Today I heard this sad story third-hand: as a baby is crawling away from Grandma’s dog, who has always been fine with him before, the dog without any warning pounces on the baby and bites him. The baby loses part of an ear and has deep wounds on his face. The dog is euthanized. The parents were there to supervise, but it all happened too fast to prevent. What went wrong?
The first thing I want to say is that at the point that a dog bites a child (or any human) this badly, I agree that the dog must be euthanized. He is not safe. For this reason, it’s really important to figure out how to keep this situation from happening in the first place, for the sake of the baby and the dog.
What was going on in that dog’s head? We can’t know for sure, but it sounds to me as though the dog was treating the baby like prey. He pounced when the baby was moving away from him, and he bit to injure. If he had been trying to play with the baby, he might have bitten hard enough to bruise, but dogs have excellent control of their teeth, and a bite bad enough to remove part of an ear was probably intentional. The fact that the baby was moving away from him at the time is supportive evidence — the sight of something small and helpless, which makes high-pitched noises and moves erratically, running away from him may have triggered him to act.
Do dogs really act like predators around babies, even if they know them? Some dogs, not all. I would be particularly suspicious of dogs with high prey drives — dogs who are obsessive about chasing small animals outside. They may learn to like small animals who are part of the family, like cats, but with dogs like this, I would be very careful with my introductions. In the case of a human infant, I wouldn’t leave the baby on the floor with the dog loose in the same room unless I really, really trusted the dog. I live with four good dogs who get along just fine with cats, but there is only one of them that I would trust with a baby on the floor. The price is just too high if you make a mistake.
How can you prevent such a situation, since the dog gave no warning signs? I was not there, but I can almost guarantee you that the dog did give warning signs; his owner was just not trained to read and understand them. The dog probably did subtle things like stare at the baby a little too long or sniff it a little too aggressively — things that wouldn’t make the average dog owner think twice, but would make the average dog trainer extra cautious.
So what do you do if you’re expecting a baby and you have a dog? Or if you are a grandmother and want your grandchild and your dog to get along? The safest and easiest answer is to not let the dog and child interact until you know you can trust them together. Put them together for short periods of time only, while you are holding the child, and observe the dog closely. Don’t leave them on the floor together until you are confident that the dog will ignore the child and that the dog shows no stress, fear, or predatory behaviors around the child. If you don’t think you can read the dog well enough to tell, hire a dog trainer to evaluate your dog. A dog trainer can help guess what problems your dog might have around a child, tell you specific signs to look for, be a resource to ask questions, give you tips on how to manage them together. To find a certified dog trainer in your area, search on the Association of Pet Dog Trainers site.
Dogs and kids can get along great, if they are introduced carefully, and when the kid is old enough. But the consequences of a bad relationship between the two are so serious that it is very important to take those introductions seriously, and to make sure you’re seeing things from your dog’s point of view before you assume everything’s okay.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
The cat in the tree
The skinny little tree was only about 30 feet tall and growing in the middle of a swamp. Recent flooding had surrounded it with water several feet deep. And yet somehow an orange cat had managed to climb it. He was perched precariously: when I first saw him, he was jammed into the fork of two branches, and his every movement made the little tree bend. I was riding with an animal rescue service, and we had been called out to get the cat out of the tree. It was supposed to be a simple job of using climbing gear to get up the tree; the rescue driver was trained to do jobs like this. But this tree was never going to bear her weight. It could barely hold the cat. Even getting to the tree was going to involve wading through waist-deep water in the chilly November weather.
The cat was glad to see us. He made eye contact and meowed, clearly asking for help. But it was not immediately clear how to help him. We talked about our options, and eventually decided that we were going to have to call back to the shelter for assistance. The rescue driver called her boss, but initially failed to convince him that she couldn’t just climb the tree. She eventually had to photograph the situation on her phone and send him that as proof that the tree couldn’t support a ladder, and that trying would just knock the cat off so that he would fall 30 feet into the cold water.
As we watched and talked about what to do, took photos and made phone calls, the cat eventually stopped talking to us. I think he gave up on us. A few minutes later, he decided to change positions. I think his legs were getting tired of holding him up. After all, we had no idea how long he had been up there; a good samaritan had phoned about him about an hour previously, but the road we were standing on was small and rarely used, so he could have been there unnoticed for hours. I also think he was trying to assess his situation, see if he could take matters into his own hands and find his own way down, since we were clearly useless.
As he moved around on the little tree, it bent terrifyingly. Unable to help ourselves, the rescue driver and I yelled “No, stay still!” up at the cat. This had about as much effect as you’d expect. But he managed not to fall. Over the next thirty minutes, waiting for help to arrive, we watched as he periodically moved around and tried to find a way down. We became worried enough about him that the driver put on her dry-suit and made her way down to the water so that she could fish him out if he fell.
Finally, as the light was failing, our help arrived, in the form of the driver’s boss who had driven down from Boston. Now things started to move quickly. As the cat watched with trepidation, the driver got into the water (in her dry-suit) with a big net; I hovered with another big net; and the driver’s boss attached ropes to the little tree. He pulled, and the tree bent towards the roadway where we stood. The cat braced himself, then, when he was only about ten feet off the ground, jumped. I swung with the net and missed. We watched as the cat ran at top speed away from us down the long road and disappeared into the night.
The cat was glad to see us. He made eye contact and meowed, clearly asking for help. But it was not immediately clear how to help him. We talked about our options, and eventually decided that we were going to have to call back to the shelter for assistance. The rescue driver called her boss, but initially failed to convince him that she couldn’t just climb the tree. She eventually had to photograph the situation on her phone and send him that as proof that the tree couldn’t support a ladder, and that trying would just knock the cat off so that he would fall 30 feet into the cold water.
As we watched and talked about what to do, took photos and made phone calls, the cat eventually stopped talking to us. I think he gave up on us. A few minutes later, he decided to change positions. I think his legs were getting tired of holding him up. After all, we had no idea how long he had been up there; a good samaritan had phoned about him about an hour previously, but the road we were standing on was small and rarely used, so he could have been there unnoticed for hours. I also think he was trying to assess his situation, see if he could take matters into his own hands and find his own way down, since we were clearly useless.
As he moved around on the little tree, it bent terrifyingly. Unable to help ourselves, the rescue driver and I yelled “No, stay still!” up at the cat. This had about as much effect as you’d expect. But he managed not to fall. Over the next thirty minutes, waiting for help to arrive, we watched as he periodically moved around and tried to find a way down. We became worried enough about him that the driver put on her dry-suit and made her way down to the water so that she could fish him out if he fell.
Finally, as the light was failing, our help arrived, in the form of the driver’s boss who had driven down from Boston. Now things started to move quickly. As the cat watched with trepidation, the driver got into the water (in her dry-suit) with a big net; I hovered with another big net; and the driver’s boss attached ropes to the little tree. He pulled, and the tree bent towards the roadway where we stood. The cat braced himself, then, when he was only about ten feet off the ground, jumped. I swung with the net and missed. We watched as the cat ran at top speed away from us down the long road and disappeared into the night.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Links post
I haven’t been reading many blogs lately, so these link recommendations are pretty old. Still delicious, though.
- Who’s your double merle daddy? (Border Wars): The devil’s bargain of breeding a collie who is guaranteed to produce blue merle colored puppies.
- Shelters: Pit bull drop-offs on rise (Telegram.com): My local newspaper reports that since Worcester, MA passed its anti-pit bull ordinance, pit bull drop-offs at the area shelter have increased.
- It works! How to stop an approaching dog in an emergency (The Other End of the Leash): Patricia McConnell’s excellent advice about what to do when a dog is running at you, and your dog isn’t going to react well. Comes with video, so it is extra yummy.
- Patricia McConnell Seminar: What Science Tells Us About Puppy Development (Reactive Champion): A summary of a Patricia McConnell seminar on, oh wait, you can read the title.
- Breeding Discontent (Paula Kislak, DVM on the HSVMA website): More on the pitfalls of irresponsible dog breeding practices. “All stakeholders [in dogs] ... should forge cooperative alliances and develop robust plans to improve canine health and welfare”
Thursday, November 10, 2011
How to spay a cat fast
Yesterday I spent the day on a spay/neuter trailer. The shelter which owns the trailer sends it out to low-income areas to spay and neuter a large number of cats and dogs at low cost. Yesterday was a slow day; we spayed and neutered sixteen cats. Well, the vet spayed seven and neutered three; I spayed one and neutered three. Meanwhile, she explained high volume spay/neuter techniques to me.
The key to high volume spay/neuter is, obviously, speed. She can spay a cat in seven minutes. It takes me about thirty; a general practitioner who has more experience than I do, but isn’t as obsessed with speed, might take ten or twelve. This is what I learned:
The key to high volume spay/neuter is, obviously, speed. She can spay a cat in seven minutes. It takes me about thirty; a general practitioner who has more experience than I do, but isn’t as obsessed with speed, might take ten or twelve. This is what I learned:
- Keep your surgical field (the animal!) clear. Take the time to replace your instruments on your instrument tray when you are not using them, so that you have less visual clutter.
- Always know where each surgical instrument belongs. Don’t leave them in a pile or even a random row on your tray. Have an order for them — any order, so long as you are familiar with it and can reach for a particular instrument and know right where it will be.
- Don’t waste movements. If you’re reaching to the right to grab a new instrument, don’t twist all the way over to face the tray; just reach your right hand over.
- Don’t get tangled up in your instruments. Be willing to take a second to switch hands if you have yourself in an awkward position.
- As you’re working on one step, have your next step in your mind. What instrument will you be reaching for next?
- Relax. Stand up straight. Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Working with Sadie
Sadie was a rambunctious young shelter dog whom I had been assigned to exercise and train. We were working in an auditorium, the best space the shelter had for exercising dogs indoors. Like most of the dogs I worked with in there, Sadie had some trouble with the smooth floors; every time she ran to catch a ball she would slide and slam into the wall. Because she was basically an oversized puppy, this didn’t faze her. We were having a great time, working on her retrieving skills, practicing “drop it” (at that point, just a swap of the ball for some treats).
Then Sadie saw some dogs playing outside through the big glass doors on one side of the auditorium. Sadie was already diagnosed as dog aggressive, which was part of why she was inside playing alone with me. The mood of the session changed immediately. Sadie ran at the glass doors, barking and racing back and forth. I tried to interpose my body between her and the doors, to back her up and get her attention back on me, but it was like I wasn’t there. I wanted to put her leash on to back her away, but I was worried that grabbing her collar would cause her to turn and bite me.
I made Sadie’s leash into a loop and lassoed her with it, then backed her away from the glass doors. She still wasn’t focusing on me, but neither was she turning to bite me as we backed to the far end of the room, where I sat down on a low stage and kept her on leash. She had her back to me, focusing on the doors. She couldn’t see the dogs any more, but she could hear their deep hound barks, and she really wanted to get at them.
Sadie had worked with a clicker already, so I pulled out my clicker and started to click her for any movement away from the door. Step back towards me: click, handful of treats. Quick look over her shoulder when I made kissing noises at her: click, handful of treats. I kept up a very high rate of reinforcement to keep her interest, so she was essentially being fed a steady stream of pieces of hot dog. Gradually her body language changed, so that she was not arrow-straight pointing at the door. She became looser, more relaxed. She turned towards me, looked at me (treat, treat, treat). And then finally she was lying down next to me, leaning into me, enjoying having her sides rubbed. When the dogs barked, she looked over towards the doors briefly, then back at me. She was with me again.
Then Sadie saw some dogs playing outside through the big glass doors on one side of the auditorium. Sadie was already diagnosed as dog aggressive, which was part of why she was inside playing alone with me. The mood of the session changed immediately. Sadie ran at the glass doors, barking and racing back and forth. I tried to interpose my body between her and the doors, to back her up and get her attention back on me, but it was like I wasn’t there. I wanted to put her leash on to back her away, but I was worried that grabbing her collar would cause her to turn and bite me.
I made Sadie’s leash into a loop and lassoed her with it, then backed her away from the glass doors. She still wasn’t focusing on me, but neither was she turning to bite me as we backed to the far end of the room, where I sat down on a low stage and kept her on leash. She had her back to me, focusing on the doors. She couldn’t see the dogs any more, but she could hear their deep hound barks, and she really wanted to get at them.
Sadie had worked with a clicker already, so I pulled out my clicker and started to click her for any movement away from the door. Step back towards me: click, handful of treats. Quick look over her shoulder when I made kissing noises at her: click, handful of treats. I kept up a very high rate of reinforcement to keep her interest, so she was essentially being fed a steady stream of pieces of hot dog. Gradually her body language changed, so that she was not arrow-straight pointing at the door. She became looser, more relaxed. She turned towards me, looked at me (treat, treat, treat). And then finally she was lying down next to me, leaning into me, enjoying having her sides rubbed. When the dogs barked, she looked over towards the doors briefly, then back at me. She was with me again.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Being a food animal veterinarian, day 8
Day 8 was not like the other days. My rotation-mate Delilah and I signed up to spend the day assisting with embryo collection at a farm that works with my school to preserve heritage breeds. The farm acquires (usually on loan) individuals from heritage breeds of sheep, cows, and goats. They superovulate and breed the females, then collect the embryos and cryogenically store them. Del and I kept asking what the plans were for the embryos. No plans! We are just storing them in case they are needed some day when these breeds are extinct.
The facility was beyond lovely, a 1920s folly farm that looked like a crazy cross between a medieval castle and a Mexican mansion. Biosecurity was a big concern there, so we had to cross a little bridge with a foot wash on the way in, and multiple signs about the premises said things like “This is private property. Please go away immediately.” The grounds were so immaculately clean that it was hard to believe there were animals there, but there were, beautifully cared for (with lots of pasture!). The farm was restored and updated, so you would for example pass through a stone archway into a modern cryogenic storage facility. Also, it had the cleanest bathroom I had encountered on a farm yet, but then again, that is not saying much. Most farms have bathrooms that rival the worst truckstop bathrooms, so that the vets who drive the trucks will say things like “hang on, we’re passing by a gas station in less than an hour” when you ask about facilities.
Del and I traded off assisting on surgeries and running anesthesia for three ewes. We premedicated, intubated, and maintained each ewe under anesthesia on gas. Then we helped Dr. Thery go in laparoscopically to make sure she had in fact successfully been superovulated. Ideally the ovary would look like a bunch of grapes. We would count the post-ovulatory structures on each ovary. Then we would laparasopically find and grasp the uterus, and pull it out of a small incision. Once it was exteriorized, we flushed it to get all the embryos out of it. The embryos were carried over to the lab, and we watched on video as they were identified, counted, and graded (the more vs less viable ones selected out). We closed up the ewes and recovered them. Each ewe would be kept for two surgeries, then returned to her owner.
It was a lovely day, and of course the surgery experience was a fun bonus. Del and I had some interesting conversations about whether this effort to preserve heritage breeds was worth the investment. Whether or not it is, it was a beautiful facility, and nice to see how a farm can be run when money is essentially not a factor.
The facility was beyond lovely, a 1920s folly farm that looked like a crazy cross between a medieval castle and a Mexican mansion. Biosecurity was a big concern there, so we had to cross a little bridge with a foot wash on the way in, and multiple signs about the premises said things like “This is private property. Please go away immediately.” The grounds were so immaculately clean that it was hard to believe there were animals there, but there were, beautifully cared for (with lots of pasture!). The farm was restored and updated, so you would for example pass through a stone archway into a modern cryogenic storage facility. Also, it had the cleanest bathroom I had encountered on a farm yet, but then again, that is not saying much. Most farms have bathrooms that rival the worst truckstop bathrooms, so that the vets who drive the trucks will say things like “hang on, we’re passing by a gas station in less than an hour” when you ask about facilities.
Del and I traded off assisting on surgeries and running anesthesia for three ewes. We premedicated, intubated, and maintained each ewe under anesthesia on gas. Then we helped Dr. Thery go in laparoscopically to make sure she had in fact successfully been superovulated. Ideally the ovary would look like a bunch of grapes. We would count the post-ovulatory structures on each ovary. Then we would laparasopically find and grasp the uterus, and pull it out of a small incision. Once it was exteriorized, we flushed it to get all the embryos out of it. The embryos were carried over to the lab, and we watched on video as they were identified, counted, and graded (the more vs less viable ones selected out). We closed up the ewes and recovered them. Each ewe would be kept for two surgeries, then returned to her owner.
It was a lovely day, and of course the surgery experience was a fun bonus. Del and I had some interesting conversations about whether this effort to preserve heritage breeds was worth the investment. Whether or not it is, it was a beautiful facility, and nice to see how a farm can be run when money is essentially not a factor.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Being a food animal veterinarian, day 7
Day 7. Just me and Dr. Gray (my favorite doctor to ride with). He blasted out of the clinic at high speed, announcing that we were extremely late and that we were going to check on a herd which had a problem with cystic ovaries. He tossed me a copy of Merck’s Veterinary Manual and said, “Let’s get smart about cystic ovaries.”
He and I at least knew what cystic ovaries are, but I am betting you do not. What you want an ovary to do is to grow a bunch of follicles, and then have one follicle decide it is the queen follicle and ovulate an egg. You probably know what happens from there. If this process is stymied at some point so that the follicle just hangs out and doesn’t develop, but becomes a bump on the ovary full of liquid, it is a cyst. The cow may recover from this and return to a normal reproductive cycle, or her system may become confused by the particular mix of hormones circulating and get hung up. The a veterinarian has to figure out what is going on. The most common explanation is that the cows are not eating well enough, so we came prepared to look into that.
We pulled up at a lovely little farm. This was a hobby farm in the sense that the owner had income from elsewhere, but a real farm in the sense that he was trying to make a profit on selling milk. He actually had a farm store where you could buy milk from that farm (unheard of!) and ice cream made from the milk (even better!). I purchased both, since the cows were out on grass, which made me happy. (The milk later spilled in Dr. Gray’s truck and went bad so that he became cranky with me, but that is a different story.)
Herd check. Why did the cows have cysts? The usual veterinarian for the herd was present; we had been called out as consultants basically because we had an ultrasound machine to help us better see what was going on inside the cows. We checked cow after cow. Some follicles (excellent), some post ovulation structures (also excellent). No cysts. It turned out that what had appeared to be cysts were actually normal structures. The cows were in fact somewhat skinny, so we also did some education about how to body condition score a cow. This was a learning experience for me; it is more complicated than with a dog, involving a flow chart. We also gave advice about how to synchronize the cows so that the farmer would know when to breed them. Without a solid synchronization program (or a bull, which most people find dangerous to keep around), you just have to watch the cows to see when they might be in heat. They are in heat for such a short period of time, less than a day, that it is very easy to miss. Best to know ahead of time when it’s going to happen.
We got back in the truck. I ate my ice cream sandwich for lunch. It was a good lunch.
The next farm was very different. Instead of the welcoming committee of three people who had received us at the first farm, we were left to find the sick cows on our own. Eventually one of the employees handed us a list of numbers: three cows with possible twisted stomachs (displaced abomasums) and one that might have a dead calf inside her. Usually farmers catch the cows up for us and have them in headlocks, but not here. Go find them!
The sick pen had dozens of cows in it. Dr. Gray and I wandered through until we found our girls, then chased them into a small side area where we could put them into the single head lock one by one. The cow with the presumed dead calf was pretty sick, so Dr. Gray dealt with her while I checked TPRs (temperature, pulse, respiration) and gave physical exams to the other three. I couldn’t see him, as he was behind a barrier from me, so I was on my own.
First cow: already in the head lock thanks to Dr. Gray. Normal TPR. No pings (the sound they make when you thwack your finger against their belly and they have a twisted something or other inside there). Looked bright and alert and not dehydrated. I relayed this to Dr. Gray, he came over and double checked, said we would just recommend some oral fluids, and I should move on to the next cow.
Second cow: obviously not in the head lock. I released the first cow and tried to get the second cow in. They will move away from you, so you can basically chase them into where you want, but she would not actually put her head in the lock. They weigh a lot more than you; sometimes you can shove on the back end and they will be nice about it, but there was no way this girl was cutting me a break. It was a little embarrassing, but I did my TPR while she was loose.
This time Dr. Gray came back with blood on his arm up to his shoulder, looking stressed. He checked over the cow (who he also failed to get into the head lock), gave her a rectal exam (this was all with a bare arm — iew), gave her the same diagnosis as the first cow, and went back to what he was doing. I walked back to watch as he shot the sick cow with the dead calf inside her in the head with a captive bolt gun, standard euthanasia technique on farm for a cow who cannot make it on to a truck to be shipped to slaughter.
Dr. Gray explained that the cow had had a dead calf in her for several days, and had a large rip in her uterus, which she could not recover from. I will save you from some of the gorier details. He was clearly somewhat bothered by the fact that the calf had died at least four days before and she had not gotten medical attention before then. “To be fair,” he said, “the calf wasn’t in the birth canal so she probably didn’t show any signs of labor for them to notice.” I said, “Is this maybe a case where on a smaller farm, someone would have realized something was going on with the cow which was supposed to have freshened a few days ago?” He allowed as to how that was probably the case.
Then we checked out the fourth cow, the one which was also supposed to have a displaced abomasum. Amusingly, this cow stuck her head into the head lock enthusiastically. We were running late, so Dr. Gray did this exam himself, and did find a problem. He is a fan of a toggle procedure to fix displaced abomasums, so that is what we did, instead of the surgical procedure I had seen previously. With the help of a farm hand, we sedated the cow, put ropes around her, pulled her over on her side, and rolled her on to her back. Once she was on her back, her stomach floated into the correct place. Dr. Gray put two pins into her belly, puncturing through the skin and into the stomach. He used the pins to secure the stomach in place. The cow was allowed to stand up and was good to go (with dextrose, steroids, oral fluids, oral calcium, and B vitamins to help her out).
Then we washed off in a bucket. There was a lot of scrubbing to be done. And that was day seven.
He and I at least knew what cystic ovaries are, but I am betting you do not. What you want an ovary to do is to grow a bunch of follicles, and then have one follicle decide it is the queen follicle and ovulate an egg. You probably know what happens from there. If this process is stymied at some point so that the follicle just hangs out and doesn’t develop, but becomes a bump on the ovary full of liquid, it is a cyst. The cow may recover from this and return to a normal reproductive cycle, or her system may become confused by the particular mix of hormones circulating and get hung up. The a veterinarian has to figure out what is going on. The most common explanation is that the cows are not eating well enough, so we came prepared to look into that.
We pulled up at a lovely little farm. This was a hobby farm in the sense that the owner had income from elsewhere, but a real farm in the sense that he was trying to make a profit on selling milk. He actually had a farm store where you could buy milk from that farm (unheard of!) and ice cream made from the milk (even better!). I purchased both, since the cows were out on grass, which made me happy. (The milk later spilled in Dr. Gray’s truck and went bad so that he became cranky with me, but that is a different story.)
Herd check. Why did the cows have cysts? The usual veterinarian for the herd was present; we had been called out as consultants basically because we had an ultrasound machine to help us better see what was going on inside the cows. We checked cow after cow. Some follicles (excellent), some post ovulation structures (also excellent). No cysts. It turned out that what had appeared to be cysts were actually normal structures. The cows were in fact somewhat skinny, so we also did some education about how to body condition score a cow. This was a learning experience for me; it is more complicated than with a dog, involving a flow chart. We also gave advice about how to synchronize the cows so that the farmer would know when to breed them. Without a solid synchronization program (or a bull, which most people find dangerous to keep around), you just have to watch the cows to see when they might be in heat. They are in heat for such a short period of time, less than a day, that it is very easy to miss. Best to know ahead of time when it’s going to happen.
We got back in the truck. I ate my ice cream sandwich for lunch. It was a good lunch.
The next farm was very different. Instead of the welcoming committee of three people who had received us at the first farm, we were left to find the sick cows on our own. Eventually one of the employees handed us a list of numbers: three cows with possible twisted stomachs (displaced abomasums) and one that might have a dead calf inside her. Usually farmers catch the cows up for us and have them in headlocks, but not here. Go find them!
The sick pen had dozens of cows in it. Dr. Gray and I wandered through until we found our girls, then chased them into a small side area where we could put them into the single head lock one by one. The cow with the presumed dead calf was pretty sick, so Dr. Gray dealt with her while I checked TPRs (temperature, pulse, respiration) and gave physical exams to the other three. I couldn’t see him, as he was behind a barrier from me, so I was on my own.
First cow: already in the head lock thanks to Dr. Gray. Normal TPR. No pings (the sound they make when you thwack your finger against their belly and they have a twisted something or other inside there). Looked bright and alert and not dehydrated. I relayed this to Dr. Gray, he came over and double checked, said we would just recommend some oral fluids, and I should move on to the next cow.
Second cow: obviously not in the head lock. I released the first cow and tried to get the second cow in. They will move away from you, so you can basically chase them into where you want, but she would not actually put her head in the lock. They weigh a lot more than you; sometimes you can shove on the back end and they will be nice about it, but there was no way this girl was cutting me a break. It was a little embarrassing, but I did my TPR while she was loose.
This time Dr. Gray came back with blood on his arm up to his shoulder, looking stressed. He checked over the cow (who he also failed to get into the head lock), gave her a rectal exam (this was all with a bare arm — iew), gave her the same diagnosis as the first cow, and went back to what he was doing. I walked back to watch as he shot the sick cow with the dead calf inside her in the head with a captive bolt gun, standard euthanasia technique on farm for a cow who cannot make it on to a truck to be shipped to slaughter.
Dr. Gray explained that the cow had had a dead calf in her for several days, and had a large rip in her uterus, which she could not recover from. I will save you from some of the gorier details. He was clearly somewhat bothered by the fact that the calf had died at least four days before and she had not gotten medical attention before then. “To be fair,” he said, “the calf wasn’t in the birth canal so she probably didn’t show any signs of labor for them to notice.” I said, “Is this maybe a case where on a smaller farm, someone would have realized something was going on with the cow which was supposed to have freshened a few days ago?” He allowed as to how that was probably the case.
Then we checked out the fourth cow, the one which was also supposed to have a displaced abomasum. Amusingly, this cow stuck her head into the head lock enthusiastically. We were running late, so Dr. Gray did this exam himself, and did find a problem. He is a fan of a toggle procedure to fix displaced abomasums, so that is what we did, instead of the surgical procedure I had seen previously. With the help of a farm hand, we sedated the cow, put ropes around her, pulled her over on her side, and rolled her on to her back. Once she was on her back, her stomach floated into the correct place. Dr. Gray put two pins into her belly, puncturing through the skin and into the stomach. He used the pins to secure the stomach in place. The cow was allowed to stand up and was good to go (with dextrose, steroids, oral fluids, oral calcium, and B vitamins to help her out).
Then we washed off in a bucket. There was a lot of scrubbing to be done. And that was day seven.
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