Animals Don't Blush

by David R Gross

  It was dawn when the dog licked my face and well below freezing. A layer of frost covering my sleeping bag and the ground. I retrieved my pants from the bottom of the bag and put them on before emerging, stood on the bag to dress the rest of the way, and then sat on the bag to put my boots on. With Mister in the back seat, we explored the town. Four blocks north of the park, I spotted an open restaurant just off Central Avenue on West Main Street. There was a new Woolworth’s store across from it.

  The sun, brilliant in the clear sky, warmed the car as I drove slowly north. Most of the commercial buildings appeared to be frame construction from the 1930s, and they looked tired. The railroad tracks were on my right between the town and the river. West of town, the valley rose in undulating hills to bluffs and the high prairie. Occasional fields of spring wheat were green patches in the otherwise brown landscape.

  Turning around, I went back through town looking for the Sidney Animal Hospital. I drove south to Fourteenth Street and turned east, following Dr. Schultz’s directions. The hospital was set back from the street, and a large, leafless bur oak shielded the gravel parking lot in front.

  My stomach rumbled. Mister sat up and cocked his ears.

  “Hear that, boy? I am hungry. Let’s get some breakfast at that place in town.”

  It was just past six, and the coffee crowd apparently arrived late on Saturdays. I removed some clean underwear, socks, Wranglers, and a shirt from my duffle bag in the trunk of the car. I was holding them under my arm when I walked into the restaurant.

  A middle-aged woman wearing a pink uniform stood behind the sit-down counter. She glanced at the clothes under my arm and smiled. A large nametag announced that her name was Sue.

  “Hi, Sue. I’m going to have some breakfast, but I’ve got a job interview with Dr. Schultz today. Would it be OK if I changed into some clean clothes in your restroom?”

  “Sure, honey. You a vet?”

  “Yeah, almost. I graduate the first part of June.”

  “Well, good luck. You’ll like Doc Schultz. He’s good people. Want coffee?”

  “Thanks, yeah. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Take your time. I’ll wait to pour till I see your baby blues again.”

  ***

  I was waiting in front of the hospital, Mister inspecting the premises, when a panel truck pulled into the lot and parked in front of the double garage. A small, slender man with horn-rimmed glasses got out of the truck, his left foot reaching for the ground. I walked towards him noting a face that matched his body. His gray eyes were taking me in, perhaps a little put off by my size.

  “Dr. Schultz? I’m Dave Gross.”

  We shook hands, his grasp was assuring, welcoming.

  “Dr. Gross, glad to meet you. Been here long? You should have rung the bell. Dick Mathes would have let you in. No need to be out in the cold.”

  “It’s not that cold, and the sun is nice. My dog needed to run around some.”

  Mister came over. Schultz extended the back of his hand and then patted him on the head.

  “Beautiful animal. Let’s go inside.”

  Inside the hospital, he led the way to his office taking off his jacket and a Chicago Cubs cap as we walked. He was balding, and a fringe of light-brown hair was hanging over his shirt collar. He motioned me to the chair in front of his desk and sat down on the corner of the desk so he could look down at me.

  “Well, Dr. Gross, what questions do you have for me?”

  “I’m interested in the history of the mountain man, so I know about Lewis and Clark and the historical importance of the confluence of the Yellowstone and the Missouri and the importance of Fort Union in the fur trade, but that’s all I know about this part of the country. What’s the livestock industry like?”

  “Well, let me say first off that as far as veterinary service this practice is pretty much it for most of Richland County and over into the Badlands in North Dakota. About five thousand people live in Sidney, and about nine or ten thousand in the whole area. The valley is part of the Lower Yellowstone Reclamation Project, started in the early nineteen hundreds.”

  “Are there any feedlots?” I asked.

  “Not many, three I can think of off the top of my head, small operations. Most of the cattle are grass fed and shipped east.”

  “What about dairy farms?”

  “No big ones, but some folks are just starting to get into that business. Most of the ranchers and farmers still keep one or two cows around for their own supply of milk, butter, and such. It’s a traditional farm practice with some larger ranches north and west of us. In fact, the first call this morning is to test a dairy herd for brucellosis. You want to ride along?”

  “Sure, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Mornin’, Doc.” A moderately overweight man of average height stood in the doorway. He had a full head of dark hair just starting to gray at the temples and yellowed, uneven teeth.

  “Mornin’, Dick. Come in. I want you to meet Dr. Gross; he’s the man I told you about.”

  I stood, and we shook hands.

  “Couldn’t run this outfit without Dick Mathes here,” explained Dr. Schultz. “He’s my hospital manager. He and his wife live on the premises. He answers the phone, schedules the calls, takes care of any hospitalized animals, and keeps track of the drugs and supplies inventory, all that stuff.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Mathes.”

  “Dick,” he replied. “Glad to meet you. Hope you’ll join us.”

  The phone rang, and Dick went to the reception desk to answer it. He wrote down some information. Immediately after setting the receiver on the hook, the phone rang again.

  “Sounds like you’ve got a busy day,” I remarked.

  “All of them are. That’s why we need somebody.” Schultz was on his feet. “Let me show you around the hospital; then you can come with us. My other man, Don Gordon, should be here soon. Obviously this is the reception and waiting area.”

  We walked through the sparse examination room and then continued into a combination treatment, pharmacy, and laboratory room. The small animal surgery room was adequate, but there was no gas anesthetic machine.

  “No clinical lab or X-ray?” I asked, opening a door to a large empty closet.

  Schultz opened a cabinet door and took out an old microscope. “I use this to look at fecal specimens and blood smears. I’ve been thinking about getting an X-ray machine but haven’t done anything about it.”

  “That closet would make a good darkroom. Is there any plumbing nearby?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, the restroom is on the other side of the wall there.”

  A third door from the exam/treatment room led to the large office we had just vacated. The office had three doors—the one into the treatment room, the one that opened directly into the reception area, and the third opened into the garage. We looked into two small animal wards, each housing twenty-five stainless steel cages. Outside each ward was a covered and fenced-in exercise area.

  The large animal wing consisted of a treatment and minor surgery room with another direct access to the two-truck garage. There was another large, empty room with a rough concrete floor and a center drain. Dr. Schultz explained that it was for his large-animal surgery. The barn had ten box stalls, a tack room, and a storage loft for hay, straw, and feed. Behind the barn was a working area for cattle with a loading dock, pens, handling chutes, and a squeeze chute.

  We finished my tour of the hospital and went back to Dr. Schultz’s office. A man, only a couple of inches shorter than I, was waiting for us. He was wiry with long thin arms and legs that I knew would translate to strength and endurance. His face was gaunt, his wispy blond hair cut short. He wore a bright-red plaid flannel shirt and baggy bib overalls.

  “This is Don Gordon, my driver and right-hand man. He can teach you more about pulling calves than I can.”

  We shook hands.

  “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Gross. Heard you’re fr
om Colorado State and an athlete.”

  “History,” I said. “Finished up my eligibility two years ago.”

  “You got the truck all restocked and ready to go?” asked Dr. Schultz.

  “Yep, all set.”

  Don drove to the first call, the three of us crowded on the truck’s single bench seat, me in the middle. Dr. Schultz provided more information:

  “The Lower Yellowstone Irrigation Project came about in 1934 and covers about seventy-five miles along the Yellowstone valley. The farmers with irrigated fields produce mostly corn, beans, and hay with sugar beets their major cash crop. Holly Sugar built their refinery here about 1925, and they control the beet crop allotments. The farmers use non-irrigated land for pasture, and there’s quite a bit of dry-land grain farming, mostly wheat. Some of the farmers also grow vegetables, lots of different varieties of potatoes, fruits, and berries, and quite a bit of hay, mostly alfalfa.”

  “What’s your average call distance? Lots of driving?”

  “Depends. Some days we don’t get more than three to five miles from the hospital; others I may go as far as forty or fifty one way.”

  ***

  After finally drawing blood from the bull, we spent the rest of the morning on an assortment of routine calls. While we were out, Dick Mathes was in contact over the mobile radio adding more calls to the list. It was almost two in the afternoon when we stopped at the Sidney Bowling Center for lunch. Dr. Schultz introduced me to Mrs. Kappel, who was in charge of the restaurant. I learned she worked for a group of five local businessmen who had recently purchased the whole operation.

  During lunch, Don told me that his oldest son was the point guard on the high school basketball team that had won their fourth consecutive state Class A basketball championship the previous week. Later that afternoon, I found out that both Dr. Schultz and Don were Lutherans, although Dr. Schultz had been raised Catholic. Neither blinked nor seemed to care when I told them I was Jewish. I learned early in life to let people know I was Jewish as soon as possible. It forestalled the embarrassment of an unguarded bigot moment.

  Dr. Schultz and his wife had four children, two boys, eleven and eight, and two girls, nine and six. Don had two sons, the basketball player was sixteen, and the other son, more interested in baseball, had just turned thirteen.

  Dr. Schultz had a few questions for me, most of them regarding the cases we had seen that day and how I would handle them. He seemed satisfied with my answers.

  We got back to the hospital well after dark having driven over two hundred miles that day.

  “Do you work like this every Saturday?” I asked.

  “Most every day; Sundays are usually a little slower. I’m wearing out.”

  “I imagine so,” I said.

  “So, when can you get here?”

  I had passed muster.

  “Well, graduation is June 4, but I’m getting married on April 23, and we won’t have time for a honeymoon. I’m flying home to Phoenix on the Friday night, we’ll be married Saturday night, and I have to be back in school Monday morning. I promised Rosalie that we would combine a honeymoon and camping trip before I report to a job.”

  “How long?” Schultz asked.

  “Mid-June?” I responded.

  “If you can be here by June 9, you’ve got a job.”

  I smiled. “What’s the salary?”

  “Five hundred a month,” he smiled.

  That was about average for the deals my classmates were making.

  “That sounds OK,” I replied, “but only for a fifty-hour week. I’m here to gain as much experience as I can as fast as I can, but after I’ve put in two hundred hours in a month, I want 40 percent of what I bill for the rest of the month.”

  He scowled, then took a long look at me, and smiled again. “You are Jewish. I like it. You’ll be anxious to get in lots of hours and work your butt off.”

  He stuck his hand out. I took it.

  “Deal,” he said.

  “Deal,” I replied.

  “No need for you to sleep on the ground tonight. I told Dick to pay for a room at the motel on the corner off Central.” He reached into his right rear pocket, took out his wallet, and handed me a twenty. “Here’s something for dinner and gas. I remember being a poor student, maybe a little too well.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it, but it isn’t necessary. I didn’t expect it.”

  “I know you didn’t, but it will make me feel better. I should have you to the house for dinner, but I’m certain my wife didn’t wait for us. You take it easy driving back. We need you here. June 9.”

  “June 9.”

  Chapter 3: On the Road

  The sun hung just west of overhead. Steep canyon walls, and even steeper cuts leading into the canyon, cast short shadows. Aspens shimmered in the occasional breeze. Watched by a red-tailed hawk riding the warm updrafts, our two-door, 1957 Ford Fairlane, a wedding gift from my parents, glided through the switchbacks, the V-8 engine rumbling. We were climbing, heading north on Highway 287, the Cache la Poudre River rushing down the canyon on our left, Fort Collins disappearing in the rearview mirror.

  The luggage rack affixed to the top of the car was piled high with camping gear. The trunk held four suitcases full of our clean clothing, competing for available space with cardboard boxes containing our wedding gifts and accumulated household items. The trunk lid closed only after I bounced on it.

  More boxes filled the floor in back, stacked level with the coats and small boxes on the back seat. Soiled clothing in pillowcases filled corners and spaces. A tattered canvas tarp covered everything in back. Mister, all 105 pounds of black and silver German shepherd, was perched on the tarp enjoying being able to see out of the car while resting his head on his paws.

  I had graduated the previous week. Rosalie, my bride of forty-two days, and I were headed to Sidney, Montana.

  A three-quarter-ton Chevy pickup suddenly appeared around the curve. A wood stock rack, extending high above the cab, tilted drunkenly as the truck encroached on our lane. I slammed my foot on the brake pedal. The Ford fishtailed drifting left towards the canyon. The truck hesitated and then swerved towards the middle of the road. I abandoned the brake and jammed my foot on the accelerator, aiming the car as close to the edge of the left lane as possible. Metal screeched as the two vehicles touched and then parted. Separated by fifty feet, we pulled back into our rightful lanes and glided softly onto the gravel shoulders.

  I reached over, pulling Rosalie close. “Are you all right?”

  She tucked her head under my chin and murmured into my shirt, “I think so.... Yes... yes, I guess I’m OK.... I’m shaking!”

  “Will you be OK if I let go so I can check on the guy in the pickup? You’re certain you’re OK?”

  She nodded her head. “Go ahead; I’m fine.” She let go of me, wrapping her arms around herself.

  The other driver and I both exited our vehicles. “You OK?” I called.

  “Yeah.... How about you folks?”

  “We’re good; nice driving. Sure glad you decided to switch lanes with me!”

  The cowboy removed his sweat-stained, wide-brimmed Resistol with his left hand and wiped his forehead with the sleeve on the same arm. “I think we all got off pretty damned lucky this time. Any damage to your car?”

  I walked around to the passenger side and checked a scrape with my finger.

  “Just a little paint scraped, nothing serious. How about your truck?”

  “Hell, it’s so beat up I wouldn’t know which dent is new.”

  We each waved an arm and returned to our vehicles. I settled again into the driver’s seat and then pulled Rosalie close.

  “You’re OK?”

  “I’m fine. What on earth was that guy doing? He was in our lane.” Now she was angry.

  “The road’s narrow, his truck is top heavy with that stock rack, and we were both probably going a little too fast. I’m slowing down.”

  I started the Ford, checked carefully for
other vehicles in both directions, and pulled back onto the highway.

  Rosalie decided to swallow her anger.

  “So, Dr. Gross, tell me again how much fun I am going to have on my first-ever camping trip.”

  Mister sat up and licked the back of her neck.

  She pushed him away and twisted to face the back seat. “Well, what do you think, Mister? Do you want to go camping?”

  The dog jumped to his feet, his tail wagging furiously.

  ***

  The highway switched back and forth steadily upward, the big V-8 growling contentedly. We were driving in Wyoming’s Medicine Bow range. We reached the pass, 8,500 feet above sea level, and stopped at a sign identifying the state campground I was looking for.

  The sign was frail, weather beaten, but the rutted gravel road leading off to the north appeared reasonably dry and passable. I drove slowly and carefully for two miles in deep ruts. The oil pan scraped twice on the center mound before we reached the campground.

  A clear mountain stream rippled its way along the north side of the narrow mountain meadow, gently meandering west to east. Across the stream, a precipitous, rocky cliff initiated the first of many rises leading, pyramid-like, to the snow-covered pinnacle of Medicine Bow Peak. The pristine campground was freckled with a dozen weathered picnic tables, benches attached. An equal number of rusting, dented, fifty-five-gallon oil drums, refuse receptacles, stood near the tables.

  I stopped the car.

  Rosalie, still sitting in the middle of the front seat, slid closer. She whispered, “Oh, Dave, it is absolutely beautiful! It’s like a picture postcard.”

  “I’ll pick a spot, get the tent up, and start dinner before it gets dark,” I said.

  We were a long way from any other campgrounds. I was anxious to get a camp set up before Rosalie noticed there were no outhouses. Reaching back into the car, I retrieved the most recent of my letterman’s jackets. I shook off most of the dog hair and put it on. Mister was out of the car tracking back and forth across the meadow, nose close to the ground.