February 1, 2022
A Letter from Your Veterinarian
Vet medicine is struggling. The current demand is more than they can deal with, and people are getting upset when they can’t get their pets in right away. I want to remind you that no one performs their best when they feel like they are under attack. Take it easy on your vet.
- Be patient. We are treating each pet with equal handling, care, and professional service. We know your pet is special and make every effort to treat them as you would.
- Be aware of your pet’s medications. Give us 24 to 48 hours to fill your pet’s prescriptions. In addition to filling sometimes 30-40 repeat prescriptions, our staff also needs time to fill the prescriptions for appointments and surgical/hospitalized patients.
- Be courteous. When you get curt, irrational, or angry, we get stressed. Your mood should not be in the forefront of your care team’s minds, your pet should be.
- Be prepared: Preplan you visits when you can and accept that you may have to become your pet’s ambulance driver to a facility off the peninsula if necessary. Take a pet first aid class if you can.
We are working hard and unpleasant situations that can become that last straw on whether we stay in the business or not. We are working as efficiently and quickly as we can to provide top-notch and complete veterinary care for you and your pets. Please, please come to us with civility and a little kindness. Thank you.
February 3, 2022
When I went out to the barn last night to tuck my boys in, Howard greeted me with a long whinny followed by a nicker. I have been waiting for him to do that for a long time. He is not as demonstrative as his brothers and I have been spoiling him a bit to get the engagement that I want from him. Today was the day he joined the herd in welcoming me to the barn. The noise is a welcome respite from the workdays’ demands and I enjoy it more that almost anything. The barn warmth, the noise, the snuffling noses, and the demands of treats make me feel loved and allow me to nurture the creatures I call family. Since it was my birthday, I brought out a peppermint stick a foot long and an inch in diameter. The crinkle of the plastic wrapping has the herd in hysterics; they know what they are hearing and get as excited as children. Normally they get an inch or two, but I am feeling generous, so the stick is broken into four larger pieces and one small one. The horses gobble the candy and crunch the peppermint; the sound and smell triggering all the “feels” in my psyche. I love this herd of goofballs! Minion is last and he savors his piece so well that he never even gets cranky ears as I hang his straw bag. (He thinks straw is dumb; he should get alfalfa, NOT!) Last, I kiss everyone one the nose; all but Howard. He still doesn’t appreciate it, but I won him over enough to talk to me; I will win him over for smooches, too!
February 4, 2022
On Premium Pet Diets
I just witnessed a small miracle, in my opinion. As my cat Edward lay in the front yard, his stunning coat shimmering in the evening sun, I realized that he was back. Back among us mentally and physically.
Since late May, my beautiful Abyssinian-looking and acting cat, had been lack-luster. Normally a very active and silly cat, Edward just hadn’t been himself.
He came in one evening with a severely swollen eye. Taking him to work with me the next day got him the care he needed as I work in vet medicine. It appeared he had been in a fight; unusual for him due to the lack of adversaries.
An injection, some oral meds and we went home. Edward improved, slowly. Too slowly, I felt. I took him in again. Another exam with no specific finding so a full blood panel was run. After the lab work revealed a few values slightly out of whack, I took him home, armed with canned food that I added water to, forcing him to drink more water.
After a month of this, I took him back for more blood work.
The values had almost normalized, but he was still not himself.
This was when a light bulb blinked on. I had, several months ago, purchased store-brand cat food. A career change had resulted in a cut in income and the family budget. I figured that I could, with just this one thing, trim the household budget by shortchanging the cat.
More thought into the matter showed that the timeline matched his decline in health, vigor, and coat quality. Feeling a bit sheepish, I immediately ordered the prescription and premium diets he had been on most of his life. When they arrived, I just couldn’t throw out the cheap food, so I mixed it in with the other two.
Today was the day I realized that my sweet, sassy Edward was back. My husband and I were sharing a beverage on the patio when he pointed over my right shoulder. Turning around in my chair, I spied Edward up in the crotch of a big cherry tree in the yard. He was feigning interest in our gaze. He was primed to put on one of his trademark gymnastic/acrobatic-like performances, something I realized he hadn’t done in months. Our lives are pretty busy this time of the year; I am ashamed that it took me this long to figure out that the diet change was the root of the problem.
Edward turns his head, makes eye contact for a full 15 seconds and turns back with a tense flick of his tail. He explodes up the truck of the tree and out onto a branch where he skitters to the very tip of the tree’s long reaching branches. He is now 20 feet in the air. Stopping briefly to make eye contact again, he races back down to the tree’s center and up a branch on the other side. After a brief pause, he comes shooting down the tree and across the front yard. Cheetah-like moves thrust him through the emerald, green lawn and he is gone in a flash, into the open door of the house.
My husband and I sat back, grinning at one another, and I said, “He’s back! Our Edward is back!” I am now a card-carrying member of the Premium, Veterinary created diets for pets.
February 8, 2022
Euthanasia VS Killing
I recently fielded another call by someone who asked to have their pet euthanized. The person became bitter at the thought of the animal being examined and stated they “just want it put down”. I have to assume the fore mentioned creature must have been, at one point, a treasured pet. The reason I say “must have been” is because this person called us. If the pet hadn’t been so highly thought of, the owner, a neighbor, or just someone who said they would do it would have taken this pet into the woods and destroyed it by some means other than a peaceful injection.
During the entire phone exchange, the person remained insolent and demanding, very irritated that we would need to look at the pet before putting it down. Euthanasia by definition is a good death. In an effort to provide a good death the Veterinarian must first go to school for at least eight years, often incurring over two-hundred thousand dollars of debt. They must then become licensed in the State where they intend to practice. They must apply for a DEA License in order to dispense a controlled substance. (Yes, euthanasia material is controlled; that is why you can’t just go out a buy a bottle.) The State laws vary, but in Washington you must have a Doctor-Client relationship and the paper trail to prove it if you intend to release anything classified by the DEA.
Next, the Veterinarian must determine whether the animal needs to be put down for humane, behavioral, or heath reasons. Doctors take a Hippocratic Oath which states they will “Do no harm”, therefore they may not euthanize for convenience.
Lastly, the Veterinarian must carry out the euthanasia itself. Euthanasia requires an IV infusion of a viscous liquid that will stop a beating heart. Therefore the Doctor must determine if the pet is going to remain calm while a needle is being slid into its vein and will remain that way during the entire depression of the plunger. If it isn’t, a catheter or sedation may be necessary. Having determined all of the previously mention parameters, the Doctor then provides “a good death”. An injection into the vein, often while the owners comfort their pet and the beloved companion slips away into the great beyond. At our clinic, we provide a caring atmosphere to start the grieving process; beginning with a quiet room, plenty of tissues, and compassionate employees who understand what you are going through. We create a lasting memento in the form of a paw print preserved in cast clay. We allow alternate routes out of the clinic so no one will see you crying (although our clients have often been through this themselves and are very understanding).
I believe we provide a wonderful service and would like prospective clients to understand that with the ability to perform this act of mercy comes a tremendous amount of responsibility that no Veterinarian takes lightly. Please understand that we are not trying to take your hard-earned money out of your pockets. We are obeying the laws built to protect us all and we are providing you with a way to say good-bye to your pet that you can feel good about.
We realize that when you call to inquire about euthanasia, your heart is hurting, and you may be angry. Your mind is made up about what you need to do. Your finances may be limited. We get it, believe me. Please don’t yell at us or tell us its all about the money. Part of owning a pet is having to say goodbye and you will need to be prepared, both emotionally and financially. We are only here to help you. Please keep this in mind when you call us for that last appointment.
February 11, 2022
My Edward
The perfect cat is out there. He or she is planning his or her entry upon your existence as surely as rain will fall on the Olympic Peninsula. I know this because, although an animal lover, I was not a confirmed “cat person” until Edward.
Edward is a large Abyssinian-mix cat who was presented to the clinic at the tender age of six weeks. He was part of a litter of feral kittens being fostered for Peninsula Friends of Animals. The litter was receiving an exam and vaccines before being put up for adoption. Edward was a whopping one and one-half pounds. His markings were what I considered odd; having seen a lot of kittens over the years, I am drawn to unusual coat patterns. His light tan fur is very lightly touched with the black stripes of a herring-bone tabby, but has a distinct agouti mix of colors, much like that of a similarly termed rabbit. He has white front paws, white paws to the hocks in back and a perfect heart of white on his chest. Since the litter was confiscated from his mother, a feral queen, at the age of two or three weeks, Edward had been bottle fed since. He was used to being handled and would snuggle into the crook of your neck and grab a small patch of skin on which to suck vigorously. This endearing trait has lasted to this day. Living near the backdrop of the “Twilight” series, Edward was obviously the only choice for a name.
We needed another cat like we needed another hole in our heads but had lost one of our cats a year before and so had a “vacancy” in our household. I took Edward home to introduce him to my husband and pets. Holly, the Boston Terrier, loves all things baby and thrust her abbreviated muzzle into his carrier. She nuzzled and licked him, and Edward did what baby kittens do. He peed. Holly was momentarily shocked into stillness but then instinct took over and she cleaned him vigorously with her wide, spoon-shaped tongue. Edward soon decided he had had enough and squeezed out of the carrier past Holly’s bulldog head, climbed the arm of the couch and up my husband’s shirt to plant his soggy self on my husband’s shoulder. My beloved never even looked up from reading the paper. He just said, “Another one? Well, make yourself at home.” Edward proceeded to do just that.
Edward would need milk replacer for another two weeks, but my lifestyle did not allow for snuggly bottle feedings. We immediately transitioned him to drinking the formula from a saucer, adding tiny bits of canned cat food by the end of the week. He literally dived right in; he got more on him than in him and made a mess a toddler would be proud of. Shaking his head and paws flicked the mess onto nearby walls and doors and since he was too small to do much of a job grooming himself, we had to clean him up, which defeated the purpose of time conservation, although Holly was entirely willing to help. We offered him dry cat food that we had broken up with a hammer ten days after he arrived and he was soon on dry only during the day, with a little canned for breakfast and dinner.
Edward was so small that we worried he would get cold at night, so we placed a cat carrier on the top of the kennel the dog slept in, threw a blanket over the top to trap the dogs’ body heat, and moved Edward in. He only fussed for a few minutes that first night. He was soon “making muffins” and “nursing”, kneading the soft fleecy blanket and sucking on a wadded-up piece of the same. He was serenaded to sleep by what I am certain he thought was the loudest purr ever but was in reality Holly snoring like only she was capable of. She could make more noise than the trucks that jake-braked their way down the hill outside our home.
A bold little cuss, Edward immediately began to take over. The dog already adored him; he didn’t have to wipe his own butt until he was nearly an adult. She followed him everywhere, ever the doting parent, pushing him around with her nose to redirect him when she felt he was getting into dangerous territory. It was not unusually to find him sacked out between Holly’s paws, draped over her back, or even stuck in her armpit. He didn’t care; he was warm and content. Playing, at first, consisted of Holly “mouth wrestling” with him until he was a sodden mess, trapping him to clean him up and starting over again. She would roll him onto his side, slide her jaws completely over his mid-section and give a gentle “squeeze” while the kitten grabbed her lips, ears, or whatever else he could get ahold of to bite fiercely. She would continue to do this until the kitten gave a squeak like a toy; she would then stop and give him the opportunity to run off, but he would usually just stay put, so the whole game would start again. The kitten was Holly’s favorite squeaky toy until he was too big to fit in her mouth anymore.
We had an older Exotic Shorthair named Brie. (My husband had wanted to name him Cheddar because he was orange and would catch mice, but I pointed out that he was an Exotic, so he changed it to Brie.) Brie was about eight or nine years old when Edward came on scene; he had always been an unusual cat in that he was slow. He walked slow, he rarely trotted, and when he did have the rare spurts of running, they were short-lived, and he had to lay down immediately after. Later we would discover that he had been born with hip dysplasia (like dogs) and that his pain had not been adequately treated until he was eight. Since the start of medication, he was a busier cat now than he had ever been, but he was no match for this kitten.
Edward ran circles around Brie. Literally. Even in his infancy, when kittens are a little clumsy, he managed to do fly-by swats, hidden peek-a-boos, bomb-drops, and lateral launches that had Brie constantly watching his back. He would engage in play with Edward for a while, but his stamina would flag, and the kitten would continue “playing” long after Brie was over it. We quickly realized that Brie was going to need a break. Since we had kenneled him as a kitten, we started with putting Edward back bin a kennel at night. A large dog kennel, all set with a bed, food and water, and a litterbox, was his bedroom. Brie was free to be from sundown to sunup.
Brie was an indoor only cat and we had thought to do the same with Edward, but as he got older our very small house became a prison for him. (And Brie!) We have an immense barn complete with a heated tack-room in which the barn cat McKenna lived. McKenna had been discovered on an overpass sign light standard hovering over four lanes of traffic going 60 miles an hour. My son and his buddy found her on a mini market run while staying at a rodeo. My son’s pal had held onto his belt loop while my son shinnied out onto the light pole over the freeway, snagged the angry little ball of fur, and brought her back to the camper. She spent the whole weekend in a baling twine harness being handled by trustworthy children, and by the time the weekend was over, she thought humans weren’t so bad. She was also supposed to have been rehomed, but when we made it home and opened the camper door, her pitiful wails told me she had been stowed away. We, at the time already had two housecats, so she was moved into the barn. We named her for the area she had been found, but due to her natural proclivity to climbing to the top of everything, we nicknamed her Up. Seriously, the cat’s feet rarely touched the ground, which is probably why she lived so long in our neck of the woods with its assorted wildlife. She was a ferocious hunter, making her first kill when her prey was the same size she was.
We started letting Edward out on supervised forays when he was about five months old. This is where he met McKenna for the first time. She was three years old and had been an outdoor cat only and was pretty aloof, but Edward fascinated her. We thought she was planning on eating him until one day she presented him with a dead mouse. Edward instantly fell on it like a lion cub on a kill and bolted it, making savage snarling sounds the whole time. Several days later she presented him with a mouse that wasn’t quite dead. She played with it for just a few moments before turning it over to Edward. He, too, played with it for just a moment and then ate it with the same gusto he had eaten the first one. McKenna continued to present him with mice, but she stopped giving them to him immediately. She would drop it in the grass alive, keeping it in a small area, but forcing Edward to make the catch and kill on his own. She kept making his “hunting ground” a little bigger all the time. By the end of summer, he was stalking, catching, dispatching, and eating several varmints a day on his own in the yard and pasture.
A reminder about feral kittens; they can be tamed, but some remain aloof and “touchy”, launching back into their feral selves when certain situations arise. Edward had been taken from his mother at three weeks of age, but when he was outside, he was wild. As he aged, this feral streak would remain, with his “tame” territory expanding, but never diminishing completely. If he was in the tiny front yard or on the sidewalk to the house, he was a silly, gentle cat. Anywhere else, he would hunker and flatten his ears, slide back into a hidey place of foliage, or simply bolt to parts unknown. He and McKenna sorted out their territories with Edward taking over the eight acres of our farm, large tracts of land owned by neighbors on either side, and, occasionally, property on the other side of the creek that runs through our property. McKenna owned the garage, car port, outbuildings, barn, and tack room. She also had expanded territory at night when Edward was confined to the house.
Owning a barn in which we raised horses and the occasional cow, pig, sheep, or goat meant that we had grain. A lot of grain. We bought it in agricultural fertilizer bags that had to be wielded by tractors or forklifts and weighed over 1000 pounds. We tried to keep it varmint safe by keeping it in 55-gallon drums with lids, but they flourished anyway. In addition, they transported rats. We had managed to live without them, having only mice and squirrels in this neck of the woods, but within three months of buying our feed in bulk, the rats arrived. I HATE rats. They are incredibly destructive and absolutely filthy. They can and will chew through anything, and they leave a trail of urine behind them like the slime of a slug. Our son had two pet rats when he was young, but they paled in comparison to these massive Norwegian cousins. They moved into the barn like they owned it. I remember the first time I saw more than one at a time. We had a little chicken coop and some laying hens. We had built the coop to be portable, so it was on skids and was barely tall enough to step into. One day when I stepped in to gather eggs, stooped over trying to avoid hitting my head and I heard a scurrying noise. I caught a glimpse of a full-sized rat as it dived through an opening between the frame and the wall. My heart thumped hard, and I though, “Just get the eggs and get OUT!” Another scurrying sound came from an area just above my head. I glanced up and there, hanging nearly in front of my face, were six long, thick, unmistakable rat tails! I shrieked, stood bolt upright, slamming my head into the light fixture, and half staggered, half fell out of the door. My husband came flying around the corner with a look of askance on his face and I pointed a shaking finger at the coop and partial screamed, “R-r-r-r-rats!”. He pulled the door open, and they were scurrying everywhere. He slammed the door and shook his head. “We have to do something”, he said. I agreed, of course but told him we couldn’t use poison. We had cats and dogs and I did not want them accidently ingesting a toxin. We went to the local hardware store, armed ourselves with traps, and set them up everywhere we could think of that wouldn’t accidentally catch a cat or dog.
We caught a few right off the bat, but rats are smart. We rarely caught a second in the same trap that had killed another. Our frustration was mounting. One day we caught one and my husband threw it towards McKenna. She snagged it and ran off snarling. The next day, I found three rat tails in the tack room. The following day there were several more. It was a while before we caught another, but when we did, we tossed it to Edward. He responded the same way McKenna had; he snatched it and ran off growling deep in his throat. Shortly thereafter, Dan reported Edward trotting through the arena towards the house with a rat dangling from his mouth. He stopped in the yard and devoured it in just a few bites. We have no idea why they didn’t start catching them on their own, but once they were formally introduced, it was “Game on!” The rat population took a serious hit, and their numbers became much more manageable.
I have never lived with an Abyssinian before. Cat Fancy Magazine came out with an issue highlighting the breed, so I took the time to read it thoroughly. The article sited very “dog-like behavior” in their devotion and stated that if an Aby loved you, you would be treated like a “rock star”. I read that they will call for you, follow you, greet you at the door when you come home, and are easy to train. I was stunned. First, Edward was only part Abyssinian. In fact, I had labeled him as such because that was the breed he most resembled, not because I knew his lineage. He was out of a feral queen who looked like a Domestic Shorthair tabby, and she wasn’t talking when it came to papa. After reading the article, I realized that Edwards’ behavior was textbook Aby. He greets me like the paparazzi when I get home from work. Waiting on the sidewalk near the carport, he escorts me down the walk to the house. I drop my lunchbox, coat, and purse, hug and kiss my husband, and proceed to the bedroom to change out of my work clothes. Edward is always there, waiting on the bed, where I love on him as I change my clothes. If I have had a bad day, or am in a hurry, I will sometimes try to avoid him, but he will not be denied. He will grab my clothing or skin with a paw or claws and “remind me” of my duties as a cat owner. Next, I carry him into the living room and plop him on the couch. Some days this is enough; other days I am expected to sit with him and cuddle, smooch, and play with him. Between he and my husband, I am a lucky girl at the end of the day!
Edwards’s antics never cease. Between his rowdy play with the dog and acrobatics outside, he is a constant source of entertainment. As he aged from his tiny start, the dog and he played non-stop. At first, he was a living squeaky toy for the dog while he grabbed at whatever he could reach. Soon he was giving it right back. Holly would walk down the hall and our little “Pink Panther” would leap out from behind or on top of something, attacking her ferociously before racing away in a blur of speed. He practiced stalking her when she was sleeping, pouncing her head or body. Most of the time she would feign sleeping, but when she engaged, it was a battle royale. Fierce sounds would emit from the two of them as they chewed on ears, lips, tails, feet, or legs. In Edwards case, his entire head would disappear inside Holly’s mouth as she pretended to eat him. As he grew, Edward became a worthy adversary, giving as much as he was getting. Soon, Holly was backing away as play became more serious and her “baby” hurt her. She would cry out, jump up, and walk away with a look of surprised pain on her bulldog mug. Edward did not understand and would pursue her, but the game would be over. It took a while before Edward caught on, but their relationship changed by the time he was a year old. They still slept together, and Holly still groomed him, but she became wary of this creature who seemed to inflict pain for the sheer joy of inflicting pain, something her gentle soul would never understand.
One day in the summer, when we left the front door open all day, Dan was in the kitchen when he saw Holly come racing up the sidewalk at a dead run. Something was attached to her back, but she was moving so fast, Dan couldn’t decern what it was. He started to the door to intercept her because she was obviously frightened. He reported that she came flying through the door with Edward riding on her back like a grim little jockey, with all four paws worth of claws digging into Holly’s flesh. She flew past Dan and hung a 90-degree left into the hallway. She hurtled herself into the nearest room, turning another 90-degree left in the process, where Edward finally dislodged. She was running so fast that when he came loose, he was flung with force through the air and into the spare room door at the end of the hall. He hit with a loud crash, and then landed on his feet. He shook himself and nonchalantly strolled back down the hall like nothing had happened. Holly, on the other hand, was horribly traumatized. She refused to come out of the bedroom for more than an hour and when she did, she was peeking around corners and skulking through the house, fully expecting to be attacked again. She would not be fully comfortable again for over two weeks. Edward must have learned something from the experience because it was never repeated.
Dan and I are a little ambivalent about letting cats outside. On the one hand, we must have rodent control. We live on eight acres of farmland that is crawling with the little buggers. On the other hand, we love the birds. Many species of birds live here year-round. Robins, Blue jays, Quail, Chickadees, and Hummingbirds are a majority of our full-time residents, but many more than that pass through the area. We see thousands of birds, some migrating through, but lots of other stay to make this area their breeding season home. We feed them, encouraging them to stay and so we can see their beautiful plumage. We feed a variety of seeds; thistle, millet, sunflower, corn, and safflower seeds bring in a variety of birds. We add a hopper of fuzzy nesting material, and our birdwatching spot becomes a hive of activity that Edward would like to use as a full buffet.
McKenna does not venture out enough to access the feeder but gets the occasional bird. Edward kills and eats them when he can. We are vigilant about our feeders, but so is Edward. He now understands we don’t want him there, so he runs off the moment he sees us unless he has a good hiding spot. We assume he thinks we can’t see him, so we must make it clear that we do see him by chasing him off. It is a balancing act we will go through as long as we have outdoor cats
Edward is my cat. He loves my husband, but he adores me. I have had other cats I’ve liked in the past, but Edward has genuinely captured my heart.
February 17, 2022
Henrietta
In the strange and weird category, our free-range hen, Henrietta, is definitely gay. We noticed right away that she wanted nothing to do with the boys. Absolutely abhors them. When we had one, he would go out of his way to hunt her down, often chasing her more than 300 to 500 feet to do the deed. She never fought back, but boy, would she run! She hid from him all the time, peeking around corners and roosting in hidden spots, like a shelf in the garage.
When we decided to give up the chickens, we kept her because of the trauma we felt she would suffer if we gave her to anyone with a rooster. Henrietta learned to enjoy her life sans the flock, enjoying the company of other animals on the farm. When the neighbors started raising chickens, she started lurking outside their pen so we told them they could have her. The second they put her in the pen, the rooster went crazy, brutalizing her aggressively and breeding her incessantly. They turned her loose. She came home battered and sad, cheering up only when she realized they were cooped, and she was not.
The neighbors liked the idea of free-range chickens and started turning theirs out. Henrietta avoided them until one day, she brought one of them home with her. Her friend was a beautiful fluffy blonde HEN! We let them be for a day or two and Henrietta was as happy as we had ever seen her, but the neighbors wanted their hen back, so we had to send Henrietta’s girlfriend home. Henrietta promptly began laying eggs in our feed bin and has done so ever since. She has become very territorial, chasing the dogs out of the barn alley and running the cat up into the rafters.
The final gender puzzle piece popped into place yesterday when I was feeding my new bottle calf. I heard the strangled crow of a juvenile rooster. I thought, “Hmmmm. One of the neighbor’s chickens has made it to the barn.” I poked my head out the tack room door just in time to see Henrietta flap her wings, tip her head back, and CROW! She crowed for 15 minutes! When I told my husband, he said he’d been hearing it for about a week, but, like me, thought it was a young rooster next door. Henrietta looks like a girl, lays eggs like a girl, has the equipment like a girl, (ask the roosters) but definitely needs to be a boy! I’m going to catch her crowing on video someday soon and show you all, but in the meantime, rest easy, Henrietta. You live on Patchwork Farm. We will not judge you or try to make you into something you are not. We can see that you didn’t make a “choice” and we can see how hard it has been for you. You have a home here forever and we will love you just the way you are.
March 9, 2022
Manuka Honey **Photos at the end may be disturbing to some viewers.
I raise horses and keep a few weanlings at a friend’s place because it has two stalls, an acre of pasture, and is out of earshot of their mamas. They had been doing well, growing, and learning as expected of foals. Mr. Howell is a sorrel colt out of a Dash for Cash mare by our herd sire Cimmaron Isle. Maryanne is a line-back dun filly out of a daughter of A Tru Rolex and our herd sire.
Siblings, they got along famously, and I had been training them daily on how to be great horses, such as loading them into and out of trailers and hand walking them. They were opposites in looks Mr. Howell was a solid sorrel with a white star and MaryAnne was a dun with zebra stripes on her legs, a thick black line down her back, and a bar across her shoulders. Even her pert little ears were lined in black! They were doing well when an incident occurred that nearly broke my heart.
I arrived one day to find that only Mr. Howell was waiting for me. Knowing a bad omen when I see one, I immediately dropped everything to find her. I found her in the lower pasture, standing with a leg cocked and looking depressed. Even from a distance you could see that her cocked leg was swollen until it looked like a stovepipe. An open wound was visible, and my stomach clenched. I had not checked on the foals the day prior, and the injury had not been noticed, so it had had 48 hours to swell. Blood and serum seeped down the leg like a grisly lava flow. My heart dropped; I had placed a lot of hopes and dreams on this filly. Her mother was a well-bred mare who had been in training when an injury had ruined her riding career and turned her into a broodmare and Maryanne was the result of a carefully selected pairing between her mother and father. I could not believe it was happening again.
I got a halter on her and slowly walked her to the barn. I was relieved to see that the leg was not broken, and she could bear weight on it, but she was a hurting unit. Further investigation showed two gashes that started above her right pastern and spiraled up and around the leg all the way up to her hock. Her cannon bone was exposed as well as tendons and tissue. I had worked in the veterinary service for 25 years and knew that no sutures would close this wound. It would have to heal by second intention healing, and I knew how to manage the care for that. I cleaned the leg up as best I could, bedded down the stall and closed Maryanne up in it. I was on my lunch break and needed to get back. At work I gathered supplies and spoke with one of the veterinarians about the wound. She agreed that what I was going to do was the best options and recommended that I take pictures.
I headed out to the barn after work. I had Telfa pads, brown gauze, cotton cast padding, Vetrap, tape, Nolvasan scrub, and lidocaine gel to get the job done. I got some warm water, tied MaryAnne in the corner of the stall and got to work. She was so painful that I applied the Lidocaine gel first and let is do its work. I also gave her an oral anti-inflammatory. Next, I gently scrubbed the area with Nolvasan scrub. The angry tissue bled heavily, but this is okay; blood is a sign of healthy tissue. My stress increased when I realized how much of her cannon bone was exposed, but I continued to scrub until all the visual dirt and debris was cleaned from the wound.
As per the veterinarian’s recommendation, I would place a wet-to-dry bandage on the leg to draw out any residual dirt and debris. First, I applied non-stick pads. I placed cotton batting that had been soaked in Nolvasan over the pads and then wrapped it heavily with white gauze squares. Next, I wrapped it in brown gauze and taped it into place. I would be doing this until the bandage came away without any dirt and debris. It took five days.
With the wound finally clean, I could finally get to helping MaryAnne heal. Scrubbing the wound again, I patted it dry and slathered it with Manuka honey gifted to me by a veterinarian friend for my birthday the year before. She had explained that Manuka honey is a natural antibacterial, can kill germs, and has an acidic pH that promotes healing. Think of it as nature’s silver sulfadiazine; the silver burn cream used to treat humans’ wounds.
I continued to treat MaryAnne daily while the wound was draining heavily. As the healing progressed, I was able to go to every other day and then to every three days. We went through boxes of pads, tape, gauze, and Vetrap over the next four months. At one point, a skin graft was attempted to help speed up the healing process. A large biopsy punch was used to take “plugs” of hair from other areas of the leg and transferred into matching holes on the unhaired areas. Great care was taken to ensure that the hair growth pattern and color was matched appropriately. Unfortunately, it failed, so we went back to just bandaging.
MaryAnne was a good patient once the pain subsided. She stood patiently while the bandages were changed and she became sound long before we were finished with the healing, much to my delight. I have seen horses with lesser scars that were lame. I have seen some gnarly scars in my time; most of them are because someone gave up on treatment too soon. Healing tissue should never be allowed to dry out. I have heard the term “get some air to it” used frequently. The reality is that it IS getting air. The wound needs protection and moisture for the cells to regenerate and move to where they need to be. Allowing the wound to dry stops all that. Healing stops and scabbing begins as the body tried to “bandage” the wound on its own. MaryAnne was fortunate. She healed up completely and without a scar. She did not even have a blemish where her leg changed from black to dun and none of her stripes were out of order. Perseverance won out and I learned a great deal. My medicine cabinet will never be without Manuka honey; it is part of my core supplies now. I realize that not everyone is as dedicated to their animals as I am but knowing what can happen when you try has galvanized me to share my experience with others. You can do it; your horse is counting on you.
March 17, 2022
Pepper
My husband and I bought and sold horses at the auction for 11 years. We bought them untrained, brought them home and gave them an education, in some cases a career, and then sold them or took them back to the auction. One of these purchases was a sturdy black and white, Pinto, BLM mare. She had a BLM brand and was barely halter broke. At eight years of age, she was a little older than we liked, but she was cute enough, we thought we’d take a chance. She was small, indicating some pony blood was flowing through her veins, but she was stout enough that a grown person could probably ride her, so we added her to our herd of trainees.
Unloading her from the trailer, she lunged around at the end of her lead rope, snorting and suspicious. She was pretty sketchy, so we put her in a tie-stall for the night, not trusting we’d be able to catch her in the morning. When morning arrived, we hand walked her and a couple of the other newbies down to the creek for a drink. After cleaning her stall and loading her manger with good feed, we left her there while we headed off to work.
When we got home, we put her in the round pen and lunge-lined her. As she ran around and around, it was apparent that she had not been handled or worked with much. Pepper knew what had kept her alive to this point; she didn’t see any reason to change things. We had trained quite a few horses, but this little mare didn’t read any of the same books we had. Training progressed very slowly.
Doing what we were doing, our break-even point was 90 days. If we didn’t have them going well by then, we were losing money, so Pepper needed more intensive training. We continued to keep her in a tie-stall at night, hand walking her to water three times a day. We round penned her every day, and I began intensive grooming and close handling. The little mare began to make progress; after five weeks, we were able to turn her out in a small pen and catch her again with minimal trouble. She was walking, jogging, and loping on the lunge-line, and she seemed to enjoy her grooming sessions.
We began sacking her out with a burlap bag and she was not a fan. We kept at it and she eventually stood for it. Next came the saddle, also not a fan. Cinching the saddle caused bronco like action and we had to do it day after day until she could tolerate it. We made every attempt to mount, but she was NOT having that AT ALL. We were still walking her down to the creek three times a day and she made a break for it one day that made us realize that we may never get all the wild out of her.
Our house sits near Snow Creek and we’ve a yard between us and the creek. Highway 101 is just on the other side of the creek. Snow Creek flows past us, makes a jog out toward the highway before making a corner to run perpendicular to us again. The creek bank to the highway is wickedly steep and, at the time, was at least 20 feet high. We had two privacy fences; one that ran along the bank where the creek flowed past the house and the second picking up after the corner. A section of lawn ran between them stretching down to the creek. Where it met the creek, the bank was eight to ten feet tall.
It was late fall, and the creek was running hard. There were places deep enough to swim a horse if you wanted to. I took Pepper and another horse down to the creek. Right at the water’s edge, I dropped one end of the lead rope to the first horse and when I stooped down to pick it up, Pepper jumped forward, away from me and landed in the middle of the creek. A split-second hesitation and she turned up stream. I was certain she would turn back; I had the other horse and she was getting into deep water. She didn’t even slow down. By now, I was hollering for my husband.
As the water got deeper, I watched in horror as she swam further upstream. Coming out of the deep water, she stood on a sandbar going over her options. She looked up the steep bank to the highway and dismissed it as an option. Above her and to her right, was the green bank of lawn heading into our front yard. I watched her thinking that there was no way she could get up there as she’d have to go back into the water and leap straight up higher than her own height. Back into the water she went. She reared up onto her hind legs and threw herself onto the bank, landing on her side. She flipped and flopped on her side like a fish, inching up the bank. I was now screaming to my husband because I knew she was going to make a successful getaway. She continued to flop and maneuver herself up the bank until she was clear of the drop off. She jumped to her feet, shook herself and bolted between the two sections of fence.
Fortunately, my husband had come running and was just on the other side of the fence and snagged Pepper’s lead rope as she blew by. Caught, she immediately reverted to her semi-domesticated ways, but we knew that she would never be able to be trusted for what we wanted her to do. Any horse that will sacrifice their own body in an attempt to free themselves is probably not going to protect you, either.
Switching tracts, we began to train her to a pack saddle. This was MUCH more to her liking. Soon she was carrying the pack saddle with breast collar and britchin’ with no complaints. This was how we presented her to the December auction at the end of the 90 days. Groomed to the nines, wearing a pack saddle covered in red bows, she was the highlight of the auction. She looked like one of Santa’s pack ponies and a horse dealer bought her to put more training on her. She walked away from us without a backward glance.
Over the years, we have come upon horses that don’t take to the average training programs and we tried to avoid those animals as they didn’t stick with the 90 day turnover. That does not mean they couldn’t be trained; they just didn’t suit our program. We have since learned that some of the smartest horses are those that take a little longer to bend to human will. Pepper taught us a lot and for that, I will always be grateful.
April 18, 2022
Buffy and Serena
During a life involved with veterinary medicine, the odd becomes a daily norm. Some things still amaze, and Buffy was one of the standouts. Buffy’s owners were an author of nautical texts and his wife who aided in research. They lived a quiet life but traveled extensively. When they planned a trip, their sweet little dog Buffy would come and board with us. Buffy was a Lhasa Apso – Terrier mix. About the size of a large Cocker Spaniel, she had long flowing, buff-colored fur that was always clean and well groomed.
A small clinic, we only had three kennels big enough to board dogs. They were four feet by six feet chain link kennels with a concrete floor. A six-inch-wide gutter that was four inches deep ran across the back of the floor of the kennels with a drain in the center for easy cleaning. This gutter was where Buffy insisted on laying the entire time her owners were gone. They would leave her for a week to three weeks depending on the research they were doing.
Buffy did not eat well but was always eager for her twice daily walks. This was the only time she would volunteer to get out of her gutter. She would get up, shake herself, and walk to the front of the kennel to be leashed up. When taken out, she would placidly do her business and then cast the occasional sniff around. Mostly she just walked or trotted along like she was on auto pilot.
We had been boarding Buffy for several years when I began to notice something. On the day that her owners would be scheduled to arrive, Buffy would abruptly stand up from her gutter bed, shake herself and walk up to stand at the gate as if waiting to have her leash clipped on her to go for a walk. Within an hour, her owners would show up.
One day I took note of the time that Buffy stood and shook herself. It was 11:43am. Sure enough, her owners arrived an hour later. I asked them when their plane had landed at the Port Angeles airport. They weren’t sure, but they thought it was “about a quarter to noon”. Somehow, without the benefit of a schedule or the ability to read one, a watch or the ability to see the sun, Buffy knew when her owners had arrived in town. This was repeated over and over, even when her owners were driving to and from their destination. This uncanny little dog knew when her owners were coming home.
Enter Serena
One day while Buffy was boarded, I was sitting in the reception area doing some filing while the veterinarian was on his lunch break. I heard a meow but didn’t think anything of it as we had a cat or two in house as well as Buffy. The meows became more frequent and a little more insistent. I went to check on our feline charges, but they were all fine and resting comfortably. I sat back down only to hear the meow again followed by a scratch on the front door. Standing up to peer over the reception desk, I spotted a pretty, little, half-grown, lilac, Lynx-point Siamese, imploring to be let into the clinic. Meowing and pawing at the front door, she was standing on her hind legs and peering through the glass doors that made the entrance to our building with huge, vivid, blue eyes.
I walked to the doors and opened one of them. The cat/kitten strolled in like she owned the place. She explored a couple of rooms and then turned into the kennel room where Buffy was currently residing. She walked directly to Buffy’s kennel, squeezed through the gap at the latch area of the gate and began munching Buffy’s uneaten dog food. Buffy slowly rose from her position in the gutter and tentatively walked over to the cat. She sniffed the cat gently as it crunched through her dog food, the cat never budging from her meal. As the sniffing continued, Buffy moved up towards the cat’s head and the bowl of food. I stood in rapt amazement, watching the silent drama unfolding in front of me.
When Buffy reaching the cat’s head, the cat stopped eating long enough to sniff noses, rub her head on Buffy’s muzzle and then went back to eating. Buffy, who hadn’t eaten in days, nudged the cat over and the two of them ate side by side until the food was gone. Buffy sat next to the cat as she cleaned herself and then walked back over to her gutter when the cat squeezed back out of the kennel to do a bit of exploring. Her serene persona made me immediately dub her Serena.
When Buffy’s owners came to pick her up the next day, I explained the odd attachment that had developed between Buffy and the cat. They had lived with a cat in the past and thought that Buffy might be missing her feline friend. We talked about the possibility of them taking the cat, but they weren’t really ready and we’d yet to search for an owner for the cat, so they took Buffy and went home.
We asked all the neighbors and placed signs and an ad in the paper, but no one came to claim the cat. The clinic was having a pest problem and so we decided to keep the cat in-house to kill the mice and rats. All seemed well until we came to work about two weeks later to find 12 ceiling tiles on the floor from what appeared to be an epic battle that had proceed across the ceiling and through two rooms. The clinic owner was less than impressed and advised me to find a home for the cat as we didn’t have time for this kind of daily cleanup. I immediately called Buffy’s owners.
The wife answered the phone, and I explained the situation. There was no hesitation in her voice when she said that they would come pick her up immediately. They said that Buffy had spent days after her arrival home looking for the cat. They arrived shortly with a carrier in hand, and we loaded her up. I told them that I had been calling her Serena and they loved the name, too. Serena and her new owners left, and she went to live in her new home. Later, they would explain that Serena had walked into their lives the same way she had walked into the clinic. With poise and, of course, serenity, she owned the place immediately.
We continued to see Buffy and Serena for the remainder of their lives. When they boarded, we fed them together and made sure that the two of them shared time together every day. Buffy ate her meals readily if Serena was there to share them. Serena grew into a beautiful adult cat with the most amazing eyes. Vivid blue with hints of lavender, they always projected a calm that was contagious. When Buffy passed away, Serena comforted her owners with her presence and continued to board with us during their absence.
Buffy and Serena are part of what made being a part of veterinary medicine such a joy. Many animals came and went, but the standouts stay with us forever.