The Phone Died

Recently my parents were in town, visiting for the weekend. We were sitting downtown watching the parade for our towns harvest festival, when my phone began to ‘ding’ with incoming text messages. Then it started to ring. I stepped away from the parade to take the call, trying not to disturb my fellow parade goers.

When I returned, my Mother looked at me and said “Sounds like you need to go to work.” “Not yet.” I reply. “It’s just Rose, she has a cow calving, but I think it will be fine.”

I go on to explain that Rose only has nine cows. But each time one calves, I will receive no less than six text messages, and an equal number of frantic phone calls. There is usually nothing wrong, Rose just loves her cows and wants to make sure everything is alright. Eventually I’ll give in, will go look at the new calf, assure Rose that everything is fine, and the phone calls will end until the next one goes into labor. Even Rose realizes the silliness of the situation, and often asks me “Aren’t you glad I only have nine cows?”

My Mom thought this was hilarious. She turned to my Dad who is also a Veterinarian and said “John - he has a Diane!” I think every Veterinarian probably has a Rose or a Diane. While they can be a handful, they also make the job worthwhile, and it’s rewarding to see people that love their animals so much, and to be trusted enough to be invited into their circle.

So the following week I was shocked when Rose called me at 8:00 on Saturday morning to inform me that two of her cows had calved over night, and she was convinced it required a visit right away. So I agreed, and headed her direction. What I found unbelievable though was that Rose had let me sleep all night long with two cows in labor, without calling me to come assist at least one of them. I could not believe it, Rose had really come a long way in her comfort level with her cows.

Then I stepped out of the truck at Rose’s place. It quickly became evident that Rose had not matured in her comfort level with her cows one whit. She was a nervous wreck. I could see each mother and each new baby, as always it seemed that there was nothing wrong. I couldn’t understand why Rose was such a mess. Then she explained to me: her phone had died over night, so her three AM alarm to check on the cows had not gone off. Subsequently her cows were forced to calve on their own, without her there to supervise. She was beating herself up for being the worst Momma to her Cows that she could possibly be. She was worried the wrong cows had the wrong calves, that the babies had not had colostrum, that they were all going to die, because she had failed to plug in her phone.

I tried to console her that I was pretty sure the cows were smart enough to know which baby belonged to which cow. Then we mixed up some colostrum and fed each calf to alleviate that fear.

I figured I was well ahead though. I’d taken care of two cows and two calves with only one phone call and one trip to her farm. But of course with Rose that wasn’t good enough, I made a second trip to her place later that evening to recheck one of the calves, that she didn’t think was nursing well enough yet. Makes sense I guess, she’d had two babies born, it should require two trips.

That means we’re down to only six more cows to calve. If my math is correct that means I’ll receive at least 36 more texts, 36 more phone calls, and will make at least six more trips to her place before her calving season is over. Also I’m pretty sure if I went in her house now, I’d see it now looks like Doc Brown’s house from Back to the future, with the walls covered in clocks, just to make sure if her phone ever dies again in the future, she’ll have a backup, and a backup to the backup.

I’ve never believed in reincarnation, but if it’s a thing I think I would like to come back as one of Rose’s cows. I think that would be A-okay.

Instilling a strong work ethic, and family values in our youth.

Recently I was called to a farm to write health papers on some cattle that would soon be traveling to a stock show.  The owner of the farm was very enthusiastic to have me there, and to show off his cattle.  He quickly invited me into the barn, and began regaling me with the genealogies of each of the cattle we looked at.  His wife was also in the barn, she was busy brushing, blow drying and generally beautifying the animals.  Then he began to preach to me on the work ethic, and family values that showing animals instills into children.  As I'm listening to this speech I notice his two children sitting in the corner of the barn, their noses buried in their phones, completely unaware that I am even there.

As his speech drags on, my mind begins to drift and I find myself being drawn back through the mists of time.  As the mists clear I'm standing in a different time and place.  Before me I see two brothers working together to prepare their own steer for a stock show.  The younger brother is holding the lead rope on a nervous animal much larger than himself, as the older brother sprays both the steer and the younger brother (I'm sure quite accidentally) with a cold hose in an attempt to give the animal a bath.  Just then a friendly neighbor drives by, honks his horn, and yells "Looking good boys!"

The honking of the horn turns the already nervous animal into a one animal stampede.  With the little boy hanging onto the lead rope for dear life.  How he's able to keep up with the animal I'm still not sure.  Occasionally a foot seems to touch the ground, but not as often as you think it should, and it seems as if at any moment he'll land squarely on his face.  Meanwhile the older brother with visions of a big paycheck at the end of the stockshow quickly evaporating before his eyes, as his steer darts in and out of traffic, is in hot pursuit.  He's carrying a pitchfork, and yelling at his younger brother.  "If you let go of that D@&$ rope, I'll run you through with this pitchfork!"

Just then the farmer asks me "So, what do you think?"  This snaps me back to the present, and I respond, "Oh, absolutely.  I couldn't agree more.  Showing animals is great for children!  And if nothing else it might prepare them for the track team."

"What?" He asks.  "Never mind." I respond.  "Here are your kids health papers, good luck at the show."  As I walked out of the barn, the kids were still staring at their phones.  Somehow I don't think they'll be making the track team.  But at least they're developing a strong work ethic.

What's that smell?

I've never had a great sniffer, in my line if work sometimes that comes in handy.  I remember in my freshman year of vet school, the girls in my anatomy disecction group used to rub Vick's vapor rup under their noses prior to lab, in order to hide the smell.  I never had to resort to such measures.

Fast forward several years, and my wife and I now teach the five year olds a sunday school class at church.  Recently I was called out during church to go retreat a colicky horse that I'd been working on.  Having already treated this horse once, I thought it would be a fairly quick call where I could just give the horse a second dose of painkillers and make it back in time to teach the lesson I had prepared for the five year olds.  Because time was tight, and I thought I knew what was in store I didn't bother changing out of my suit.

I did take my jacket off, roll up my sleeves, and throw on a pair of coveralls before I began.   It soon became apparent that this horse wasn't doing as well as I'd hoped, and I decided I needed to do a rectal examination on the horse to get a better idea of what was causing his symptoms, and what his prognosis might be.  So, I drug the horse, put on a shoulder length sleeve, lube up my arm, and begin the examination.  Keep in mind that I've already administered mineral oil (a laxative) to this horse the day before.  Well the rectal exam relieves my anxiety as to the horses prognosis as all feels normal inside, so I remove my arm.  The horse must have been straining somewhat at the presence of my arm, because pulling it out results in something like I've seen in professional locker rooms when they've just won the championship and are popping the corks on the champagne.

The problem is, I'm standing directly behind the "champagne" bottle, and the "champagne" is a mixture of mineral oil, and the stuff that the mineral oil was given to help slide out.  My face is completely covered, along with my coveralls.  The coveralls I quickly strip off, hoping to get them off before the "champagne" has soaked through to my suit.  My face I wipe off with a paper towel.  

Taking stock of the situation, I assess that one spot on my pant leg has some slight discoloration and the suit will need dry cleaned, but it's not "too bad."  If I leave now, and go directly back to church I will still be in time to teach the lesson, meaning  my wife won't have to cover for me, and I won't be in the doghouse.

I stop by the restroom in the church.  Wash my face and hands a little better, and walk into the classroom where our class is just arriving.  Soon my classes noses start to wrinkle, and a little girl raises her hand.  "Yes?"  I ask.  "Brother Mathis, did you toot?"  That's when it hits me that perhaps that slight discoloration I'd noticed on my pants leg is worse than I'd thought.

I didn't bother explaining the smell.  But fortunately for my class, Sister Mathis had some Vick's vapor rub in her purse.

Better not knowing

     Monday I was at a small dairy to preg check the entire herd.  The gentleman that owns the farm has had enough, and decided that it's time to sell the cows.  This always makes me sad, I hate to see small family farms come to an end.  I'm also a sentimental guy, and I have a lot of good memories I have made on this dairy over the years, and it's sad to think I won't be going there anymore.
     The set up for preg checking cows is less than ideal though.  On this particular dairy we run them through the milking parlor one at a time, where I then get behind them and do my work.  Well these cows are used to coming in the barn to be milked, so at least they come in willingly.  Too willingly you might say.  I was shoulder deep in a cow, when I realized that no one had closed the door to the barn behind me.  Cows outside eager to come in did not care that I was there, and piled in right on top of me.  I was able to jump up, and get out with very minor injuries.  I have an eyelet on a boot that's now crushed, and is hard to lace now.   Also there's some bruising on my right leg, but it seems to be intact and functional.
    It is a little sore to run on though.  But being in training for a marathon doesn't leave time for luxuries like days off because of injury.  So I ran six miles on it yesterday anyways.  For the first three quarters of a mile, it felt like I was limping severely in my running stride, and I started to have doubts creep into my head "What am I doing this for?  Why don't you just quit?"  But after a while like always seems to happen on a run, your body falls into it's natural rhythm, you forget about the pain, and the world gets smaller.  Suddenly all that seems to matter is the few feet surrounding you.  Once this happens all the world seems right.  Also the rest of the night the leg didn't hurt.
     However, getting out of bed this morning the leg was once again stiff and tender.  A coworker saw me limping around on it, this coworker also witnessed the accident at the dairy the other day, and suggested that maybe there is a hairline fracture in the leg, and that maybe we should X-ray it.
     This I politely declined.  Explaining that if I find out for sure that there is a crack in the leg, then I'll feel obligated to quit running on it.  Whereas I don't know, I don't mind running on it, especially if it loosens up during the run, and makes me feel better later.  One of our receptionists over heard the exchange and said "Mike, you know you could really hurt yourself with that kind of attitude."  To which I responded "Well, I did just recently sign up for a Marathon, so seriously hurting myself seems inevitable already."
   

Getting Old

Well another birthday has come and gone.  They seem to come more frequently the older I get.  Today was a work day, but my wife and kids managed to make it a memorable day for me.  I got up and was dressed and getting ready for the day, when my oldest daughter still in her jammies saw me and commanded me to go back to bed because she wanted to bring me breakfast in bed.  So I dutifully climbed back into bed fully dressed so that she could bring me breakfast.
     Her mother had purchased some of that pre-cooked bacon at the store that you can just microwave.  My oldest daughter thought this was great, because she was able to cook me bacon.  She brought me three slices, and two slices of toast.  My three year old son promptly climbed into my lap, at all three slices of bacon, and one of the slices of toast. 
     At work today, I received one of the greatest gifts imaginable, a gift that keeps on giving.  One of my coworkers accidentally hit me with a branding iron.  Why is this great you ask?  Because now that I carry his brand, I believe he's legally obligated to feed and care for me.
    After work I stopped at the gas station to get a can of gas to fill up our new riding lawn mower.  My son has been pestering me for days now because he wants to ride the "tractor."  I figured what could be more fun than "riding the tractor" with my son for my birthday.  So we took it for a spin.
     I even managed to fit in a birthday run, I made it one tenth of a mile for each year I've been alive.  It was a short run of 3.8 miles, but at least it was a run.
     Of course we had to open presents, and eat cake, which the kids thoroughly enjoyed.  Then tucked my precious angels into bed and let the two oldest read to me.  They're getting pretty good.  So even though my breakfast got stolen, I got branded at work, I had to mow the lawn, I punished my out of shape body by running, and I'm a year older.  I look back and think "It's been a pretty darn good day."

Hoof beats

     This morning I was called to a farm by a gentleman who was certain that he had a cow suffering from a very rare condition causing it to be unable to rise.  As I questioned him on the phone before going out, I was convinced that he did not have the problem he thought he had.  There was a saying taught to me in Vet school that says "When you hear hoof beats don't look for a zebra, watch for the horses."
     So as I got to the farm and examined the cow, while I had the condition he was worried about in the back of my mind, I was looking for something much more common.  Which is what I believed that I'd found.  I told the gentleman that I thought his cow was suffering from milk fever, and that after we ran a bottle of calcium to her that I thought she'd get up.
     So I got the Calcium ready to administer, and pulled a halter out of the truck.  I use the halter to tie the head over to a back foot, exposing the jugular vein and allowing me to administer the Calcium there.  The farmer being eager to help, offers to tie the head back for me.  Well, he didn't get it as tight as I'd have done if doing it myself but not wanting to redo it and hurt his pride, I decided to go with it.  This didn't work so well as it gave the cow extra room to throw her head around and try to hit me.  As a result I had to reset my needle several times to keep it in the vein.
    As I'm almost done the gentleman asks me how long it usually takes for this to work.  So I said "Usually, I'll run the Calcium to the cow, take the IV bell back to my truck and clean it up, then by the time I get back she'll get up for us."  So we finished with the Calcium, I went back to the truck cleaned up things, and put my supplies away.  When I got back to the cow, lo and behold I was wrong she wouldn't get up.  The farmer again asks me about the rare condition he'd originally thought was the problem.  I again assure him I don't think that's the problem, and that I think this cow has milk fever.
     I then postulate that with her throwing her head around and my having to reset the needle several times that perhaps we hadn't gotten as much Calcium into her blood stream as I'd hoped to, and that with another partial bottle of Calcium we'll be able to get her up.  So I go back to the truck get more Calcium, and my halter and return to the cow.  I put the halter back on her head, and now attempt to roll her to the other side so I can use the fresh jugular vein on the other side of her neck.  She fights this attempt and prefers to lay where she's at.  So I try slapping her in the ribs in an attempt to get her to raise partially up, so that we can then push her on her other side with her supporting part of her weight instead of us fighting her full body weight.  This time though she doesn't get partially up, she stands up like I thought she'd do the first time.  Only now she's tired of us messing with her, and is upset with the two of us.   After a few minutes of thought on how to get my halter off of her, and with her offering to charge us several times.  We decide that she can keep the halter for a little while until she calms down enough to run her into a chute later and retrieve it with less risk of injury to ourselves.
     So despite my second thoughts about my original diagnosis, and my losing my halter in the process we were able to get the cow to her feet again.  And despite the fun it would have been to see a Zebra, the hoof beats once again turned out to be from a horse named Milk fever.

Don't have time for that.

     This afternoon I was called by a gentleman I'd never met before.  He told me that he was watching the cows for one of my regular clients, and that one of the calves had this funny mass sticking out of it's backside.  It sounded like it was a rectal prolapse.
     I asked this gentleman if he had somewhere for us to catch the calf.  Keep in mind that the man that owns the calf of a regular client of mine, and I know full well that the answer to that question is a resounding "No!"  "Well" the man says "We have a pen we could put him in, but we don't really have anywhere to catch his head."  So I ask him if he can bring it to me in the clinic.  "I can try" he replies, "But it might be kind of hard to catch him, he's kind of wild." 
     I was just finishing up another appointment at this time, about 40 miles from my clinic.  So I told the man to try, and to let me know one way or the other if I needed to meet him at the clinic, or come out to their place.  This farm being only about another 5 minutes past the clinic.
     So I drive all the way to the clinic, and I still haven't heard from him.  I call him back "What's the verdict sir?  Can you get him to me, or do I need to come out."  "Well I got him in the pen" the man replied "But I still need to pull the trailer down there and see if I can get him in it."
     Another 10 or 15 minutes goes by and he calls back "Well I got him in the trailer but I have somewhere I need to be at 4:00, and I need to leave here by 3:30 to get there.  I don't think I've got time to bring him in and drop him off.  "Fine, I say I'll be right there."  Keep in mind it's only 3:00, and it's a five minute trip to the clinic from this farm.  So that's 10 minutes of driving, plus an extra 20 minutes to unload the calf, unhook his trailer, visit or do whatever else he wants to do.  But he doesn't think he has time.
     So I drive the five minutes to his place, and quickly discover the reason why he didn't have time to bring the calf to me.  He'd hooked the trailer to the back of an ancient John Deere tractor that probably has a max speed of 10 miles an hour.  The calf is now caught in the back of the trailer waiting for me to repair it's rectal prolapse.  This calf weighs about 500 pounds, and true to the man's earlier statement it's a little wild.  It's bouncing off the walls of the trailer, like a couple of fighters in a cage match. 
     So I rope the calf from the outside of the trailer, snug it up close to one corner.  Then crawl in behind it, while dodging the flying feet trying to kick me, and administer some sedative in the tail vein.  "What is it?"  The man asks  "I noticed it this morning when I was feeding them, and this afternoon when it hadn't gone away I thought maybe I should call you."  "So let me get this straight"  I think to myself "This calf has had this problem all day long, and now that you don't have time to bring it to me and my nice chute to catch him in, you're going to let me wrestle with this wild thing in the confines of this death trap."
     Well the sedatives kick in, and I'm able to replace the prolapse without getting myself killed.  By the time I'm done it's nearly 4:00 now.  The man is still there watching me, fascinated by what I've just done.  I politely say "Shouldn't you get going, I think you're going to be late for your appointment."  "Oh I'll be fine" the man says.  "It's not that important, I can probably miss it."  
     "Aarrrggghhhhh!"  Is what I want to scream, as I'm pulling my hair out.  At least I learned a valuable lesson, if I'm ever running late for an appointment, I now know that I probably shouldn't try to take my Tractor to get there.

Breaking, entering, and murder?

     One of the Vets I work with had a C-section late last night at the clinic.  They were just about finished, when the owner of the cow asked if they could send him home with a bottle of Penicillin to treat the cow with.  So Randy (the Vet working on the cow) sends the tech that's helping him out up front to the Pharmacy to grab a bottle of Penicillin for the owner.
     Keep in mind that the office sits in not the nicest part of town, so a few years back the owners of the building installed a security system in the Pharmacy.  When you enter you need to punch in a code to disarm the security system.  It was late and the tech was tired, so somehow he missed the beeping noises that remind you to disarm the system.  He just ran to the cooler, grabbed the Penicillin.  Ran back out the door, and left the system going off.
     Well, when this happens the security company tries calling the Pharmacy.  If you've accidentally set the alarm off you pick up the phone, and tell them the code and they shut it off.  If no one answers the phone (and there being no phone in the back where we do the surgeries of course no one heard the phone or answered it) they then call the senior partner in the office at home.  This is what they did.  They asked him if he would like them to send the police over to check on the building.  He of course didn't know what was occurring at the Clinic, and he said "Send them over please."
     The C-section being complete, the owner loads the cow on the trailer and heads for home.  The tech having everything cleaned up also heads for home.  Randy still had a few things to grab from his office though.  So he heads over there.  That's when he notices flashlights shining through the front windows.  Randy being a big fellow, and not scared of much heads up front to see what's going on.  He promptly opens the door and asks "Can I help you?!"
     The people that he confronted were the officers who'd been sent over to check on the building.  They take one look at Big R all covered in blood from having just finished the C-section, and being in a building where the security alarm has been set off suspiciously, and they instantly trade their flashlights for their guns.
"Sir step back and slowly raise your arms over your head."
     I mentioned that Randy is big and not scared of much, but having to guys pointing guns at you even if they are police officers is enough to do the trick.  Lucky for Randy he was already dirty and needed to go home shower, and wash his clothes.  It helped hide the mess that he made in his pants.

Schrodinger's Cat

According to Quantum Physicists, at least the nerdy guys on "The Big Bang Theory" that pretend to be Quantum Physicists, there's a mind exercise invented by a guy name Schrodinger about putting a cat in a box.  Supposedly while the cat is in the box it can be thought of as being both alive and dead, but it's not until the box is opened and observed that the cat is then fixed in a state of being either alive or dead.
     My question is what kind of a warped individual puts a cat in a box and leaves it there long enough for it to maybe be dead when the box is opened?  Furthermore, the real question should not be is the cat alive or dead, but how "pissed off" is this cat going to be after being released from the box.  Especially, if the said box is dark attached to your truck, and driven rapidly down bumpy country roads.
     Well, maybe I should have been a Quantum Physicist because the answer is the cat is most definitely alive, and it's REALLY "pissed off."  I know because I conducted this experiment over the course of the weekend.
     Saturday night at about 6:00 I was at a farm treating a couple of Holstein calves for scours.  It was getting dark, and it was starting to snow so I was anxious to get back in my truck.  So anxious that I almost drove off with the back of my Vet box hanging open.  The owner of the calves flagged me down, and closed the box for me.  I thanked him and drove off.
     Sunday turned out to be remarkably quiet, with me not having to make a single call that day.  So come Monday morning, when I go out to start my truck it's now been approximately 36 hours since I'd last opened the box. 
     I open it just like I do every morning, and blindly stick my hand in to turn on the refrigerator I have inside the box.  That's when I hear a "Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!" and see a blur of fur appear in the now open side hatch.  I jump back about 3 feet unsure what had just happened, other than knowing I now needed to go back in the house and put on clean underwear.  My girls look at me like I'm crazy and ask "What's wrong Daddy?"  That's when the cat attempts to exit the truck, and leaps over my head. 
    It's then that my youth soccer training kicks in from so many years ago, and I stick my hand up and catch the cat midflight (I was a Goalie, so I was allowed to use my hands).  I instantly realize where the cat had to have come from.  He must have climbed in there Saturday night at the farm just out of curiosity, or maybe because it was warm in there.  But the poor thing had been in there all weekend unbeknownst to me with no food and no water, and it wanted out. 
     Well the thing was kind of wild and I really didn't want it in the front with me, so I threw it back in the box, and closed the doors again.  Then I drove to the clinic, carefully opened the door one more time.  This time prepared to have to snag an angry cat.  He was even more "pissed off" the second time after almost obtaining his freedom twenty minutes earlier. 
     Here I put the poor thing in a cage, with some food, water, and a litter box until I was able to return it to the farm it came from.
     Now I've just got one question for those brilliant Quantum Physicists that like to put cats in boxes:  How do you get the smell of cat pee out of said box?

The insensitive jerk.

     The kids have had a Betta fish for sometime now.  He was a little blue thing, and they'd named him "Bubbles."  To me it was just a fish, but to them it was their first pet.  He hasn't been looking so hot lately, and I was sure that the inevitable was coming.  So when I came home from work today and found him upside down in the bottom of his bowl I wasn't surprised.
     I took him out of the bowl, put him in the trash and planned on trying to pull the old switcheroo with a new fish from the pet store before any of them noticed.  Well, Mom wasn't in on my evil plan and spilled the beans to one of them that the fish had died.  Of course now they all want to know where he is, and what we did with him?
     I guess in my line of work, on can get desensitized to death to some extent, and I hadn't fully thought of how this might affect the kids.  Now confronted with it, I realized that throwing the kids first pet in the trash can probably wasn't the most sensitive thing a caring Dad would do.
     So now I had to distract the kids, so I could go dig "Bubbles" out of the trash can.  I then emerge with a shovel, and little "Bubbles," and the story of how I'd saved him until we were all together and could have a proper burial for our friend.
     Even to an insensitive jerk like myself, this felt like a much more proper thing to do than my earlier actions had.  The oldest didn't seem to mind to much, she still has a fish that her younger sister gave her a few weeks ago for her birthday.  The boy seemed fascinated by it all, and was eager to help dig the hole.  The middle child though with her tender little heart was heartbroken.
     So I spent time talking with her about our religious beliefs, and how we believe in life after death.  That I believed her precious "Bubbles" had gone to live with our Heavenly Father.  This isn't much comfort to a 5 year old who has Great Grandparents pushing 90, it will be "forever" before she gets to see "Bubbles" again.
     I think it was a good learning experience for the both of us.  She got to learn about how life ends, and to experience emotions that are new to her.  I got to remember why I wanted to be a Vet to start with so many years ago, because I wasn't always the insensitive jerk I am today.  Once upon a time I was as tender hearted as she is, and wanted to be able to help the animals I loved so dearly.
     In honor of her beloved blue "Bubbles" she thought we needed to have a blue dinner to remember him.  I almost said well we already buried the blue fish under the tree, if you wanted blue food we should have filleted him and fried him for dinner.  But I put my insensitive tendencies on hold, and kept my mouth shut.  Instead I made rice for dinner, and added blue food coloring to the water.  She was pleased, my wife was disgusted.  A win / win situation in my book.

Ignorance is Bliss.

Monday I was at a dairy doing preg checks on their cows, when the herdsman asked me if I would mind looking at a cow that he thought had Milk Fever.  Milk fever is a condition where the cow has low circulating levels of Calcium in the blood stream, and will cause the cow to not be able to rise.
     I agreed with the herdsman that the cow did indeed have milk fever, so I went to my truck and got a bottle of Calcium to administer IV to this cow.  While I was doing this, another cow approached me.  The down cow was between the two of us, but this cow appeared very angry.  She was blowing snot, and pawing at the ground.  My tech saw what was going on and said, "Mike, be careful, I don't think that cow likes you."  I was already fully aware of this, the question was, what should I do about it.  I didn't want to make any sudden movements to set this cow off, but I was also out in the middle of the pen, and didn't really have anywhere to go to get away from her.
     I slowly rose to my feet, trying to keep the down cow between us.  I figured the angry cow would at least have to jump the down cow to get to me, and maybe that would give me time to run to the nearest fence.  As I backed slowly away, the cow started to charge.  I was fortunate to make it to the fence just before she did, she actually helped me up and over the fence with her head.  Maybe I need to get back into training for another Marathon, that was a little to close for comfort.
     On the other side of the fence, I talked with the herdsman about the need to get the angry cow out of the pen, so that we could treat her for Nervous Ketosis, a condition which can cause aggression in recently fresh dairy cows, and that I was quite certain this cow was suffering from.
     So with the help of several people we were able to get her to a chute, where I administered several different products to her to try to treat the ketosis that she was suffering from.  I then left instructions with the herdsman on follow up treatment for this cow in the days to come.
     Well, several days went by and I'd forgotten about this cow, until the owner of the dairy called me yesterday and said he thought he had a cow with a displaced abomasum (a condition where the cow's true stomach fills with gas and displaces from it's proper location.), and that he'd like to bring her to the clinic to have me surgically correct it.
     When he arrived, and my tech opened the trailer gate, he instantly recognized the cow as she helped him over the fence.  Once we got her in the chute at the clinic, and she proceeded to blow snot on all of us, and to hit anyone with in striking distance with her head.  I said to the owner "I recognize this cow."  "You do?" he questioned, "How come?"
     So we shared the whole story with him, of her trying to hurt us on Monday.  "No wonder the guys asked me to check her he said.  They new how upset she was and didn't want to mess with her.  Those rotten buggers didn't even bother warning me that she was ketotic.  She could have killed me like three times this morning!"
     Fortunately we were able to get her treated and no one had gotten hurt.  The owner of the cow was now much more careful loading her up to take her home.  You might say he was even a little scared of her, whereas when he'd brought her over he was blissfully unaware that she posed any danger to him.

Higher Math.

     During the course of a day, I'll quite often come across a young high school kid who will tell me that they want to be a Vet.  Then they'll ask me what they need to do.  I usually tell them to take a lot of math and science classes, and to make sure they get good grades in those classes.  "Oh."  They'll say in a depressed voice.  "Maybe I don't want to be a Vet.  Why does a Vet need to be good at math?"
     Well, I have one client that every year will bring her steers to me to castrate.  Wait did I say steers?  Haven't steers already been castrated.  The answer to that question should be a simple yes.
Unfortunately, she somehow seems to always miss one of the nuts on about half of the "steers" that they banded.  Sometimes they've actually missed them both.
     Every year I'll patiently tell her that when she bands her bull calves that she needs to make sure she counts to two, as there are two nuts and she needs to get them both in the sack before applying the band.
     Every year she has a new excuse too.  One year it was "I had my husband do them."  Another year it was "I really thought I did count to two on all of them."  One year it was "Those little buggers always squirm so much that I can't tell."  This year it was "I had my son do them."
     You see there is higher math involved in Veterinary work, you need to at least be able to count to two.  Apparently it's more difficult than I was led to believe as a kindergartner.
     I guess there is one other possible explanation.  I recently had a different gentleman bring me a "steer" with the same problem.  He said he had banded it himself when it was young.  But when it started trying to ride his heifers he ran it in and checked it.  Sure enough there was still one nut there.  His explanation - "I forgot to check for that third nut when I banded them.  Seems like every year we have a couple calves that must be born with three nuts 'cuz after we've already banded them, they end up still having one."  Yeah, I'm sure that's the problem. They had three nuts to start with.

Why wasn't I paying attention in school?

     One day in Vet school I was on an anesthesiology rotation.  The patient that I was scheduled to run anesthesia on was an Oncology patient.  This poor dog had a tumor about the size of a volleyball hanging off of the side of his chest, that was to be removed.
     Once I had the patient into the surgical suite, I met up with a resident and two senior vet students who would be scrubbing in on this surgery.  We were only missing one member of the surgical team, the Doctor in charge.  As we waited the resident proceeded to expound to all of us how lucky we were, because the Doctor who would be performing the surgery was a legend, a true pioneer in the field of Oncology.  She then explained how in her two years of residency so far, that this was the first time that she was privileged to watch this legendary Doctor operate.  How lucky for us lowly senior Vet students to be able to witness this man at work.
     I'll never forget the work of this legendary Doctor either.  He walked into the room gowned and prepared to operate.  He picked up the scalpel, made one quick cut that took the entire tumor off in one slick motion.  Then with what now appeared to be the scene of a slasher movie, blood on the ceiling, blood on the walls, blood covering everyone in the room, and blood continuing to pour from the incision at an incredible rate, this legendary Doctor took his gloves off, threw them in the trash and as he walked out the door said "I'm done, close it up for me."
     It's a good thing that the Resident who had been singing the praises of this legendary Doctor had her surgical mask tied on securely, I believe it kept her jaw from bouncing off the floor as the great Doctor walked out of the room.  I couldn't help but laugh.
     Well fast forward several years.  I'm now the Doctor, and I was at a Dairy where the herdsman asked me to look at the leg of a heifer with a large growth off the inside of it's hock.  He asked me "Is there anything you can do for that Doc?"  Well after palpating it with my hands I determined that I thought we could successfully remove this tumor surgically. 
     So after carefully sedating the cow, laying her down for surgery, and preparing the surgical site.  I was prepared to cut.  Just before I made my first incision visions of the dog from the slasher movie flashed through my head, and I wondered out lout "What have I gotten myself into?"  Well the tumor came off easily enough, but just like the dog so many years before, blood was spraying everywhere.  Then the real work of stopping the bleeding and closing the incision began.
     That's when I realized that I didn't pay very good attention in school.  I still live in close proximity to a Vet school, and quite often have eager young Vet students riding with me.  Had I been smart, I would have waited to do this surgery on a day when I had a  couple of Vet students with me.  That way, I could have removed the tumor, peeled off my gloves and said "Close it up for me, won't you?"