Cow Tales: Memories of a Rural Animal Doctor

By Dave Mills DVM

Forty years ago, nearly fifty thousand dairy farms dotted the rolling landscape of Wisconsin. Most were small farms of thirty to forty milking cows, several calves, at least one dog, and a clowder of cats and kittens. These were family farms, tended by many intriguing characters and populated by unpredictable critters. Jiggling Jolly Todola, Goliath the raging bull, Hattie the ancient coonhound, Cyrus Caine’s uvula, and Josie the Jersey’s romp through the barn during surgery are just a few of the characters and stories from the early years of veterinary practice Dr. Dave Mills recalls in the pages of Cow Tales: Memories of a Rural Animal Doctor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Dec 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781621835875

Dave Mills DVM

Dave Mills is a retired veterinarian. His veterinary inclinations led him through dairy practice, pet practice, an unlikely and long stint in poultry practice, and full circle back to pet practice. People and their animals have provided him a lifetime of professional challenges, intriguing relationships, and entertainment. Outside of his profession, he enjoys the outdoor world, having lived in a Yurt, and tramped around Labrador on snowshoes. His wife, Lynne, and he raised five children, and live with their Black Labrador, Molly, in northern Wisconsin.

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Introduction

In the 1980s, many small dairy farms dotted the Wisconsin landscape. The trend toward ever-larger farms had not yet appeared on the scene. Most dairymen milked thirty to forty cows, and their farms occupied only 120 to 180 acres, partially wooded. Cows were released to pasture in the summer and rested cozily in straw bedded stalls in winter. These were family farms, owned by a variety of interesting characters and populated by unpredictable critters providing an abundance of amusing and engaging memories from my early years of practicing veterinary medicine.

The stories in this book are fictionalized accounts of real events I experienced during the first seven years of my career, and real people I interacted with along the way.

Chapter One

Delbert and Henry

Delbert Doern and his farm could never be described as typical. Tall grass, weeds and scraggly bushes covered the earth surrounding Delbert’s dilapidated two-story farmhouse, unnaturally attached to his decrepit livestock barn. Decaying abandoned farm implements encircled an ancient rust-brown grain truck sunk into the ground on bare wheels at the edge of a small hayfield, with a squat willow tree bursting leafy branches horizontally from within the cab through shattered windows. Near the tree-growing truck, at the far end of the barn, a mountain of straw infested manure rose gradually to a lofty cliff, a scene reminiscent of the silhouette of the Rock of Gibraltar.

As Doc Stone steered from the rural country lane onto Delbert’s gravel drive in the midst of this curious scene, I understood Doc’s reticence at hearing his wife inform us Delbert’s farm would be our first visit, rather than a pristine modern operation he expected to show me. All he desired was to impress me after all, not frighten the living daylights out of me. Earlier, Doc Stone had been describing some of the modern dairy farms in the area and when his wife, Mrs. Stone, called on the mobile phone, his reaction evoked more than a little curiosity in me.

Delbert Doern would like you to come right away. Something’s wrong with his bull. Mrs. Stone’s voice crackled over the mobile telephone speaker.

Oh no. Not now. Not today, Doc Stone whined, followed by an airy, OK, we’re on our way.

I heard Mrs. Stone giggling as she signed off the mobile phone. I was Doc Stone’s spanking new graduate Doctor of Veterinary Medicine, first day on the job, his hope for a little leisure, but now he feared his hope might vanish like a dream in this weird wonderland of Delbert Doern and his farm. Doc was nearing sixty, with thirty-five years of farm calls and long days under his belt. He was tired and needed help.

Silently, Doc Stone exited the mobile veterinary vehicle, a pick-up truck with a large fiberglass box full of doors and drawers containing drugs and equipment of the profession, mounted on the bed of the truck. I followed Doc Stone to the barn door, crossed the threshold behind him, and stared in awe at the scene before me. A small, frail, old scarecrow of a man crouched on a stool, leaning his head against the flank of one of a half dozen well-groomed Milking Shorthorns while milking by hand into a pail at his knees. He was dressed in a faded, tattered denim barn jacket draped over his thin frame, hiding bib overalls and flannel shirt underneath. Snow white hair protruded from beneath his tan canvas cap, smudged over the short bill and crown by dust and sweat from daily contact with cow flank.

I’d never seen anything like it. The first farm visit of my orientation was not what I had expected. I had imagined a modern dairy farm with at least fifty gleaming black and white Holstein cows lined up in tie stalls while eating mounds of ground grain and alfalfa hay. Instead, I had stepped back in time to the end of the nineteenth century when I crossed the threshold of Delbert’s barn. After all, the year was 1980, not 1880!

I empathized with Doc Stone in his disappointment. In his view, my orientation was not beginning as he had planned.

Delbert turned his gaunt, weathered face toward us as he noticed our proximity, but continued the rhythmic motion of milking. The Shorthorns glanced around, wide-eyed, but unconcerned as they shoveled up small piles of fresh grain with massive tongues.

Henry iss ovah there, Doc. Delbert’s accent revealed a Nordic heritage as he pointed to a wooden box stall at the far end of the small barn. Massive shoulders and thick, stout horns protruded above the planked wall of the box stall. We waded through knee-deep straw toward the bull. A closer look revealed a handsome roan colored Shorthorn male, a magnificent specimen of shape and symmetry, obviously well cared for, except he appeared slightly hunched with his head extended forward into the far corner of the dark stall. A pile of grain lay untouched in the manger in front of him.

Doc Stone began to examine Henry. Delbert was pouring milk from his pail into a battered steel milk can, the kind my mother would search for in antique shops when I was a youngster.

He von’t eat anyting, remarked Delbert.

After determining Henry’s temperature with an oversized rectal thermometer, Doc used his stethoscope to listen to Henry’s heartbeat, breathing, and digestive sounds. Then he crouched under Henry’s left side and thrust his big fist upward into Henry’s sternum. Henry flinched and groaned in considerable pain. Normally, he wouldn’t have paid any attention to the punch Doc had placed behind his brisket.

I think he’s got hardware disease, Delbert. A nail or some sharp object is poking through his stomach toward his heart. He’s got a fever, and is in some pain.

Delbert stared at Henry in silent anguish.

I’fe had him many yers, Doc. I’d hate to lose him. Vot can you do?

We may have to operate, Delbert, but we’ll try a couple of magnets first.

Doc and Delbert strolled out to the truck to get the magnets, leaving me alone with Henry. I examined Henry, and reached the same diagnosis as Doc Stone, although I probably would have recommended prompt surgical intervention rather than tossing a couple of magnets down his esophagus.

As I waited, I marveled at the scene before me. Ornamental chickens of various shapes and colors strutted freely around the barn, stealing grain from the cows. Several cats sat perched on a bale of straw, waiting for Delbert to return and squirt some fresh milk in their direction. A scarred and graying old coonhound ambled over from his corner to check me out and then ambled back to his resting place, unconcerned. There was no pipeline milking system in this barn to automatically vacuum milk from a modern lightweight milking machine directly to a gleaming stainless steel bulk tank for storage, no gutter and automatic barn cleaner to remove manure at the push of a button, and no silo unloader or feeding system to drop precise quantities of formulated ration directly in front of each cow. Everything was accomplished with shovel, pitchfork, and wheelbarrow powered by sinew and sweat. Delbert’s frail appearance belied a toughness exposed by the harsh environment that encompassed his domain. I had seen farmers play in the past before, but I had never observed anyone actually live in the past as Delbert did.

Doc and Delbert returned with two bullet-shaped magnets about four inches long and a half-inch in diameter and an oral speculum that was nothing more than a two-foot long aluminum cylinder with a two-inch diameter.

Tail him up, Delbert, while I pop these magnets down his gullet, Doc instructed Delbert. Give him an injection of long acting tetracycline, will ya Doc? Doc Stone was looking directly at me, grinning. For a moment, I was confused until I realized I better get used to being addressed as Doc. I was no longer the tag-along veterinary student with little obligation to my patients and their owners. From now on, the burden of responsibility and the consequences of my decisions belonged solely to me, a realization I found bearably disconcerting.

Little Delbert grasped Henry’s tail with both hands, lifted it high over his head, and strained forward on his toes as if raising a flag pole. As I jammed a hypodermic needle into Henry’s gluteus maximus, Doc seized his muzzle under his massive left arm, like a wrestler inflicting a headlock on an opponent. Henry objected when Doc gently but firmly pried open just enough space to plunge the speculum between his jaws, over his gyrating tongue, and down toward the opening of his throat. Doc’s two hundred and thirty pounds were airborne for a split second as Henry attempted to launch him through the barn roof, but Doc nimbly slipped the magnets down Henry’s gullet, removed the speculum, and hopped to the side before Henry could recover to attempt another launch. Henry snorted, sputtered, and sprayed mucous and saliva, indignant over the rough and rude treatment he ostensibly endured.

I tink he already feels better! Delbert proclaimed with a toothless grin, and handed Doc a burlap bag of fresh garden tomatoes, radishes, and cucumbers.

Later, as we traveled to another farm, Doc assured a little sheepishly, They’re not all like that. Delbert’s farm is one of a kind.

Oh really? I teased, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. I tried to maintain a straight face. Doc glanced at me, unconvinced.

Why not perform a rumenotomy now, Doc, while he’s in relatively good shape? I asked, feeling a little heady. I had been taught magnets were a good method of preventing sharp metal objects from penetrating through the reticulum, the second compartment of a cow’s four-compartment stomach, but not an adequate treatment. Timely surgery to remove the offending sharp object was recommended by university veterinarians as the most effective treatment. Surgery would require a long incision into the large first compartment, or rumen, between the last rib and pelvic bone. From here, the surgeon must reach forward through the fermenting mass of fodder, locate the offending sharp object penetrating the reticulum, and remove it. The procedure was not without significant risk.

He’ll last for surgery if he needs it. If the magnets are successful in removing the nail, or wire, or whatever it is, I’ll be a hero and save Delbert and myself some money, Doc responded. I realized he meant he would lose money on the surgery if it had to be done because he wouldn’t expect Delbert to pay the full cost. I sensed Doc would do it anyway, for the old bull and his antiquated keeper, if they needed it.

Henry didn’t need surgery after all. Three days after Doc’s treatment, Henry consumed a healthy amount of hay and grain and was pain-free. Delbert, like most farmers I came to know, tended to expect miracles from the old Doc, and in that sense, Doc was a hero.

Later, I was told in whispered confidence that under the immense manure pile, under years of layers of straw and cow dung, laid the remains of Delbert’s older sister, Gertrude. Delbert supposedly wheelbarrowed Gertrude’s body, after her death of hopefully natural causes, up the pile and dumped it over the cliff. Nobody knew she was missing for quite some time, long after the manure pile had risen far above her corpse ... supposedly. I know in my heart this story was just that ...a story. It was a nasty story inflicted on an eccentric old man, undeserved and cruel. In reality, Delbert was a kind man, living a hard but simple life, caring for his remaining family, and generous among those who knew him. Odd and eccentric, yes, by all outward appearances, but I felt fortunate to have experienced a smidgen of his generosity and tranquil approach to life.

A few more farm visits, and at the end of the first day in the real world of veterinary medical practice, I expected to go home, relax, and look forward to a couple of weeks of orientation, traveling on farm calls with Doc Stone, meeting his various clients, and learning his usual and unusual techniques. Doc had a different idea. He handed me the keys to the truck, and a stack of township plat books—maps that detail landowner locations.

You’re on call tonight. And by the way, you’re on call this weekend too. Doc turned abruptly toward his animal hospital and left me stunned and alone. My delusions of a long and painless adjustment to rural veterinary practice vanished.

Chapter Two

Hank and Maggie

My entire orientation, if you could call it that, lasted approximately three hours. I had expected at least three weeks of seeing, listening, and learning before traipsing off on farm calls alone with nothing but an education and my apprehension. But I also had a faith in God and an assurance that He is in control, no matter the circumstances. He would carry the burden of my doubts even in the depths of my anxiety.

The first evening, after an extraordinary experience at Delbert Doern’s nineteenth-century farm, and Doc Stone’s paralyzing proclamation giving me sole responsibility for emergency farm calls that very night, I scrambled to study the plethora of medicines, equipment, instruments, and concoctions stored in the mobile veterinary clinic, or vet box, Doc Stone had given me. This fabricated fiberglass box came mounted on the bed of a red four-wheel drive pick-up truck, and was flush with doors, drawers, cabinets, and trays full of bottles, containers, and stainless steel stuff. This exercise was both absorbing and alarming as I scrutinized each drug label and imagined the ailments Doc Stone would have treated using these medicaments. A few drug names and labels were unfamiliar, and I also sensed that a few drugs I considered essential were not included. It occurred to me that Doc Stone’s clientele of dairy farmers knew him well, many experiencing only his familiar and possibly unique approaches to various bovine maladies. For many, Doc Stone was the only veterinarian they had ever called. He had been practicing in this rural community for over thirty years, and yet he had confidence in me, a wet behind the ears newbie, to take on emergency calls?

Disturbing my restless reverie, my agreeable wife, Lynne, who answered the office phone while I was otherwise occupied, stepped into the garage and paused when she saw me sitting cross-legged on the concrete, surrounded by dozens of bottles, boxes, and unfamiliar things, looking perplexed.

"Um… someone is on the phone, asking for the new vet. Says she