Drinking from the Trough Read online

  PRAISE FOR DRINKING FROM THE TROUGH

  “The world seems to have moved away from the written word in forms made to endure time, imprinted on paper. Dr. Carlson’s gatherings are worthy of the paper and press. I found myself relating to moment after moment as she used her perspective to lure me into imagining. There were times I was not sure what would happen next, and times I anticipated and found myself amazed at her cleverness. Read this and you will find, like me, that you wished there was just more of it.”

  —Bo A. Brock, DVM, DABVP (equine), author of Crowded in the Middle of Nowhere, and 2007 Texas Equine Practitioner of the Year

  “Drinking from the Trough has the wit of a modern day James Herriot. These stories will have the reader equally laughing and grieving over the personal struggles and triumphs in the life of veterinarian Dr. Mary Carlson.”

  —Kris Abbey, DVM, Certified Veterinary Acupuncturist

  “Student, teacher, veterinarian, friend—now Dr. Mary Carlson can add “gifted storyteller” to her long list of achievements. Drinking From the Trough is a delightful meander through a life filled with colorful people and memorable animals, from Keli, a husky with a gift for singing, and Marcie, a horse with the kind of heart that comes along only once in a lifetime of owning horses, to any of the many other animal companions Mary has known. Through her tales, Mary reminds us of the value of the friendship of people and animals alike, the grief we know at their loss, and the enrichment they bring us as they travel through our lives.”

  —Anna Dee Fails, DVM, PhD, professor of anatomy and neurobiology, Colorado State University

  Drinking From the Trough

  Copyright © 2018 Mary Carlson DVM

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2018

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-431-8 pbk

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-432-5 ebk

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018936738

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

  Dedicated to my mother, Carol Lederer Elson, and my husband, Earl Dwight Carlson, two amazing people gone too soon. You, more than anyone else, influenced the course of my life.

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  1 Cupcake

  2 Tom

  3 No Chrome

  4 Calproonio

  5 Paw Prints in the Snow

  6 A Syringe and a Lariat

  7 Sick Pets and Summer Olympics

  8 It’s All in How You Talk to ’Em

  9 What’s in a Name?

  10 Wandering in the Outback

  11 Sex Changes and the Amazing Testicle Hunt

  12 Tipper the Wonder Husky

  13 The Hundred-Dollar Horse

  14 A Matter of Respect

  15 Eating Disorders of The Wonder Husky

  16 Hike! Hike! Hike!

  17 The Easter Gift

  18 Best Cat

  19 The Wayward Horse Trailer

  20 The Annie Walk

  21 Been Rode on the Ranch

  22 Lost and Found

  23 A Lesson in Newtonian Physics

  24 Snow Day!

  25 A Life Well-Lived

  26 Ten Days

  27 The Cobalt-Blue Bag

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Preface

  As I settle into my office upstairs, fingers ready to tap out my personal stories about animals, people, and myself, Matthew, my orange tabby cat, pads silently into the office. He leaps gracefully onto the small guest bed beside my computer and table, strolls across the plastic drop cloth that protects the quilt from cat hair, and stretches out in quiet companionship.

  I smile and get back to work. I have no doubt that Matthew is my muse; if he isn’t here next to me, he’s around the corner in the hall, lying beside the door, the tip of his tail twitching in thought. It’s comforting to write with him close by.

  Pages later, I stop and stretch, convincing blood to circulate in my chair-swollen calves, and Matthew is there, purring loudly and giving me the “slow blink.” That slow blink is a gesture of love and respect unique to cats; it means I’m his trusted friend—as he is mine.

  I pet him, kiss his forehead, and thank him for staying with me all these years—years that included a shattered hip, my husband’s death, four moves in four years, a brief foray into law school, and my return to Colorado with occasional winter migrations as a “snowbird” to Arizona.

  Matthew was diagnosed with chronic renal failure when he was fifteen years old, making our remaining time together even more precious. I cherish every moment with him, even when he beats up on the other cats, goes on his nightly tear around the house, smashes antique Staffordshire china to smithereens, or takes the finish off my dresser with retched-up hairballs.

  A writer needs a muse, and Matthew is mine, for better or worse. He’s kept an eye on me as I’ve written pieces that have been published in newspapers, professional journals, and lay publications over the years. He’s been there through rough drafts and revisions. And he’s been there while I’ve created this, my first book. It’s a work of love and remembrance; I hope you enjoy it.

  1

  Cupcake

  Out of vet school for barely two months, newly licensed, and wet behind the ears, I accepted a job offered by my friend Rachel to be a part-time veterinary practitioner at her private clinic. She couldn’t pay much, but she promised to train me in the nuances of private practice. And with me on hand, she’d finally be able to take longed-for time off. I’d have to handle some night calls, but that was okay; I was just relieved that I would have a mentor so soon after graduation.

  As soon as I walked in the door of her clinic, Rachel bombed out to go elsewhere—not just my first day but every day I worked. No training in nuances or anything else! Being the only vet on duty was bad enough, but Rachel let her one and only vet tech—the assistant who helps the veterinarian with patients in many different ways—go home at the same time too. I felt utterly abandoned.

  I was technically qualified to treat sick and injured animals, but being totally on my own, without even a tech to help restrain patients, I was only comfortable with healthy patients coming to the clinic for wellness exams.

  My first night call was for a house call to a bitch that had just delivered puppies. By the time I got there, the pups were dead. I talked to the client, who turned out to be a friend of my husband, Earl, and then I left. I didn’t charge him anything for the house call, because I really didn’t do anything.

  Rachel was furious when she found out I hadn’t charged him—so furious I thought she would punch me out. She ranted at me: all calls get at least a night call charge.

  How was I supposed know that?

  This was definitely not the kind of “teachable moment” I’d expected from a mentor. Maybe taking this job hadn’t been such a good ide
a. Low pay and no doctor present weren’t helping me learn what was not taught in vet school. I began wondering if vet school itself had been a bad idea, if it had been a bad decision to leave my tenured teaching job four years ago.

  But I was here, and I had a job to do, at least for the time being. And at least the next time I got a nighttime request for a house call, I’d know what to do.

  But no two calls are ever the same.

  Jamie had gone to school with my husband and was the daughter of one of my mother-in-law’s best friends. A few days after the dead-puppies incident, Jenny, Jamie’s six-year-old middle daughter, came into the clinic carrying a tiny kitten.

  “Dr. Carlson, Cupcake is mine, all mine! My very own kitten!” she said with pure delight. As a middle daughter myself, I understood that having her own kitty made Jenny feel extra special.

  Cupcake was an adorable buff-colored female tabby with an enormous purr. I took her through her first physical examination and first round of vaccinations and deworming, then pronounced her in excellent health. Jenny asked me many questions, and we had a serious discussion about proper care for Cupcake. Teaching clients how to properly care for their cats is still my favorite part of practice; I guess that’s the teacher in me coming out. Jenny paid close attention, and I was sure she and Cupcake would be just fine.

  It seemed to me that Cupcake was a wonderful kitten for Jenny. I imagined her telling her closest secrets to Cupcake, just as I had told mine to my gray tabby, Smokey, when I was young. Cupcake would be there for her when she felt ignored and stuck in the middle, neither the bossy big sister nor the baby of the family. As I sent Jenny and Cupcake on their way that day, I remember thinking that childhood kittens and their owners are meant to have long, happy relationships filled with love, joy, and delicious secrets.

  One evening, not too long after Jenny and Cupcake’s clinic visit, Earl and I were sitting outside our house chatting, playing with the horses, and just enjoying being together after a hectic day. My pager beeped, disturbing the peaceful twilight.

  When I called the number, Jamie answered, her voice frantic. Her husband, Steve, had run over Cupcake with his car and would not come out of their room. Jenny was in hysterics. Could I please come to their home right away?

  With rookie inexperience and confusion blowing around in my brain, I asked Jamie what I could possibly do for her if the kitten was already dead.

  I could hear the shaking in her voice as she said she would pay a house call fee if I would come and officially pronounce Cupcake dead, just for Jenny’s sake. A terrible thing had just happened, and this was beyond her experience as a mother. She needed my help.

  I agreed to come right away.

  I hung up the phone, feeling slightly panicked. Oh my gosh! What was I supposed to do? Perform an exam on an already-dead patient? How does one do that? Was this to be a theatrical performance? My acting skills were nonexistent. Those skills are not taught in vet school.

  I thought back to when I was Jenny’s age. We’d had a small Pekinese dog named Tang. Tang had been on the sidewalk with our family when the neighbor’s Airedale, Kip, raced across the street and bit through Tang’s chest, killing him instantly. It happened without warning, right in front of me.

  I remembered my dad having to use a cane for the next few days because he had sprained his ankle when he’d kicked the stuffing out of Kip.

  I remembered my mom picking me up and holding me in her arms for days afterward while I sobbed uncontrollably.

  No matter how anxious I felt, I knew I had to look like the professional Jenny needed me to be. I pulled on a crisp white lab coat and looped my stethoscope around my neck, which I never do. I think wearing stethoscopes as necklaces is stupid unless you have no pocket to put them in, and white coats are impractical. Veterinary medicine can trash a white coat pretty quickly with nasty, smelly fluids.

  I walked up the driveway, carrying the vet bag I knew I wouldn’t need, looking like an experienced doctor of veterinary medicine.

  As I approached the pretty little stone-and-wood house, I saw curly-haired Jenny backlit by light spilling from the open garage. She ran to me, sobbing and gasping, her face red from crying. She stared up at me and whimpered, “Dr. Carlson, my k-k-kitten is dead.”

  I knelt down and gave her a long, silent hug.

  She took me by the hand and, still sniffling, led me to Cupcake.

  Cupcake’s body was lying on its side in the garage, slightly flattened and clearly dead.

  Jenny held her breath as I grabbed my stethoscope and listened for a sound I knew I would not hear. I adjusted the stethoscope, moving it gently over the little kitten’s soft chest with great care.

  Even now, sometimes I listen to a patient’s chest for a long time. It looks as though I am doing a really thorough cardiac exam, but I am actually thinking, What in the world should I do next?

  This time, I had some help knowing what to do; rigor mortis was setting in. What I needed to do wasn’t easy, but it was clear.

  I turned to Jenny and said, “Yes, sweetheart, Cupcake is gone.”

  Jenny let out a long sigh, then burst into tears and fled into the house.

  I carefully wrapped Cupcake’s body in an old towel and glanced around, unsure of what to do next.

  Jamie answered that question by leading me to the front porch and putting a glass of iced tea in my hand. We settled into chairs and chatted for a while in the quiet night.

  When I asked about Steve, Jamie said that he was so mortified by what he’d done that he wouldn’t come out of their bedroom.

  “It really wasn’t his fault,” I said, knowing this grisly accident was perfectly understandable to a veterinarian but unthinkable to Cupcake’s family. I explained what had most likely happened.

  Cats will seek out warm, cozy places, places no one imagines a pet will hide in. Steve had no way of knowing that Cupcake was napping on top of a comfortable tire. When he’d put the car into reverse and backed up, the tire had crushed the sleeping Cupcake.

  Jamie and I talked about grief, how people process grief in their own way, and how Jamie might help her husband work through his feelings, as well as how to help Jenny and her sisters cope.

  That evening was a powerful “teachable moment” for me too. I learned that I should talk to clients about possible accidents and how to prevent them when discussing how to care for a pet. I learned that house calls aren’t only about caring for a beloved pet but also about being there for the humans who loved the pet.

  Losing Cupcake would leave a void in Jenny’s life. That’s a tough thing to experience, especially when you’re a little girl who had finally had her very own kitten. I couldn’t bring Cupcake back, but I could be there for Jenny and her family.

  On the way home, I thought about whispering secrets to Smokey all those years ago, about Tang’s awful death, and about why I had become a veterinarian.

  And I knew that becoming a vet had been the right decision. It didn’t matter if I stayed at this particular clinic or found work as a veterinarian elsewhere; I was where I belonged.

  2

  Tom

  How does a slight girl from suburban Chicago grow up to love horses and the wild landscapes of the Rocky Mountain West?

  In my case, it was thanks to my mother’s brother, Thomas Lederer.

  My mom and Tom were born and raised in Chicago, where their parents, Margery and Carl Lederer (known as Nana and Bapa to my sisters and me), owned a wallpaper business.

  Tom was a sickly child and suffered from asthma all his life. Treatment options were limited in the 1920s; Mom told stories of how Nana and Bapa walked the floor with Tom at night to try to relieve his asthma attacks. One winter, his attacks were so bad that they pulled up stakes and moved to Phoenix in hopes that Arizona’s dry, warm climate would help. It didn’t, so they returned to Chicago.

  Despite his health challenges and slight frame, Tom grew up to be fun loving and adventurous. After attending college and earning his
certification at aviation mechanic school, he decided to move “out West” for two important reasons: he didn’t want to work in my grand-father’s wallpaper business, and Colorado’s climate was better for his health.

  He found work as a dude wrangler on a guest ranch that straddled the Colorado–Wyoming border. He wasn’t a big man, but he had a knack for working with horses, even with his asthma. His personal ranch horse was a palomino quarter horse named Shane.

  Eventually, Tom settled in Fort Collins, Colorado, which back then was a sleepy college town of about fifteen thousand people. He purchased a garage on a large plot of land that had been part of an estate sale. He converted the garage into his home and a new business repairing all kinds of appliances—radios, stereos, record players, even reed (pump) organs. He could fix anything.

  Growing up, my sisters and I got to know him primarily through his annual Christmas visits to our grandparents and the recorded “letters” we sent back and forth. It was fun talking into the microphone of the reel-to-reel tape recorder and telling him what was going on in my junior high world.

  Tom came home every Christmas, and he spent a lot of time playing with us kids. In many ways, he was just a big kid too; he loved toys and bought plenty for himself. I especially loved racing his HO model slot cars on the track he kept at Nana and Bapa’s house.

  Tom’s visits were a treasure. He had an infectious giggle; I have never known anyone who could laugh so hard at his own jokes. He regaled us with stories about the adventures of Mitts, the long-haired tuxedo barn cat he’d adopted and brought home from the dude ranch.

  Tom’s stories of life in Colorado and Wyoming made the world west of the Mississippi River seem mysterious, exotic, and exciting. I longed to see it for myself, but we’d never taken family vacations or gone to sleepover camp, as our friends had. My parents had divorced when I was young, and Mom never had the money for travel. Dad wasn’t interested in vacationing with his daughters.

  One cold February day in 1968, my mother woke me in the early morning with the news that Nana had just died. Her death was completely unexpected, and I burst into tears. Nana and Bapa were madly in love with each other. “What will Bapa do now?” I sobbed.