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."

Corrupting the minds of innocent Vet students.

     In our practice we quite often get Vet students riding along with us to gain experience in Food Animal medicine.  Such has been the case this past week.  It's always enjoyable to have these students with us, as their excitement and passion is contagious.  It will remind a person why they got into Veterinary medicine in the first place.
     Yesterday I was in the middle of a tough OB.  The calf was upside down in the uterus of the mother, and was too big to manipulate into the proper position.  We eventually did a C-section to get the calf out. 
     Before that decision was made though, I was buried shoulder deep in the back side of the cow.  Usually I'm pretty quiet during this process, with the exception of maybe a few grunts as I struggle to straighten the parts into their proper position.  But as we had an eager young Vet student with us, I was trying to describe what I was feeling and what I was attempting to do.  After having told her that the head of the calf was corkscrewed around backwards, the tech that was with me turned to the Vet student and in all seriousness said "Go up front and blow on the nose of the cow to help turn that head around."
     She walked to the front of the cow, and I think was really going to attempt blowing on the cow's nose.  Then I think she heard my tech snickering and slowly turned around "Are you being serious?  You guys have some strange tricks that sometimes seem to work despite how weird they seem. I never can tell when you are teasing me."

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.

The broken dishwasher.

     Recently my partner's wife had back surgery.  There have been a few complications with it that have required her to spend more time in the hospital than anticipated.  As a result I've been taking more of the calls that come in to our practice lately.
     Yesterday at about noon, my partner called me with a whole long list of calls, and wondered if I could take them.  The reason he needed me to take them:  he said his dishwasher was broken, and he was waiting for the repairman to show up.
     Once he said his dishwasher was broken I couldn't help myself, and blurted out "Your dishwasher is still broken?  I thought your wife was supposed to come home from the hospital today."

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.

My lucky day.

     I have always hated the dentist, at least for as long as I can remember I have.  One of the first dental visits I remember, I wedged myself under the seat of the car and hung on to the springs so that my mother couldn't get me into the dental office.  Incidentally that was also the day of one of my greatest triumphs.  The day I caught a rabbit with my bare hands at the clinic, only to have to let it go to go to the stupid dentist.  I don't know who screamed louder that day, the rabbit on being caught or me on finally being dragged out from under the car seat into the dental office.
     When I was older my parents made me get braces.  These were put on by an Orthodontist, which in my opinion was just a fancy word for Dentist, and I hated him just as much.  Another one of my proudest moments happened in the Orthodontists office.  The poor technician had to make a mold of my teeth before they could put the braces on.  They jammed this stuff into the roof of my mouth.  I tried to pantomime that it was running down the back of my throat, and that I needed to take it out.  They technician who worked for the evil Dentist wouldn't let me.  So I didn't feel bad when I threw up all over her.  I'd tried to warn her, but she wouldn't listen, I think she had it coming.
     Another time at the Orthodontists office, I was there for a tightening.  They took the rubber bands off, and left me alone in the room.  So I got up walked out, and said "Come on Mom, we're done." 
     When it came time to leave on a mission for my church they wanted me to get a dental exam first.  It was the Dentists opinion that I should get my wisdom teeth out before I left for my mission.  But he signed my papers saying I'd had the dental exam, and said "Set up an appointment to come back and get those taken out on your way out the door."  So I said "You got it Doc."  Then proceeded to walk right out the door without talking to anyone.  It's the lie I told so that they'd let me go on a mission, so I could teach people about the importance of following Jesus' example, by doing things like being honest.
     As you can see I really don't like Dentists, you might even call me an anti-dentite.  Sure you might say I was a rotten little brat, and you'd probably be right.  You might even say that my Parents should have given me a good whipping and blistered my behind, and you'd probably be right there too.  But it still wouldn't have changed the fact that I don't like the dentist.  So when I showed up for a Dental checkup yesterday, and the lady at the reception desk said "I'm sorry, but you're hygienist is sick today.  We've been trying to reach you all day to let you know.  We're so sorry but we're going to have to reschedule you."  Inside I was doing cartwheels, it must be my lucky day.
I think that was the kindest I've ever been to anyone at a Dental office.  The poor lady was all ready for me to be upset about having my time wasted by coming in when they couldn't see me.  I just smiled and said "Don't worry Ma'am it's quite alright."

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.

A perfect recipe for Plantar fasciitis.

     I ran my first marathon a couple of years.  It was an incredible experience that I really want to repeat.  Unfortunately, after the marathon I didn't take the recovery time I should have, upped my training and intensity level, and ended up with Plantar fasciitis, that has kept me sidelined for way longer than I anticipated it could.
     Well my feet have been feeling pretty good.  So a couple of months ago I'd decided I was going to try to get ready for a Half Marathon in my hometown on May 3rd.  I figured that if I started training for it then, I had plenty of time to slowly increase my mileage and would hopefully be able to finish it without my plantar fasciitis flaring up.
     First it got bitterly cold outside, to cold for me to want to run outside.  Then I managed to break the deck on my treadmill.  After ordering a new one, and installing it I then come down with a terrible cough my kids gave me, and couldn't hardly move without going into a terrible coughing fit.  This sidelined me for another couple weeks.  I was just getting over that when I tried to start running again.  I got a weeks worth of running in, before coming down with strep throat, that sidelined me again.
     By this point I figured what's the use, and gave up on running the Dino Half on May 3rd.  That's when out of the blue a buddy from High School sends me a link to the race, and says "Hey, let's run this together."  He's a really good friend, who lives a long way away, so what was I supposed to do.
     Of course I said "I'm in!", and immediately went to the website and signed up.  So now being the cheapskate that I am, there's no way I'm going to not run it after paying $53.50 for the privilege of running 13.1 miles. 
     So that now gives me 2 months to get ready for thing.  Considering I've basically done no running in several months, I'm afraid my Plantar Fasciitis might very well be in full swing by the time I'm done.  But what the heck, a chance to visit family, run in one of my favorite places, and see a good childhood buddy, it's totally worth it, right?
     So far I did 3.5 miles yesterday, and 4 and a quarter today.  Just another 9 to go. 

Mikey to the rescue.

     This morning I was assigned baby sitting duty for our two year old.  While in the mean time Stacie was going to take our two girls, and one of their friends to a private screening of some neat new animated movie made on HP computers.
     Well, not to far into our babysitting adventure I get a phone call from Stacie "Do you love me?" she says.  Apparently she has slid off the road and onto the median in an effort to avoid an accident that had occurred in front of her.  Then all I hear is screaming from all the little girls in the car, as another vehicle narrowly misses them.
     So I pack up the boy in my truck, scrape all the ice of the windows.  Put it in four wheel drive and head off to rescue the day.  I can tell that I'm getting close when I start hearing sirens, and seeing flashing lights, unfortunately with all the traffic backed up because of the accident on the icy road it still takes some time to get to my poor stranded girls.
     When I finally reach them, I ignore the police officer trying to wave people past, and pull off into the median in front of Stacie.  Then I back up to where I can attach a tow chain to pull Stacie out of the median.
That's when Stacie jumps out of her car, and tells me not to hook up the chain.  "I don't know if I'm stuck or not."  She says.  "I haven't tried to get out yet."
     "What?!"  If you haven't even tried to get out, then why did I bundle up our two year old, and brave the dangerous icy roads myself to come rescue her?  Well, I pull forward to give her room to try, and she drives right up on the road behind me without the slightest inclination of being stuck.  Apparently, she was scared to try to pull forward without help, in fear of getting stuck worse if she were indeed stuck.
     In the end I'm just grateful that all of my precious cargo in the vehicle were okay, with just a little bit of mental trauma to show for their morning.  Plus, I got to be the hero by coming to their rescue, without even having to do anything.  At least I was a hero, until I wrote this up and broadcast to the whole world that Stacie slid her car off the road this morning.  Now, I'm probably in the doghouse instead of being a hero.
     Unfortunately, they missed their private screening of the movie.  Looks like now I'll have to pay to take them to it when it's released in the theaters.  Of course that means Corey and I will get to go too.

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?"

Out of the mouths of Babes.

     Recently I had the privilege of baptizing my oldest daughter as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.  It was a special day for our family, with many family members making quite a trip to be here with us.  I couldn't have been more proud of my daughter for her decision to follow the example of our Savior Jesus Christ by being baptized.
     After the ceremony was over, one of the presiding members of our congregation was making a few remarks.  At this point my two year old boy began to get restless, and started to make some noise.  So in an attempt to keep him quiet, I started making conversation with him.
     I said "Did you see Taylor get baptized?"  To this he nonchalantly replies "Yeah, she was in the water with Jesus."  To which I replied "Did you see Jesus?!"  Again he says "He was in the water with you and Taylor, but he's not there now."
     Now, I didn't see Jesus in the water with us, and I don't know if he was there.  But I do believe that he is my older brother, and that he loves our family, and was especially pleased with the decision my daughter made that day.  I also believe that if it was possible for him to be there that day, and he didn't have more pressing matters to attend to that there is probably no place he would have rather been than at the baptism of a beautiful young lady making a good decision.
     Taylor I love you, and the decision that you've made.  I hope and pray that now you have entered in by the gate, that you will stay on the straight and narrow path that leads to life eternal, by always staying close to your Savior Jesus Christ.  He loves you very much just as I do, and according to your little brother he was at your baptism standing in the water with you.

A role model for my son.

     Sometimes I worry about my son. Not that there is anything wrong with him.  It's just that he is the youngest in the family, and he has two older sisters who have a questionable influence on him.  Maybe if he had a dog that would help.  After all don't all little boys need a dog?  A dog would give him a partner in crime, someone to get in trouble with rather than playing kitchen with his sisters.  Someone to blame things on, when he gets in trouble.  You know the whole the dog ate my homework routine.
     Fortunately, he has a good role model in his life.  This role model takes the shape of a cousin who is several months older than he is.  A cousin who has no older sisters to corrupt him.  A cousin who is all boy.
     Recently this cousin was visiting.  Somewhere during the visit someone noticed that the two little boys were missing, and that they were awfully quiet.  That's when the search began.  It didn't take long to locate the two of them.  They were in the bathroom, and the toilet was completely full with all of my son's toy cars. 

 

     The cousin quickly denied any involvment "Corey did it!" he says.  The mothers  of said boys instantly start scolding them.  I on the other hand couldn't have been more proud.  Not only had the cousin helped Corey get in trouble, but he'd also shown him how to blame it on someone else.  A valuable lesson for a little boy to learn.

     Then Corey's cousin set a good example for me too.  I was ready to help the boys get the toys out of the toilet and clean them up.  As were the little boys.  Corey's cousin reached in and grabbed one, and his mother yelled "Don't touch that they're dirty!"  So the boys didn't touch them, and neither did I.  We sat back and watched the mothers dig them out of the toilet, and bleach them in the sink.  To think I was ready to go to my truck and get one of the shoulder length sleeves I use for preg-checking cows to cover my arm while cleaning the toys. 

     I'm so grateful that Corey's cousin set a good example for me too.  Why clean up a mess you've made, when you can get your wife or mother to do it for you?  I'm so glad that I've found a good role model for my boy, I think maybe I can learn a thing or two from this kid too.