The beet farmer finally demonstrated understanding and an eager interest in finding the animals. He peered intently out into the darkness, leaning out through the open window of the truck, scanning with his flashlight.
I managed to stop the truck just before hitting a large black hump on the ground. I backed the truck up ten feet. The headlights illuminated a cow lying on her right side, her abdomen distended, her legs thrust out straight from her body. I jumped out of the truck and ran to her. She was still breathing but with extreme difficulty. Greene was directly behind me.
“You gonna stick her, Doc?” he asked.
“No, I’m going to try something else first,” I said.
An emergency rumenotomy, sticking a knife or trocar into the rumen, could save an animal’s life but almost inevitably results in infection and gastrointestinal problems. I trotted back to the truck, grabbed a large, stiff, rubber tube called a probang, about twice the diameter of a garden hose. I also took a mouth gag, a block of wood with a hole drilled in the center and straps to affix the device to the head.
“Mr. Greene, would you please turn off the truck but leave the headlights on?... Thanks.”
I put the mouth gag in place, buckling the straps behind her head. The cow struggled weakly. I pushed the probang down her throat advancing the tube until it met resistance. Taking the free end of the tube in my mouth I blew in it as hard as I could, dilating her esophagus while continuing to push the tube forward. The obstruction moved. A sudden “whoosh” of methane gas filled the immediate area. I jerked my head to the side. Greene stepped back three steps.
“Whew,” he said. “Stinks pretty rotten, Doc.”
“You got that right,” I responded.
The cow’s abdomen gradually collapsed to normal, and she struggled, rolling onto her sternum. I held her head, moving the tube around to let off more gas. The cow looked at me stupidly. When no more gas escaped, I removed the tube and the mouth gag. The cow stayed on her sternum for a short time and then struggled to her feet.
“Well, I think she’ll make it,” I said. “Let’s get back in the truck and try to find any others.”
After ten minutes of searching, we spotted another cow. This one was standing with her head down, salivating profusely. I stopped the truck, and we got out. When we got within a few feet, the cow trotted off a few yards and stopped. We went back to the truck and searched for her with the headlights. When we found her again, I got out my nylon throw rope and roped her from twenty-five feet away. She dragged me for two steps and then stopped, breathing hard. I snubbed her to the front bumper of the truck, put in the mouth gag, and relieved the choke.
After covering the rest of the field, we returned to the north fence and completed a basket-weave search at right angles to the first pattern. I thought I spotted two more cows having trouble, although it might have been the same cow. Each time the animal wandered off into the darkness before we could get out of the truck.
I finally lost patience.
“This is pretty hopeless. If there are any others here, we’re going to have a devil of a time finding them. It’s pointless to chase around in the dark. I don’t think it’s wise to leave these cattle out in the field.”
Greene seemed confused.
“When the beet tops are frozen, the cattle don’t chew them; they swallow them whole and they get stuck,” I repeated impatiently. “That’s what’s causing the problem. I suggest you ask your neighbors to help you. If you get enough people out here with flashlights, you can probably herd all the cattle out of the field and into a dry lot, preferably one with lights. If you find any more choked animals, they’ll be where I can get to them. If you do that, I’ll be happy to come out again and take care of them.”
“Well, I reckon gettin’ the neighbors together and bringin’ in the cattle would be considerable trouble,” Greene said. “Besides, I bin turnin’ cows into these beet fields as long as I bin farmin’, and my Daddy afore that.”
“That’s your decision. I don’t think we can accomplish anything looking for them in the dark.” I was fighting a losing battle to keep exasperation out of my voice. I dropped Greene off at the house and made out a bill for my services.
“Have a good evening, Doc. I’ll stop by to pay this next week, after I get the check for my beets. Thanks for comin’ out. I think you saved them two.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Greene. Check the field at first light and call if you find any animals in trouble.”
Chapter 11: The Stockyards Café
After leaving Mr. Greene and his Black Angus cattle, I drove home and clumped down the stairs to our apartment, grumbling.
Mister was sitting at the door. Rosalie came out of the kitchen, drying her hands, a big welcoming smile on her face.
“Hi,” I said and held out my arms.
“Hi,” Rosalie responded, slipping into my embrace.
I was cold, dirty, tired, and hungry. She was soft and warm in my arms. The top of her head reached just to my chin, and her hair smelled of wildflowers.
She leaned back. “Whew, you don’t smell so good. I have an idea. Why don’t you grab a quick shower and change your clothes? I’ll get our dinner into the oven.”
“You won’t believe what I’ve been doing, but you’re right. That’s rumen gas you smell. I’ll take a shower and change. Tell you all about it while we eat. You shouldn’t have waited for me, though.” I glanced at my watch. “Jesus, it’s after nine!”
Mister whined and went to the door. He had been busy protecting Rosalie all day, and now that I was home, he was ready to go out. I followed him up the stairs, patted him on the back, and opened the door. The dog turned, looked at me, wagged his tail, and ran through the opened door.
My turn for relief, I headed for the shower. After washing off, I gradually reduced the cold water keeping the hot water faucet wide open. I stood in the steaming torrent, muscles relaxing, until I heard a soft knock at the door.
“You planning to stay in there all night?” asked Rosalie. “I’m hungry.”
“Be right out.”
I toweled off padding, barefoot, towards the bedroom. Mister was back in the apartment. He chased after me, pushing his cold nose under the towel. Rosalie, laughing, encouraged the dog to do his best.
***
The alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. I let Mister out into the dark. A light dusting of snow covered the ground. I went back down the stairs as quietly as possible trying not to awaken Rosalie.
I started some coffee and then placed six strips of thick-sliced bacon into our cast iron skillet. Rosalie and I were not Jewish enough to forego bacon. When it was crisp, I walked to the bedroom, leaned over, and kissed Rosalie’s forehead. She smiled, stretched both arms, then her legs, pointing fingers and toes, finally opening her eyes.
“Hi,” she said.
“Good morning. Are you planning on joining me for breakfast?”
Rosalie sniffed, “Smells good. Since you’ve gone to all that trouble, guess I will.”
I tickled her ribs.
She shrieked and called out for Mister to protect her.
“Mister’s out,” I told her. “You’ll have to protect yourself.” I pretended to tickle her again. “This can easily lead to something,” I murmured, “but the damn phone is bound to ring soon.”
We sat at the table eating, chatting about our respective plans for the day.
“Sue and Linda Simpson and I are meeting for lunch. They’re bringing along Natalie Simpson, the sister, so we can get acquainted.”
A shadow flicked past the window. I looked up and saw a creature on its side, sliding by.
“What the hell!” I jumped up to peer out the window. “It’s a deer, actually a deer carcass. Mister is dragging it towards the door.”
I bounded up the stairs and out the door as Mister came around the corner of the house. His trophy was a field-dressed, spike-antlered mule deer.
“Mister, drop it! Get downstairs,” I pointed down the steps
to the apartment.
Dejected, he obeyed.
I went over to inspect the carcass, covered in dirt, leaves, and twigs and then went back down for my coat.
“Mister stole some hunter’s deer, probably off an open back porch,” I explained. “I’ve got to find out where he got it.”
The carcass was heavy enough to leave clear drag marks. I followed them down the street and around to the back of the house five doors down. There was an open back porch with an empty steel hook attached to a rafter. I went around to the front of the house and knocked on the door.
A thin, scowling man answered. He was balding, gray at the temples, holding a mug of very aromatic coffee.
“Hi, sorry to disturb you. I’m your neighbor, Dave Gross. I live in the basement apartment down the block. I’m afraid my dog stole your deer from the back porch.”
“No way. That spike was over a hundred pounds before I gutted him.”
“Sorry, I’m afraid he did.”
“Let’s go see,” said the man. “Come on through.”
I stamped my feet on the porch and followed him through the cluttered but clean house.
“Well, it’s gone for sure, and I see something dragged it off.” He laughed and held out his hand. “You’re the new vet, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m George Kemper. I own the Stockyards Café. I heard about you from the Simpson brothers.”
He was dressed only in pants, an undershirt and house shoes, but he insisted we go have a look at the deer.
“I need to meet the dog capable of hauling that carcass off.”
I apologized all the way back to the apartment about the condition of the carcass.
“Ah, no problem,” said Kemper. “Some judicious use of the garden hose will clean it up.”
I opened the outside door to the stairs and called down. “Rosalie, please let Mister out.”
Mister ran up the stairs to reclaim his trophy but responded immediately to my command to sit.
Kemper patted the dog on the head. “He is beautiful. Best looking shepherd I’ve seen. It never occurred to me that there might be a dog strong enough to cart off that deer. I was going to take it in to have it cut up this morning.”
I helped Kemper carry the deer back, Mister trailing. We carried the carcass into his kitchen and put it on the table.
“You want a cup of coffee?” asked Kemper. “It’s a special blend I get for the restaurant.”
“No thanks, but I feel real bad about this. I’m happy to pay you whatever the deer is worth.”
Kemper laughed. “No harm done, I’ll just wash everything off; it’ll be fine. I’m going to have it ground up for sausage anyhow. However, I do expect you and your wife to visit my restaurant soon. Best steaks in this part of the country.”
“That sounds like a good deal to me,” I said. “Maybe this Saturday night?”
“I’ll expect you.”
***
Saturday was a busy day. It was almost 8:00 p.m. when I held open the door of the Stockyards Café for Rosalie. George Kemper was standing behind the bar.
“There they are! I almost gave up on you, Doc.” He came out from behind the bar and approached us. “Who’s this beautiful lady?”
“Honey, this is Mr. Kemper. This is my wife, Rosalie.”
“George, please. Christ, Doc, how did someone as ugly as you get such a handsome woman? Miss Rosalie, have a seat at my bar. What do you drink?”
George fixed Rosalie a Cuba libre and me, a Chivas Regal on the rocks. After we had our drinks in hand, he escorted us through the restaurant, introducing us to the diners, all of whom he knew by name. There were patrons in all but two of the twenty leather- upholstered booths. He led us to one of the empty booths and then leaned over to talk to the two couples in the adjacent booth.
“So, their dog, the biggest, strongest half-wolf I’ve ever seen, picked up and carried off a hundred-and-fifty-pound, eight-point buck from my back porch. He ate half of it on the way back to their place.”
He gave us a wink as we sat down. “How about you two let me bring you the best meal you’ve had in Montana?”
“Do we have a choice?” I laughed. “We’re in your hands.”
“Good.” As Kemper made his way back to the kitchen, he stopped at each table in his path to exchange a few words, pick up an empty plate, or fill a glass. Within a few minutes, he returned carrying a large plate filled with pickles, olives, and an assortment of raw vegetables and a basket of fresh bread. A waitress trailed him with a water pitcher, a small tub of butter, and a second bowl.
“This little bowl is a dip we make for the vegetables,” explained George. “Now, how do you two want your steaks cooked?”
“Well-done for me,” responded Rosalie.
“No, no, no, how about just a little pink inside?” begged George.
Rosalie smiled and acquiesced.
“No blood,” I said. “She won’t touch it if she sees any red juice coming out, but I’ll take mine medium.”
George made his way back to the kitchen, again stopping at several tables along the way.
The waitress returned with a bottle of red wine. “Mr. Kemper says this will go well with your steaks.”
“Well, we don’t know anything about wines, so whatever he says. I’m sure it will be great.”
She showed me the label on a bottle of Coast Ridge, California Zinfandel, estate bottled in 1952. I nodded not knowing what I was supposed to do. The waitress removed the cork, gave it to me, and stood waiting. I looked at the cork and shrugged at Rosalie.
Rosalie leaned over and whispered, “You’re supposed to smell it; then tell her it’s OK to pour some for a taste.”
I frowned and whispered back. “What am I supposed to smell for?”
Rosalie shrugged.
I looked up at the waitress for guidance.
“Beat’s me.” She smiled and said, “Let me go get Mr. Kemper.”
A moment later, George appeared at my side, “Doc, it’s time you got educated. Mind if I sit down and join you for a minute or two?”
“Please,” I said.
“OK, you inspect the cork to make certain it’s not dried out and that there are no indications the bottle has been leaking around it. See, the cork is wet partway up, but the line between the wet part and the dry is clear. The cork should also be nice and pliant, not dry or crumbling. You smell it to make sure there is no vinegar smell. Do it.”
I did as instructed.
“OK, now you just nod at the server. He or she will pour a little into your glass. We do this for two reasons. First, if there are any bits of cork on top of the wine, you will get them, not your guests. Second, you get a chance to judge the wine and make certain it is acceptable. The server should show you the label prior to uncorking. That is to make certain it is what you ordered. It also gives you the opportunity to make a mental note so you will recognize the wine again if you like it. You should, in fact, start keeping a diary of both label names and vintage years that you enjoy.
“With a red wine, you want to let it breathe for a while in your glass. Swirl it around. A wine with full body will stick to the glass.”
He swirled the wine in my glass and then tipped it to the side and back upright. I could see the wine adhere to the glass.
“See? That means the wine has ‘legs.’ This is a good thing for a wine to have.”
He handed back the glass. “Now, take a sip. Notice if there is any vinegar taste. If there is, you can reject it. Otherwise, you’re stuck with it, even if you don’t like the taste, unless it is very bitter or off in some other way. If you think it’s really bad tasting, most places will just take it away and not charge you. Keeping the customer happy is important.”
I took a sip.
“So, what do you think?” asked Kemper.
“I like it,” I said. “It’s very nice.”
“Bullshit,” Kemper snorted and then added, “Sorry,” directed at Rosal
ie. “You have to be able to tell me something about it. Can you taste grapes? Does it remind you of some other fruit, plums maybe, strawberries, cherries, or blackberries? Is it smooth, or does it have a bite? Would you describe it as full flavored, watery, tannic, fruity, or musky? Does it leave an aftertaste? Is the aftertaste pleasant or unpleasant?”
“OK,” I said frowning with concentration, “I can sort of taste grapes, maybe plums, but it’s not sweet. I taste something that is kind of smoky, and there is a bite to it. I also smell something that reminds me of tannic acid, but it is not nearly as unpleasant as a true tannic acid smell.”
George smiled broadly. “Good,” he said. “You’re a quick student. Folks don’t appreciate these California Zinfandels yet, but they will. You don’t just sit around and drink this wine though. You must have something to eat with it. A strong cheese is good, but it is best with red meat.” He poured half a glass of wine for each of us, taking a taste in the bottom of a third glass for him.
“A toast,” he said, raising his glass, waiting for us to do likewise. “To the most beautiful Mrs. Gross,” he gave Rosalie a slight bow of the head, “and to Doctor Gross. I predict you will both experience much in this life, most of it good. You will come to appreciate fine wines and fine food, and I hope you will remember George Kemper who started you on this journey of discovery. As you become more sophisticated and knowledgeable, you will find people who denigrate the American kitchen. Tonight you will experience the best of that kitchen—the most flavorful beef produced anywhere in the world, fine potatoes properly prepared, fresh bread, and good wine. If you have room afterwards, I even have some homemade apple pie with homemade ice cream for dessert. Now, you two enjoy yourselves. I have other guests to attend to.”
It was as he had promised. There was a fresh green salad of Romaine lettuce, crisp and crunchy, with a hint of onion, and the whole smothered in blue cheese dressing. The large hunks of the pungent cheese in the dressing made the wine smoother. The steaks were huge T-bones, well-aged and prime. Each was still well over an inch thick after broiling over George’s mesquite fire. They were tender enough to cut with the table knife. Rosalie was appalled at the size of it.
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