marcus Schultz, Sidney, Montana, was looking for an associate veterinarian. I called that night and arranged to visit the practice the coming weekend. Mister and I left just before noon Friday and arrived in Sidney eleven hours later, stopping only for gas along the way.
I drove north through town staying on Highway 200. Spotting a park that filled an entire city block and because the night was clear, I decided to save the cost of a motel room. I parked and rolled out my ground cloth, foam pad, and sleeping bag on grass, covered with a thin layer of frost. Mister curled up next to me.
Animals Don't Blush Page 2
