Animals Don't Blush

by David R Gross

  “Now,” said Ted, filling glasses again, “this is the finest sippin’ Bourbon whiskey distilled. This stuff is supposed to be savored, not tossed down like rotgut. I expect everyone to behave like civilized folk from here on out.” He took an appreciative sip of the amber fluid and sat back. “Now, brother Ed, I want you to explain exactly how that bull managed to land you on your butt in the finals down there in Mesquite.”

  The brothers kept everyone laughing with their tales of rodeo mishaps. While the tenderloins roasted over the coals, we helped ourselves to cheese and crackers.

  When the meat was done, Linda and Sue went back to the house returning with a bowl of salad, two fresh loaves of bread, and a tub of sweet butter. Ed removed one of the tenderloins from the grate and sliced it into thick steaks. At ten o’clock, we were eating, talking, sipping whiskey, tending the slowly roasting halves of beef, and stirring the gently simmering beans with the canoe paddle.

  After the second round of drinks, the four wives filled their glasses with tea.

  Jenny and Ferdie fell asleep, Jenny on Kathy’s lap, Ferdie curled up on the lawn with Mister and Skipper lying on either side of him. John carried Jenny and then Ferdie into the house. By two-thirty in the morning, the two children and four ladies were all in the house, stretched out on couches and beds. We four men swapped stories, sipped whiskey, nibbled tenderloin, turned the roasting beef, and stirred the beans.

  A little, after five in the morning, the sky lightened, and the sun gradually peeked over the eastern horizon to find all four of us asleep in our chairs.

  Sue came out of the house carrying four cups and a big pot of coffee. She found us with our legs out straight, boot toes pointed toward the sky, hats pulled over our faces, arms crossed over our chests. She kicked Ted’s right foot, and he jerked up, snorting.

  “Up and at ’em, cowboy. I thought you four were minding the meat.”

  Ted checked his watch and frowned, getting to his feet. “We’re only a half-hour off; no harm.”

  At the sound of voices, Ed, John, and I simultaneously pushed our hats up, looking around.

  Ted went over to check the pit. “It’s time to lower the grates again,” he said.

  During the night, we had turned the cement blocks on their sides, lowering the grates eight inches. Now we kicked the blocks aside allowing the grates to rest on the ground. The meat was still dripping small amounts of fat resulting in muted flares as each drop hit the ashes covering the hot coals.

  “We’ve got to be careful turning the meat now,” John told me. “It’s tender enough to tear off the bone.”

  The four of us were standing around the pit drinking black coffee when Sue called out from the kitchen door. “Come in and wash up, you all; breakfast is ready.”

  Soon we were all seated at the long kitchen worktable eating sausage and fried eggs, pancakes, and hash browns.

  After breakfast, we rearranged the two picnic tables and set up six aluminum folding tables.

  “Most folks know to bring their own picnic tables and chairs and something to drink,” explained Linda. “We also arranged for delivery of fifty folding chairs from the Methodist church in town. Jimmy, who owns the bakery, is delivering fresh rolls and bringing the chairs. Those folks that can’t find a place at a table will have to eat off their laps.”

  Two folding tables were set up next to the picnic tables and then loaded with World War II surplus Melamine dishes.

  “These dishes are indestructible,” Sue explained. “The flatware is also army surplus.”

  They set up so four lines could be served at the same time. Sue explained they would carve and serve the meat from both ends of the wood picnic tables. Two folding tables were set up to hold potato salad, barbeque sauce, rolls, and beans.

  A few minutes after eleven-thirty, the first pickup arrived, and a steady line of trucks and cars discharged passengers from then on. Everyone seemed to arrive with ice chests, and almost all brought chairs and folding picnic tables. Some also brought tarps, setting them up for shade.

  The baker arrived with the extra chairs and rolls. A net was set up, and a chaotic volleyball game was soon underway with twenty or more people on each side. A softball game was organized, again with too many players but less confusing than the volleyball. Dogs were chasing through the crowd. Several car and truck radios played music.

  John came over and pressed a cold Coors into my hand. “Don’t want your throat to dry out. It’s way past noon.”

  Sally and Joe Lufkin found us and joined our table.

  At one thirty, Linda handed me a knife and steel. “Reckon you can figure out how to carve, Doc?” she asked.

  “I suppose I can manage.”

  Sue rang the huge triangle hanging just outside the kitchen door. Within minutes, four lines formed. Everyone loaded his or her plate and found a place to sit and eat.

  The two halves of beef were reduced to bones. Most people sat quietly, chatting in groups. All the dogs present were working on large bones, glancing furtively around to make certain none of their mates coveted what they had. Another softball game was in progress, this time only ten young people to a side, but co-ed. The volleyball court was unoccupied, the ball resting under the net.

  It was after four in the afternoon when people started gathering their stuff and loading vehicles. Rosalie and I were helping to clean up, although most everyone had been good about putting their trash in the fifty-five gallon drums the Simpsons provided for the purpose.

  “What do you do with all the trash?” Rosalie asked Ted.

  “We have our own dump in a gully about a quarter mile from here. When it gets rank, I go out with a tractor and blade and cover it over with dirt; works pretty well. We compost most everything we can for the garden.”

  Sue came out of the house. “Dick Mathes is on the phone for you, Dave. He and Barbara just got back to the hospital from here and there’s an emergency of some kind.”

  “OK, thanks, Sue. I’ll go find out what it’s about.”

  I returned from the house and signaled Rosalie that we had to go by whistling for Mister.

  “Got a colic case, and Dr. Schultz has a dystocia he’s working on,” I explained. “Thanks for everything, guys. It was a great party, and we really appreciate the invitation to participate. We’re ready to do it again any time you call. Sorry to leave you with more clean-up to do, but duty calls.”

  Chapter 9: Skunked

  I climbed the stairs from our basement apartment, went outside, and let the door to the stairway slam shut behind me. The chilled morning air was redolent with fall. I climbed into the truck and turned the ignition key. The truck sputtered, coughed, and started. Three minutes later, mine was the only vehicle on the county road. Floodlights illuminated scattered farmyards, their influence receding in the gathering light of an overcast dawn.

  Here I am out and about healing the sick, easing pain and suffering, responding to the needs of our four-legged brethren. I wish I were still in bed with Rosalie!

  The lane into the farm circled around the house and ended in the yard separating house and barn. All farmyards in this part of the world seemed to be the same—barren with a large floodlight on the side of the barn closest to the house.

  Fred Homer farmed five hundred acres of river bottom. He had recently purchased adjacent pasture on the bluff and was now in the process of getting into the dairy business. His milk parlor, a gleaming new Butler, prefabricated metal building, sat behind an old livestock barn. Since his was an affluent farm, the yard was paved with a thick layer of river gravel. Most yards were dirt, which turned to mud when it rained.

  I opened the truck door, and the screen door from the back porch banged open. The floodlight went off as Homer, average height, medium build, sporting three days’ growth of graying whiskers, clumped down the two wood stairs, pulling on a plaid-lined Levi jacket. A “gimme cap” advertising Yellowstone Livestock Company was pulled down low over his forehead.

  “Mr. Ho
mer, good morning.”

  We shook hands. The farmer’s were short fingered, callused, cracked, weathered.

  “Doc, I’ve never seen the like. She’s in the calving shed out behind the new barn. Just came fresh three days ago. Damnest thing I ever seen; paralyzed she is.”

  I took one of the black leather cases from the truck. “She’s lying on her chest with her head twisted round to her side in an S?”

  Homer stopped and turned. “Damn, Doc. I heard you was good, but how’d you know that afore you ever seen her?”

  I smiled. “Lead on, and we’ll have a look.”

  The black and white Holstein was lying half out of a three-sided shed in a soggy mixture of dirt and manure. As foretold, she was on her sternum, her head twisted to the left.

  “You tried to get her up, and she wouldn’t, or couldn’t, right?”

  “Yeah, even used the cattle prod on her. She just bellowed and stayed down.”

  I conducted a quick exam finding what I expected. I pulled her head out straight, released it, and her neck returned to the same telltale S-shape.

  “Well, Mr. Homer, she’s got what we call eclampsia, or milk fever.”

  I loved these cases. I would be a hero in short order. I opened the case and pulled out a bottle of calcium gluconate, an intravenous drip set, and a sixteen-gauge hypodermic needle.

  “It’s a metabolic disease. We don’t know exactly what causes it, but usually only high-producing cows get it three or four days after calving. It’s associated with low levels of calcium in their blood. Because of the low calcium, they can’t control their muscles, and they end up like this, sort of paralyzed. I’m going to give her this bottle of calcium solution in the vein.”

  I slipped the needle into the jugular vein, hooked up the bottle, and held it high while the fluid gurgled in. Every few minutes I lowered the bottle and checked the cow’s heart rate. When half the bottle was gone, the cow started to focus her expressive dark eyes on me. When the last of the liquid ran out of the brown bottle, the cow brought her head out from her side, moving it back and forth, rediscovering her surroundings.

  “I’m going to put everything away in the truck,” I said.

  I returned in a few minutes, my stethoscope draped around my neck. I listened again and found her heartbeat much slower, significantly stronger.

  “Well, Mr. Homer, I think we’re ready.”

  “Ready for what, Doc?”

  “Ready for this,” I smiled. I stood and gave the cow a quick kick with the side of my boot. She immediately rose up on her hind legs, her front legs still curled under. She paused, in the praying position, released a magnificent burp, and then scrambled to her feet. She walked over to a nearby feed trough and started munching on some fresh-smelling alfalfa hay.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Homer, mumbled.

  “Yeah,” I said, “one of the miracles of veterinary medicine. She’ll be fine.”

  Back at the truck, I finished writing up the bill. When I joined the practice, Dr. Schultz was charging three dollars a call, plus ten cents a mile, plus drugs and extra for some specific procedures. After working in the practice three weeks, I convinced him to double the call and mileage charges and significantly increase the procedures fees. The changes in fee structure were more than making up for my salary. I handed Mr. Homer the bill.

  “Doc Schultz finally upped his fees, uh? ’Bout time, I expect. A man ought to know what his skills are really worth. Don’t expect that’s a problem with you, eh, Doc?”

  “Hope not, Mr. Homer. A man ought to be paid for hard-earned knowledge.”

  “Looks as though this is about double old Doc’s rates, but I’ll give you credit. I thought that cow was a goner, and I give ’most four hundred for her. I’ll stop by and settle up with Dick next time I’m in town. That suit?”

  “That’ll be fine. Let me know if she has any more problems.”

  I checked with Dick Mathes on the two-way radio and wrote down the directions for three additional calls. Two hours later, I pulled into the garage of the animal hospital and parked next to Dr. Schultz’s truck. There was a car already spotted with leaves under the ancient oak in the parking lot.

  In the reception area, I found Dr. Schultz, a middle-aged couple, and a boy, about six years old. The boy was holding a burlap sack with something moving inside.

  “Ah, Dr. Gross, here you are,” Schultz said. “I want you to meet Bill and Jennifer Jansen.”

  The man stood straighter, trying to match my height but lacking two inches. He was clean-shaved with thinning reddish-brown hair, nice smile, even teeth. His handshake was firm.

  Mrs. Jansen stayed seated, smiled, and murmured, “Hello.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Mrs. Jansen. Pleased to meet you both.”

  Schultz put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Billy.”

  I extended my hand, and the boy took it, shaking once, hard, up and down. The boy had red hair, a wide grin, no front teeth, and lots of freckles.

  “Pleased to meet you, Doctor Gross,” he said politely.

  “What’s in the sack, Billy?” I asked.

  The boy held the top of the sack open and showed me a small, shiny black animal. A stark white stripe ran the length of its back and down a feather-duster tail.

  Mrs. Jansen got to her feet. She was a foot shorter than her husband and matronly. Her curly, reddish hair was cut short. “Some neighbors claim skunks make good pets. I’m not so sure. Billy found this baby, and he wants to keep him. What do you think? If we de-scent him will he make a good pet?” she asked.

  “I told them I don’t do that kind of surgery, but I was pretty sure you could handle it,” Schultz smiled.

  I was certain I remembered the description of the procedure from a surgery class. The skunk was still too young to have learned to spray, but there was bound to be musk in the sacs.

  “Sure,” I said. “I can descent him, but we won’t be able to give him anesthesia in the vein as we do dogs and cats. We’ll have to put him in a closed container with ether. There’s a possibility he’ll die from the anesthesia.”

  “I guess the more important question for us is will a skunk will make a good pet,” Bill Jansen repeated.

  Billy fixed his eyes on me, his face full of apprehension. “What will happen if I don’t take care of him? I’ve been feeding him milk with a doll bottle. He’ll die!” Billy exclaimed.

  I held out my hand and Billy handed me the sack.

  “OK, Billy, I’ll do my very best to take good care of him. However,” I squatted directly in front of the boy, “a de-scented skunk is still a wild creature, not like a dog or cat. Do you understand? You will have to be careful around him when he grows up, or he will bite you.”

  Dick Mathes walked into the room.

  “Oh, I’ve known several young people with pet skunks. They’re lots of fun.”

  He is anxious to watch me struggle getting those scent glands out.

  “I’m going to do this out in the barn. If I nick one of his scent glands, it will stink up the whole hospital. Dick, have we got an old ice chest we can use for an anesthetic chamber?”

  Dr. Schultz and Dick Mathes followed me to the barn.

  “You ever even seen one of these done, Dave?” asked Schultz.

  “Nope.”

  I carried the sack with the skunk in one hand, a hard-used ice chest in the other. I left both in the barn while Dick and I carried the small animal surgery table out. I poured ether onto a wad of cotton, dropped it into the ice chest, opened the sack, dropped the skunk into the chest, and closed the lid. I listened carefully until the skunk stopped moving around, lifted the lid, and gave the animal a poke.

  “Well, he’s anesthetized and still breathing; so far, so good,” I announced.

  “Dick, do you suppose you can find some plastic sandwich bags?”

  “I expect so. What do you need them for?”

  “We’ll need something to put the scent glands in.”

&nb
sp; “Gotcha.”

  I took the skunk out of the ice chest and arranged him on the surgical table, on his belly with his tail tied up over his back. I added ether to a cone designed for a cat and placed it over the skunk’s muzzle, then clipped the entire area around the anus, and prepared the skin for surgery.

  Dick returned with a box of sandwich bags.

  “Well, the glands are where they’re supposed to be at five and seven o’clock,” I said. “Except it’s a she, not a he. Guess we need to tell the Jensen family that before they take her home. Dick, please monitor her breathing and remove the cone periodically. We need to keep her anesthetized just enough so she doesn’t move.”

  I found the right side papilla, clamped it with a mosquito forceps, and slowly dissected the gland. To my surprise it peeled out whole, the duct held closed by the forceps.

  “As soon as I remove the clamp you need to close up the baggie,” I told Dick.

  I deposited the sac in the plastic sandwich bag that Dick held open for me.

  Only a faint scent escaped before Dick sealed the bag. The left side sac also came out whole. When I tried to drop the gland into a second plastic sandwich bag, the duct stuck to one of the jaws of the forceps. I gave a shake to flip it off, but the gland missed the bag and landed directly on top of my right foot. Stink filled the barn. Dr. Schultz and Dick beat a laughing retreat into the clinic slamming the door behind them. The sac was firmly stuck to the instep top of my new rough-out boot.

  The skunk started to wake up. Breathing through my mouth, I sprayed the open wounds on both sides of her anus with antiseptic and put her back in the burlap sack.

  The fragrance from my boot brought tears to my eyes. I picked the half-empty sac off my boot with the forceps and deposited it into the sandwich bag Dick had dropped on the floor while making his escape. Washing off my boots with the high-pressure hose used to clean the barn did very little to abate the odor, but both of my feet now made squishy noises with every step. I took off the boots and my soaked socks, put them outside the barn door, and slipped into the rubber boots I should have been wearing from the onset.