***
On occasion, usually within a week after a range heifer has experienced difficulties calving, the uterus can evert, that is, prolapse by turning inside out. It is more unusual for this to happen in older cows. In beef cattle, usually just the vagina and cervix prolapse, but in dairy cattle, the entire uterus can turn inside out. Some ranchers addressed this problem by pushing the prolapse back into the animal, putting a soft-drink bottle in and sewing the vulva closed over the bottle, usually with bailing twine. The animals thus treated might continue to strain, perhaps because of the foreign object, bust through the sutures, and prolapse again.
***
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dow,” I greeted him. “Let’s have a look and see what you’ve got.”
“Got ’em in th’ corrals out back a th’ barn. I put th’ first un in the squeeze when I seen your dust on the road. Th’ other un’s in th’ chute wait’n. You kin pull your truck round th’ barn so’s it’s close.”
“Great. You want to ride with me?”
“Naw, ma feet still work; I’ll meet ya there.”
I looked and saw the expected windmill half protruding above the roof of the barn, turning with hesitation in the slight breeze. “Is the water from the well good?” I asked.
“Yeah, clean water.”
The two heifers were patiently waiting behind the barn. The one in the squeeze chute, her head held firm, had been prolapsed for at least a week, the extruded tissue swollen, scabbed, and oozing serum.
I filled my bucket from the intermittent stream emanating from the pipe empting into the water tank and added disinfectant. I fit a squeeze bottle of surgical soap, bandage scissors, and a sterile surgical pack containing scissors, tissue forceps, suture needles, and umbilical tape suture, along with some antibiotic boluses into the back pockets of my coveralls. I filled two syringes with Lidocaine, and those went into one top pocket, and an unopened package of sterile four-by-four gauze sponges in the other. I climbed over the rails of the chute and stood behind the heifer in the squeeze. The second heifer retreated, pushing against the pole Dow had placed behind her, giving me room to work on the one in the squeeze.
After giving the heifer an epidural, I used the bandage scissors to scrape scab, dirt, and foreign materials off the protruding tissue. I squeezed soap onto the prolapse and then opened the pack of gauze, soaked several sponges in the disinfectant water, and used them to clean the mass. Squeezing with both hands, I gradually worked the prolapsed tissue back into place and then deposited two antibiotic boluses into the vagina. I opened my surgical pack and used umbilical tape and a large suture needle to lace up and hold the inverted vulva in place with a shoelace suture. The epidural and the fact that she had been prolapsed for some time had a combined effect. The heifer didn’t seem to have any feeling left in the region. She manifested no objection or embarrassment. I returned to the truck, filled a syringe with oxytocin and another with antibiotic, and administered them both to the first heifer. We released her and put the second heifer in the squeeze. While working on the second heifer, I started a conversation with the rancher.
“So, Mr. Dow, John Jones tells me your dad ranched near here as a partner with Theodore Roosevelt. How did that come about?”
Like many men who live a solitary life, he had a lot to say.
“Well,” he responded, “while he wuz a student at Harvard, Mr. Roosevelt come t’ Aroostook County in Northern Maine. He come t’ hunt, an’ ’is guide an’ compadre wuz ma great-uncle William Sewall. I be named after ’im. Uncle Sewall’s partner wuz also ’is nephew, Wilmot Dow, my pa. Pa wuz only twenty-three when he first met Mr. Roosevelt. Pa wuz just as big an’ wild as Uncle Bill, but Uncle Bill al’ays said Pa’s a better guide, better hunter, better fisherman, an’ th’ best shot in Aroostook County.
“Mr. Roosevelt come back fer a longer huntin’ an’ mountain climbin’ trip with Uncle Bill an’ Pa th’ followin’ year. They’s mighty impressed with ’is stamina an’ determination, even though he wuz kinda frail an’ suffered from th’ asthma.
“September 1883, Mr. Roosevelt first come out here on a buffaler hunt. He falled in love with th’ country, an’ by th’ end a th’ fifteen-day hunt, he ponied up fer th’ Maltese Cross Ranch upstream o’ here by Medora with Mr. Sylvane Ferris an’ Mr. Bill Merrifield, ’is partners. ’Bout five months after that first visit, Mr. Roosevelt’s wife an’ mother both died on th’ same day. He were purty distressed by that an’ left New York t’ devote ’is time t’ th’ cattle b’iness.
“March 1884, Mr. Roosevelt wrote Uncle Bill inviting him an’ Pa t’ help set up a second cattle ranch. He wuz t’ put up all th’ money, but they’d have shares in any profits. If they lost on th’ deal, he said he’d swaller th’ loss an’ still pay ’em monthly wages. They both had mortgages on their properties in Maine. Mr. Roosevelt sweetened th’ deal with three thousand dollars t’ pay off them mortgages.
“The wives wuzn’t happy t’ be left home alone or t’ be stuck out in th’ Badlands out West, but Mr. Roosevelt promised t’ pay fer their families t’ join Uncle an’ Pa if all went well that first year.
“Mr. Roosevelt went t’ th’ 1884 Republican convention that June, but th’ candidate he backed got whupped. His cattle on th’ Maltese Cross Ranch wintered good, so he got a thousand head more an’ made ranchin’ ’is primary b’iness. He come north a horseback from Medora, crossin’ back ’n’ forth th’ Little Missouri searchin’ fer a likely property. He ’ventually reached a stretch a bottomland on th’ left bank that he liked well nuff. Grass spread out from th’ river edge fer a hunderd yards, t’ a cottonwood grove full a loud birds, Uncle Bill told it. Th’ grove run west fer ’nother two hunderd yards.
“That wuz the site of th’ ’riginal Elkhorn Ranch, ’bout thirty-five miles north a Medora an’ th’ Northern Pacific Railroad. He bought th’ place fer four hunderd dollars. Him an’ ’is four partners run three thousand head, or there’bouts, dependin’ on how them owned with various partners wuz counted. In them days, this wuz all open range an’ th’ cattle wintered best they could on what grass an’ what else they could find t’ eat.
“That fall uv 1884, Uncle an’ Pa got here an’ started workin’ on buildin’ th’ ranch house an’ th’ other buildin’s. That winter they built th’ main ranch house, thirty by sixty foot with seven-foot tall walls. It had eight rooms. A porch, big nuff fer a couple a rockin’ chairs, by th’ front door an’ facin’ east lookin’ out crost th’ river. Built a barn too that wuz two sixteen-by-twenty-foot stables an’ a twelve-foot-wide breeze, roofed, ’tween th’ two buildin’s. They built ’em a cow shed, chicken house, an’ blacksmith shop all tha’ same winter.”
“You’re kidding me,” I said. “They couldn’t possibly build all of that in one winter and spring, just the two of them. Cut down the trees and built that many log structures, just the two of them?”
“Uncle never said they had any help. I’m purty certain it wuz just th’ two uv ’em. In them days, a man worked hard and fast.
“At th’ end a th’ summer uv 1885, Pa went back home t’ Maine an’ brought back Ma an’ Aunt Sewall an’ ma cousin who wuz only a coupla year old.”
“What was the story about the Redhead Finnegan gang?” I asked.
“Oh yeah. Heard ’bout that, uh? Well, most a th’ year, th’ Little Missouri be too shaller fer even a raft; you kin ride crost it horseback. In them days, th’ river froze solid in winter, not so anymore. Early spring eighty-six, th’ weather warmed, an’ th’ river wuz too high t’ ford. Uncle an’ Pa built ’em a sturdy boat t’ crost over so’s they could hunt an’ check on th’ livestock.
“That March, th’ river edges wuz still choked wid ice, but a center stream a fast movin’ water kept th’ ice movin’ in front a th’ house. T’ keep th’ boat from bein’ drug away if’n more ice melted, Uncle had ’er tied t’ a tree. Early mornin’ a March 24, they come out an’ seen th’ rope cut an’ th’ boat be gone.
“Three
outlaws had ’em a shack ’bout twenty miles upstream a th’ Elkhorn, an’ some a th’ local cattlemen’s association wuz threatenin’ t’ lynch ’em fer stealing livestock. Mr. Roosevelt, Uncle, an’ Pa figured them three wuz sponsible fer stealin’ their boat. Th’ leader a th’ gang wuz Redhead Finnegan, a vicious horse-thief an’ gunman. Th’ second wuz a half-breed name a Burnsted; th’ third, a half-wit name a Pfaffenbach. Mr. Roosevelt wuz special pissed ’bout th’ boat cuz he planned t’ use ’er on a cougar hunt that day. Uncle an’ Pa got busy right off an’ built ’em a scow t’ chase th’ thieves, but a blizzard come, an’ they wuzn’t able t’ strike out fer six days.
“Mr. Roosevelt wuz chairman a th’ Stockmen’s Association. Cuz a that, he wuz also a deputy sheriff a Billings County. Th’ three a ’em took off ridin’ th’ fast current in th’ scow. Uncle an’ Pa did th’ rowin’ an’ steerin’; Mr. Roosevelt huddled down in buffaler robes reading one o’ th’ two books he brought. Fer three days, they pushed on, fightin’ th’ cold, wind, an’ rough water. It wuz a good thing Uncle an’ Pa be expert at runnin’ rivers, or it coulda bin a disaster. On th’ fourth day, after shootin’ a couple a deer an’ eatin’ a hearty breakfast, they gone on, not really expectin’ t’ catch th’ three thieves cuz they had such a big lead. That afternoon, nearly a hundred miles north an’ east a th’ Elkhorn, they wuz a laughin’ an’ a talkin’ as they rode th’ river. They come round a bend an’ most run int’ a big ice jam an’ see th’ stole boat moored agins’ th’ riverbank.
“They quick looked ’bout an’ spotted th’ smoke from a campfire not fer off. They shed their overcoats an’ snuck up t’ surround the camp. The only one home wuz th’ half-wit kraut; th’ other two be out huntin’. They quick got th’ drop on ’im an’ took ’im prisoner. Uncle took charge o’ th’ kraut an’ made certain he kept quiet. They hunkered down an’ waited fer Finnegan and Burnsted t’ return. The two uv ’em walked right int’ camp talkin’, unawares. The posse rose up an’ shouted fer th’ outlaws t’ drop they’s weapons an’ reach fer th’ sky. Burnsted give up right off, his knees ashakin’. Finnegan hesitated until Mr. Roosevelt walked t’ within a few feet of ’im with ’is rifle aimed at th’ center uv ’is chest. Mr. Roosevelt spoke to ’im real soft, Uncle said. Ordered him t’ drop ’is weapons an’ hold up ’is hands. Finnegan cussed a bunch but did as he wuz told.
“Uncle said th’ three outlaws had a shit-pot full a rifles, revolvers, an’ knives. They collected all th’ hardware from ’em, but even after th’ three wuz disarmed, they had ’em a problem. It wuz bitter cold. If’n they tied th’ three tight nuff t’ keep from gettin’ away, they’s hands an’ feet wuz likely t’ freeze. Mandan, th’ first big town downriver, wuz still over a hunderd an’ fifty miles. Th’ river wuz chokin’ up agin with ice floes as th’ temperature dropped. They couldna go back upstream, an’ they wuz runnin’ outta grub.
“Fer th’ next eight days, they had t’ wait till most noon fer the ice jams t’ start movin’. They worked their way downstream till th’ water froze up agin towards nightfall. Redhead be th’ most dangerous, so one a th’ three always kept a sharp eye on ’im. April 7 they come up on a cow camp an’ got more supplies. Mr. Roosevelt borrowed ’im a horse an’ rode t’ th’ C-Diamond Ranch. He talked th’ owner int’ rentin’ him th’ use uv a covered wagon an’ two horses. Then he promised th’ rancher extra t’ drive th’ team. They headed fer the sheriff’s office at Dickinson, forty-five miles south. Uncle an’ Pa continued on t’ Mandan with th’ boat, an’ after reachin’ Mandan, they brought th’ boat back t’ Medora on th’ railroad, then rode th’ river back t’ th’ ranch.
“Mr. Roosevelt didn’t trust th’ rancher much, so he walked back o’ th’ wagon that wuz carrying his prisoners, with his rifle cocked an’ ready. After sloggin’ through th’ mud all day, they put up that night at a homesteader’s shack. Mr. Roosevelt stayed up, sittin’ on the floor of th’ shack, his back agin th’ door, keepin’ watch. Th’ followin’ day, they made it t’ Dickinson, an’ Mr. Roosevelt turned them three over t’ th’ sheriff. Mr. Roosevelt got him a fee as a deputy sheriff fer making th’ arrests plus mileage fer th’ three hunderd miles he traveled. Uncle said the total wuz fifty dollars an’ ’im an’ Pa got shares.
“Mr. Roosevelt come back to Mandan fer th’ trial a them outlaws. He done a lot a talkin’ t’ th’ newspaper fellas. Th’ stories they wrote did a lot fer ’is prestige an’ reputation.
“Redhead Finnegan an’ Burnsted both got three years in prison, but Mr. Roosevelt withdrew ’is charge agin Pfaffenbach. He said th’ kraut didn’t have nuff sense t’ do anythin’, good or bad. Th’ half-wit thanked ’im, an’ Mr. Roosevelt told the reporters it wuz th’ first time he wuz thanked fer callin’ a man a fool.
“That same August at th’ Elkhorn, Aunt Sewall an’ my ma give birth to sons, me an’ my cousin Wil, but bad times were a-comin’. Th’ buffaler herds wuz killed off by hunters comin’ in on th’ railroad an’ by th’ Texas cattle fever. Too many cattle wuz brought in, an’ th’ range got over-grazed. A drought come an’ made everythin’ worst. Th’ price a cattle fer slaughter in Chicago fell cuz a th’ oversupply, an’ th’ Elkhorn wuz bleedin’ money. When Mr. Roosevelt come back from doin’ some family b’iness in New York, him, Uncle, an’ Pa talked over th’ situation. Uncle an’ Pa wuz fer quittin’ an’ goin’ back t’ Maine. Th’ three uv ‘em squared accounts, an’ we come back t’ Maine where I grew up. That wuz th’ fall uv eighty-six.
“The next winter wuz real bad, an’ Mr. Roosevelt lost ’bout 60 percent uv ’is cattle. By then he wuz livin’ full time in New York, back t’ writin’ ’is books an’ politickin’. He turned over th’ cattle b’iness, including th’ Elkhorn, t’ ’is partners in th’ Maltese Cross, Mr. Ferris an’ Mr. Merrifield. He come back t’ help with roundups an’ t’ do some huntin’ but left all th’ runnin’ a th’ ranch t’ ’is partners. After a late summer visit in 1890, he left th’ Elkhorn fer good an’ ended ’is partnership with Merrifield, leavin’ Ferris t’ run th’ remainin’ cattle.”
“Well, that’s some story. So how did you end up with this place?” I asked.
“Ah wuz out huntin’ an’ lookin’ fer th’ spot where they captured Redhead an’ ’is gang. Think ah found th’ place downstream from here. This place wuz fer sale, an’ ah saved most a ma pay from soldierin’. Th’ bank had some money, so me an’ th’ bank bought ’er. She’s free an’ clear now an’ suits me; don’t need much.”
“Have you found where the original Elkhorn was?”
“Yeah, but nothin’ there; th’ buildin’s be ruins. Ah stood where th’ house wuz an’ could see th’ view that Pa an’ Uncle had crost th’ river.”
I had finished with the second heifer, put everything back in the truck, picked up my receipt book, and leaned over to check the mileage.
“What do ah owe you, Doc?”
“Just a minute, and I’ll total it up. Looks like just over thirty miles from the hospital to here. That sound right?”
“Yeah, that’s ’bout right.”
“OK, I’m going to leave you this bottle of Combiotic. You need to keep those two in for the next couple of weeks and give them each ten cc of the Combiotic a day. Have you got syringes and needles?”
“Yeah, sure, might be stuck from th’ last time I used ’em.”
“Well, you need to wash them up good with soap and water, get them unstuck, and then boil them for at least ten minutes before you use them. You should cut out the sutures I put in ten days from now and then keep the heifers up for a couple of days to make certain they don’t prolapse again.”
I finished adding up the bill. “We’ve got twelve dollars mileage and fifteen each for the prolapse repair. That’s forty-two dollars.”
Dow counted out crumpled bills into my hand, smoothing each of them as he did so.
“OK, Mr. Dow. Call if you have any more problems. That’s a great President Roosevelt story.”
Chapter 23: Le
g Problems
It was hot. The wet spring had turned all plant life a luxuriant green, but after six weeks, the sky was cloudless, and the wind shifted, blowing in from the southwest. The sun burned the green to brittle brown.
Jim Shapley owned the pharmacy three blocks from the animal hospital. He was distraught. A car had hit his blond cocker spaniel, Scamp, when the dog was returning from the field across the road from his house.
“I let him out at seven this morning as usual. He’s always been very careful getting across the road to the field. He goes over every morning and follows rabbits, but he’s yet to catch one. I didn’t see who hit him, just heard a thump and him howling. The bastard just kept on going. I never even saw what kind of car it was.”
Scamp was a crybaby. He started whining as soon as I approached him. I didn’t have to palpate his left hind leg to diagnose the obvious femoral fracture.
“It’ll be OK, Scamp,” I said. “We’ll give you some short-acting anesthetic, intubate your trachea, and anesthetize you, and when you wake up, everything will be fixed up.” I reached out to pet the dog on his head, but with no warning, he snapped at my fingers. I pulled back just in time. “OK, we’ll muzzle you before I do anything.”
“He must be hurting bad,” the pharmacist said. “We’ve had him since he was a pup, and that’s the first time he ever snapped at anyone.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “He’s no doubt in considerable pain, and he doesn’t know me. It’s not an unusual reaction. I’ll just tie this loop of gauze around his muzzle and then tie it in back of his head, like this. He’ll be fine.”
I examined the dog and determined he was only in mild shock with a normal heart rate and pulse and normal breathing. I hooked up an IV saline drip, anesthetized him, put an endotracheal tube into his trachea, and then hooked him up to the gas anesthetic machine.
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