Animals Don't Blush

by David R Gross

  “Well,” I said, “hunting is a long-standing tradition, especially, as you know in this part of the world. The Native Americans and mountain men all hunted to live. Almost all the Europeans who settled the West embraced it as a necessity.”

  He squinted at me, pulled his chin in, and furrowed his brow. I guessed my response was not what he expected or wanted.

  “But I agree with you,” I tried to recover. “There is no reason why anybody needs to be firing a rifle this close to people’s homes. I guess I can understand intellectually why people want to hunt, but it’s not for me. I have trouble putting an animal down with a lethal injection when there is no other humane alternative.”

  “Well, I don’t understand it at all,” he said. “I suppose if your family had no other source of meat, I might understand it, but the hunters around here aren’t starving.”

  “Of course, there’s also the issue of population control,” I said. We’ve wiped out almost all the natural predators, so if hunters didn’t thin the herds, it wouldn’t take long for populations to increase to the point where the habitat wouldn’t support them.”

  Mr. Samuelson peered at me and then smiled. “You have a law degree too?”

  “No, sorry, I agree that there is no excuse for anyone to shoot an animal like this, unless this was an accident.”

  “You think it was an accident?” he asked.

  “No, stupidity,” I responded.

  I moved to the pony and gently palpated the area around the wound. She flinched and half-reared moving away.

  “OK, girl, sorry.” I held her head and lifted her lips, looking at her incisors. “She’s young,” I said, “between three and four years looks like.”

  “That’s what we were told,” Samuelson said. “We’ve only had her for about nine months; got her for Missy’s fifth birthday, didn’t we, baby?”

  “She’s not going to die, is she?” asked the little girl.

  “No, Missy,” I said. “We can fix her up as good as new. I’m going to give her some medicine so she won’t hurt so much. Then I’m going to take out the bullet, and she should be just fine in a couple of weeks. Can you wait that long before you ride her again?”

  “Yes, I won’t ride her if she’s hurt.”

  “Good girl. Here, you pet her here on the neck so she’ll know she’s OK while I get the medicine.”

  I turned to the lawyer. “Is there water close by so I can scrub? I’ll also need an electrical outlet for my clippers. I need to shave the hair away from the surgical site.”

  “The closest outlet is up at the house. We can take her up there on the lawn by the kitchen door. Will that do?”

  “Absolutely, that’ll be great.”

  We led the little mare to within six feet of the back door. Mr. Samuelson took the plug end of my clipper cord into the kitchen and plugged it in.

  “You’re all set, Doc.”

  I loaded a syringe with the appropriate dose of tranquilizer and injected it into the mare’s jugular vein. After the tranquilizer took full effect, I used a number-forty blade to shave a ten-inch area around the bullet wound. Then I washed and prepared the skin with water-soluble iodine. Finally, I infiltrated all around the wound with lidocaine. I felt the tip of the inch-and-a-half-long needle I was using to infuse the local anesthetic scrape across something metallic. I removed the needle and palpated the area where I thought I had hit the bullet. Just below the spine of the scapula, I felt a hard object that moved against the bone.

  “OK, I’m pretty certain I can feel the bullet there. She must have been shot from a long way away because the bullet didn’t penetrate the bone of her shoulder. It should be easy to remove. I’m going to get my instruments from the truck. Do you have a card table or something I can set them on while I work? Alternatively I can pull the truck up close and work off the hood.”

  “We’ve got a little utility cart in the kitchen. I’ll get it for you,” Mr. Samuelson answered.

  “Great.”

  After opening the surgical pack and setting out some suture material, a new scalpel blade, and a pair of sterile gloves, I prepped the surgical site again.

  “You can use the kitchen sink to scrub,” Samuelson suggested.

  “That would be great,” I said.

  I put a surgical scrub brush and some surgical soap in a squeeze bottle into a back pocket of my coveralls. Before entering the kitchen, I scraped my feet carefully on an iron mud bar that was cemented into the stoop next to the kitchen door. Then I carefully wiped my feet on the mat in front of the door. Inside a smiling, plump young woman with the same reddish-brown, curly hair as Missy greeted me.

  “Hello, Mrs. Samuelson. We’ll have your daughter’s pony fixed up straight away.”

  “Hello, Dr. Gross.” Her smile was genuinely welcoming. “I’ve cleared everything away for you.”

  I glanced around the immaculate kitchen and saw a dish drain filled with pots on the kitchen table. The counter on both sides of the sink was clear. I looked down to make certain I wasn’t tracking any mud or manure onto her clean floor.

  “Don’t worry about tracking anything in, Doctor. I can clean it up with no trouble.”

  I scrubbed up, and Mrs. Samuelson held the door open for me. I put on the surgical gloves, attached the blade to the scalpel, picked up a thumb forceps, and made an incision in the skin over the place where I had palpated the bullet. It only took a moment to bluntly dissect through the muscle with a forceps, locate the bullet, and remove it. I sutured the incision closed and then infiltrated all around the surgical site and the bullet hole with antibiotic. Finally I gave the mare an injection of antibiotic and a tetanus shot.

  “That should do it,” I said. “If you see any kind of discharge coming out of the bullet hole or the incision, give me a call; otherwise, I’ll be back in ten days to remove the sutures.”

  Sounds good,” he said. “That was a very impressive demonstration. Please leave me the bullet. If the sheriff finds a suspect, maybe we can match that bullet to his rifle. Have you got time for a cup of coffee?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Let me check with the office.”

  I called in on the two-way.

  “All I’ve got you down for this morning is to visit Turley’s. He’s got another batch of hogs ready for cholera vaccinations.”

  “OK, Dick, you can call Turley and tell him I’ll be there in a half-hour or so.”

  “No need, he’ll wait for you.”

  “Right, OK, I’ll check in again when I’m done at his place.”

  Again, I took special care to make certain my boots were clean before entering the Samuelson kitchen. Mr. Samuelson held the door open for me.

  The dish drain was back on the counter. The table was set with four place mats, cups and saucers at three places, and a glass of milk at the fourth. There was also a plate with a large piece of pastry at each place.

  “Sit down; please sit down, Doc. Listen, no need for formalities. I’m Sam, this is Ida, and you’ve met Missy.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, I’m Dave. That pastry looks wonderful. What is it, Mrs. Samuelson, sorry, Ida?”

  The three Samuelsons laughed.

  “It’s called pecan cookie crunch, my take-off on a pecan pie but with a cookie base. How do you take your coffee, Dave?” Ida asked.

  “Black, please,” I answered.

  She poured coffee for the three adults. Sam spooned in three teaspoons of sugar and a generous dollop of cream. Ida did the same.

  I took a bite of the pecan cookie crunch. “This is wonderful,” I exclaimed, and it was. It was a thick cookie covered with a gooey caramel filling of brown sugar, molasses, and lots of sweet pecans.

  “Can I get the recipe for this? My wife is learning to bake, and I’m sure she would love this. Is it difficult to make?”

  “Of course, I’ll be happy to give her the recipe,” Ida answered. She stood up. “I’ll write it down for her. It’s a little time-consuming but not very difficult.”

  �
��It’s obviously very low calorie,” I said.

  They both laughed. Missy looked at both parents and then belatedly joined in.

  “Oh yeah, everything Ida cooks is low calorie,” said Sam. “I’m an obvious testimony to that.”

  We spent a very pleasant twenty minutes chatting. It wasn’t until I got in the truck and was halfway to Turley’s that I realized Sam had extracted most of my life history, as well as Rosalie’s, and I had found out practically nothing about the Samuelsons. I did know that if I needed a lawyer for anything, he was going to be the one I called.

  Chapter 28: Frick and Frack Are Back

  “Hi, Doc,” said Tim Gervis. “This is getting to be more than a little weird. I run almost five hundred head of mother cows on my place, and the only times I’ve seen you is for these stupid hounds.”

  “Hello, Mr. Gervis. I thought I saw your ranch on the schedule for pregnancy exams next week.”

  “Yeah, we’ll start next Tuesday, so maybe we’ll get some real work out of you. Meantime these guys have been shaking their heads, digging at their ears, and chewing on their feet for over a week now. It’s driving the family crazy.”

  ***

  The more innovative and successful ranchers in our area had enthusiastically accepted a relatively new service that Dr. Schultz had introduced four years before my arrival. For a dollar a head, we did rectal examinations on cows starting in late summer and early fall.

  Dr. Schultz could identify a fetus in the uterus when it was only six weeks old. I wasn’t as skilled but didn’t miss many that were eight weeks or more. At the end of the breeding season, we would palpate herds of cows and separate out the ones that were pregnant. We checked the others again a month later to identify any that were not far enough along or that we had missed the first time. The rancher was thus able to identify those cows that were pregnant and going to produce a calf the next year. This meant they could sell the non-productive cows, thus avoiding the expense of feeding them over the winter. This was especially helpful for ranchers who had to purchase feed to get their cattle through the winter.

  The process was simple but involved a long, hard day’s work. The rancher and his hired hands brought the cattle to corrals with chutes leading off them, a setup essential for any working ranch. These chutes led to a ramp where the animals could be loaded into a truck or, alternatively, through a chute leading to a squeeze chute. The upright posts for the chutes were usually only about six feet apart, and the rails were close enough together to prevent an animal from sticking its head out. The posts were far enough apart to insert a pole between animals. The cows were herded into the chute and then blocked off with poles between the posts, so each cow was separated from the one in front of her.

  We climbed over the chute, got in behind a cow and did the rectal exam. Pregnant cows were marked with a colored dye and separated from the non-pregnant or questionable cows. It was dirty work. Getting stepped on was part of the deal, being kicked was not uncommon, getting an arm twisted or jammed into a rail was routine, and being covered from head to foot in loose, grass-green feces was a given.

  If the people working the cows were experienced and efficient, each of us could diagnose twelve to fifteen cows in an hour. The Gervis ranch was set up very well, and Tim had experienced men working for him. He had a double-chute setup, and the chute leading to the loading ramp had an escape gate, so we could divert the cows from that ramp into pregnant or non-pregnant corrals. The chute leading to the squeeze had a similar arrangement. The two of us would be able to work in separate chutes and get through his herd in two long days.

  Today, technology has advanced, and pregnancy exams using an ultrasound machine with a rectal probe are common. The results are more certain, less dependent upon the skill of the veterinarian, a permanent record is possible, and pregnancy is diagnosed earlier, all huge advantages in breeding management, but the cost is more than a dollar a head.

  ***

  “So, do we know Frick from Frack yet?” I inquired.

  “Oh yeah,” Gervis answered. “They have name plates on their collars now. My daughter bought them at the feed store.”

  He pulled one of the hounds close, sliding him along the floor. He grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and showed me a brass plate riveted to the inch-wide leather collar with the name “Frick” engraved on the plate.

  “Very nice,” I said. “I’ve seen name plates like this on horse halters but never before on a dog collar. I might have to get one of these for my dog. So, both Frick and Frack are scratching at their ears?”

  “Yeah and biting at their feet.”

  “OK,” I said. “Let’s have a look.”

  I lifted Frick, my arms cradling both his front and rear legs, and put him on the exam table. The table jiggled and rocked with his shaking. I petted him and got him to lie down on the table. The shaking stopped. I lifted up his left ear and smelled the foul odor I expected. I took a step back.

  “Whoa, that’s not good. He’s got an ear infection.” I lifted his right ear, and that was just as bad. “We’ll have to flush these ears out before we can determine the cause.”

  I separated the hound’s toes on his left forepaw and found an infected tract between his third and fourth toes. The other three paws seemed to be normal.

  “I think the same thing might be causing the ear and paw problems. If you’ll put Frick back on the floor, I’ll have a look at Frack.”

  The second hound gave my face a slurpy lick as I gathered him in my arms and lifted him to the table. Both of Frack’s ear canals were also full of foul-smelling exudate.

  “I’m going to try to clean this up without anesthetizing them,” I said, “but ear infections can be painful. If it bothers them too much, I might have to anesthetize them to get this done.”

  I took a small stainless steel bowl, half-filled it with warm water, and added a cap full of dishwashing detergent. Next, I took a twenty cc syringe, filled it with the soapy water, and flushed it into Frack’s left ear while massaging the ear canal from the outside. The dog tried to shake his head, but I managed to hold onto his head and prevented him from flapping his ears. I wiped out the now filthy excess fluid, repeating the process several times for both ears. Next, I added a few drops of warm mineral oil to each ear and massaged the ear canal again. Frack yelped once as I massaged the oil into his left ear and tried to scratch at the ear with his left hind paw. Gervis grabbed Frack’s leg and held it down.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I think there are foreign objects in their ears causing the infection and making them so sore. Let’s have a look.”

  I held onto the dog’s ear at the base and manipulated my otoscope down and then at a right angle. Pushing against his eardrum were at least three objects.

  “OK, it’s as I expected. It looks like foxtail seeds. I’m going to remove them with these.” I picked up an alligator forceps to show the rancher. “We’ll be right at his ear drum, and I don’t want to puncture it. Do you think you can hold him really still?”

  The rancher tied Frick to the base of the table, then reached over Frack’s neck pushing his head down with his forearm, and held it with both hands.

  “Good, you should be able to hold him still enough like that,” I said.

  I replaced the otoscope and removed three grass awns, one by one, from the left ear. We switched sides of the exam table, and I removed two more foxtail seeds from the right ear canal.

  “Actually,” I said, “he doesn’t seem to have as much inflammation of the membranes as I expected. I’m going to treat with this tube of mastitis ointment and give you the remainder of the tube to treat both of them with, twice a day. You just squeeze in about five or six drops, like this; then massage the ear from the outside.” As I massaged Frack’s ears, the dog leaned into my hands making groaning noises of contentment.

  “That feel good, old boy? Yeah, I bet it does.” The dog’s whip-like tail inscribed a figure eight. “Now let’s have a look at those paws.”<
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  I inspected each paw carefully and found only the one tract between the toes in the left forepaw. Reaching in with the alligator forceps, I removed another foxtail seed and held it up for Gervis to see.

  “Here’s the culprit.”

  I squeezed some of the antibiotic mastitis ointment into the wound, and Frack licked off the excess.

  “You’ll need to put a little of this into the wound a couple of times a day too. It will probably heal over in just a day or two.

  “OK, big guy, let’s get your bud up here and take care of him,” I told Frack.

  Gervis gave a tug on Frack’s leash, and he jumped lightly to the floor. I lifted Frick onto the table and went through the same process of cleaning the ear canal and removing grass awns from both ears and from between the toes on both front paws and one hind paw. When I finished removing the foxtail seeds, I looked up.

  “There’s another problem with Frick that we need to address,” I said. “Feel his left ear here.”

  I lifted the dog’s ear and guided Gervis’s fingers to the middle of the inside surface where it was swollen and soft. “That’s a hematoma, the result of him shaking his head and violently flapping his ears against his head. He’s managed to bust some blood vessels, and the blood has filled in and separated the skin from the underlying tissues. These things are very difficult to handle and most frequently end up with a scarred and deformed ear. It’s the same kind of thing that causes a cauliflower ear in boxers and wrestlers.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Gervis observed. “What can you do for it?”

  “What we usually try first is to drain the hematoma and then bandage the ear tightly with padding to try to prevent the space from filling again with blood or serum. However, that works less than 20 percent of the time.”

  “What after that?”

  “Well, the next thing is to open it up, remove the clot and any excess tissue, freshen all the surfaces, and suture everything back in place allowing for drainage. That works most of the time, but he will still have a scarred ear. Let me try to drain and bandage it first; then we’ll see what happens.”