Good Dog Epilogue

“I think I better go wake him,” states Simba’s strongest owner. “Regardless of what happens, he won’t be going to school tomorrow. Do you think you can keep him still?”

“Oh, I think so,” is the hushed reply from the motherly owner. Slowly she removes the ice-pack from the canine spine and moves to position herself just behind the dog on the basement stair landing. She reaches across on bent knees, continuing to stroke Simba’s muzzle. The paternal pup owner stands and takes a deep breath; preparing himself for the task he is about to undertake.

It is shortly after midnight. Simba’s youngest owner must be awakened. Almost two years ago the spirited border collie survived a serious accident with the school bus. Tonight with no warning he is discovered dying; it’s uncertain how much time there will be to say good-bye.

It is a shocking, gut-wrenching way to bring Thanksgiving weekend to a close – but beyond the darkness of it all, somehow appropriate. Since the bus accident, there has been a mutual revival of appreciation.  Long walks around the fields, chases through the farm buildings, truck rides to town, and tennis balls too numerous to recollect. 

At first, the extra time spent was a prescribed means to rehabilitate a pet. Agile bodies, healthier attitudes and stronger emotional bonds were the unexpected consequences for all. Tonight, a period of extraordinary growth and gratitude is closing.

Evidence of this growth now appears, befuddled, in the doorway; Simba’s youngest companion stands taller than any other household member. Simba tries to greet him on the slippery wooden landing, but his tail is perfectly still. His hind legs have stopped working and they slide awkwardly back even as he struggles to move up toward his boy. The big brown eyes reveal no regret for the attempt; instead they seem to apologize for the poor greeting.

“Hush now. Lay down, good dog, good dog, good dog…”

The wirey youth bends down. Peach fuzz nuzzles the nose of the much furrier friend.

The bonds now forged did not come easy. Simba came from abuse and neglect. As a puppy, he had been crated alone in a dark basement for extremely long periods of time. 

When first arriving on the farm, he took one look across the vast expanse of the greening crops and refused to leave the house.

The little boy in the house understood; he was new to farm life, too. With gentle nudges from their elders, dog and boy learned the rules of exploration.  They made each other brave.  It took less than a year and the fields became their playground.

“Let’s try and move him upstairs; he can look out the sliding glass doors,” whispers the motherly companion. “There’s an old quilt in the bin, with the winter clothes.”

It’s the second time the family has “gurneyed” Simba in this manner; they wonder aloud if they should call the vet out to the farm. It is hard to explain why no one does so. There is simply a pervasive sense that it is too late.

Simba and his layers of quilting are placed in front of the door. He is a bit anxious and tries to stand again.

“It’s OK. Good dog, good dog, good dog…”

An exercise mat it placed next to him. The young man lays beside him and together they look out across the yard into the fields. Blankets are gently placed over both of them. A lean muscular arm reaches out and lays lightly on the dog’s strong neck. Simba’s slightly labored breathing is calmed.

“There are some old towels down in the cabinet with the cleaning supplies,” says the motherly companion. Both farm elders have seen endings before.  Certain bodily functions are shutting down – the dog will lose control. The towels will keep the quilt dry and comfortable.

“I’ll go get them.” The paternal companion returns at the right moment. There is an unpleasant smell but no one comments. Gently, so they do not to disturb the dying nor the young comfort near him, the elders catch this release of the body. All that remains is his increasingly shallow breath.

Glassy black and tan orbs fix themselves upon some mystery far past the doors, over the field and into the river valley. The river creatures – muskrats, beaver and the occasional otter – intrigued Simba throughout his days on the farm. But the Border collie did not stray; his job was to keep all resident and visiting children away from the bank. He was never told, never trained; it was just in his nature.

Mother and father position themselves behind the youngest companion as if to physically brace him for the moment that is about to come. Simba shudders and gasps, as though about to leap across the banks to the other side.

“It’s OK… go ahead,” chokes a young voice. “It’s OK, It’s OK…”

The gasping continues and is hard to take…for everyone.  Then, silence. Finally, a pained whisper breaks the quiet.

“He was my best friend.”

There is an eruption of emotion for all. The three humans lean into each other and allow themselves to be lost for a while. It is the elder man who first re-approaches.

First, the eyes are shut as best as they can be. Flaccid limbs are gently bent and tucked under the black and white form.  Gingerly, as though still fearful of causing any pain, the head and tail are brought together.

“He looks like he is sleeping.”

With her arm still around her son’s shoulder, she meets her husband’s knowing gaze. Rigor mortis, the stiffening of the muscles following death, will soon set in. The loving positioning of the body has a practical side; it means a smaller grave to be dug out of the freezing ground.

The mother leaves the two men, one elder one freshly made, and retrieves sleeping bags. They will sleep together tonight, adjacent to the entryway where Simba’s body rests. But there isn’t much sleep at first. Instead, without prompting, they find themselves reliving a dog’s life.

“Remember when he jumped up – all four paws – in the middle of the dining room table?!? He almost got the pot roast!”

One by one, they drift off; the mother is the last to sleep. She watches the sun until its rays stretch across the river valley and reach Simba’s face. Then, she slumbers.

That afternoon, a spot is chosen; a small patch of woods on the hillside where Simba chased squirrels.  Wrapped in the quilt, Simba is lowered to his final resting place by the two men. Three shovels work together. It feels – and is – so final.

At first the loss is revisited each time the emptiness greets a returning member of the farm family. Gradually, over many months – and many quiet visits to the graveside – the searching stops. The memory of a black and white furball racing forward with rowdy welcome, will continue for a lifetime.

Torque Writer (TM) This work is protected by US Copyright law, and may not be reproduced (wholly or partially) without the written consent and signature of the author, Rebecca L. Olson.

Blogging Season!

It's been a year since I posted... hard to believe. Life is finally calming down and half the harvest is in, there's an October chill, and true Autumn moon rising over Autumn Moon Farm. Let's celebrate this and many other Autumnal delights with a little ghost story.

It's short & sweet; it was an entry in a local short story contest. Nope, it doesn't look like I won... but hey - it got me back in the chair for a little creative exercise. For me, that makes it worth it.

The question isn’t IF there will be a ghost sighting. The question is WHICH ghost will be seen tonight.  That’s how it is working third shift security in a natural history museum.

There are plenty of other creepy encounters. Most of them do not involve specter sightings. Take the taxidermists work-space. Taxidermy is itself unsettling; in a research setting it is particularly so. 

Dr. Williams befriends flesh-eating bugs, Dermestid Beetles, to clean up the bones. He expounds on their harmlessness; regularly plunging his hand into the squirming aquarium. It’s anticlimactic. The hand gets ignored. The beetles prefer dead things and there are a lot of those in the museum. So every tour begins in this pest penthouse.

“Unit 21 to dispatch; exiting to roof.” No response. She’s busy. The alarm system tracks everything anyway.

The exit door to the roof scrapes the gravel roof top. It feels cold, and the door to the dermestid domicile is discovered open - again. This place would fall apart without security.

A crack in the glass has appeared and the beetles behave uncharacteristically. They spiral toward investigating finger tips, then rear away in a confused dance near the sharp zig-zag. Dr. Williams will need to be notified.  

Each step staccatos the street, crossing over to the new greenhouse. Generally a pleasant place, there have been frightening moments in the palms. When the tornado hit downtown the horticulturalist couldn’t be found amidst the flying pots and breaking window-panes. Turned out she was in the basement storage getting fertilizer.

“Unit 21 to dispatch, off the roof.” The only reply is the click of the roof lock. The radios haven’t worked right since the tornado.  There’s no time to fix it now; the exhibit floors have to be opened.

The door slams hard; echoing through the dim hollow stairwell.  The distinct smell of clove cigarettes wafts over the emergence onto third floor.  Every staff member knows this smell; few will talk about it. Dr. Anita Crawfoot is in. The director died nearly 40 years ago.

 She pops up with warnings about exhibits in trouble. Last week Dr. Crawfoot, presented herself inside an ice-age exhibit, holding an umbrella - eyes skyward. She drew attention to the rupturing pipe immediately over a real mammoth hide. It took forever to get help with the radios malfunctioning.

Once the rescue began, comments abounded on the scent of those cigarettes, but if anyone else saw her, they didn’t say. She remained, overseeing the work. Then she cocked her head and smiled invitingly. 

The exhibits are fascinating. Someday there will be time to read, even study, all of them. Moving from light switches to sound-systems, elevators to escalators; the curious must be satisfied with brief glimpses. There is too much to do before the front doors open.

On the list, is notifying Dr. Williams of the potential insect implication. There is just enough time to return to the roof.

The penthouse door is unlocked, and Dr. Williams holds the case. He turns around and gasps, “Angie?!?”

The case crashes to the floor. Before I can apologize the beetles race toward me. They spiral around my feet confused; just like they did on the glass. Suddenly it all makes sense, the beetle’s odd behavior, the useless radio. Dr. Crawfoot’s implied invitation.

He can barely utter what is suddenly known, “….but you’re d-d-dead… th-the tornado took you off-f-f the roof…”

Hmmm… guess there is time to study all those exhibits after all.

Torque Writer (TM) This work is protected by US Copyright law, and may not be reproduced (wholly or partially) without the written consent and signature of the author, Rebecca L. Olson.

 

Combining

Make hay while the sun shines... well combining must be done before the bins fill - regardless of weather. Thus earlier this year, while Steve fulfilled his obligations as a custom hay baler, I operated our 8900 White (which is actually colored red) combine to pull the wheat then the oats off the fields. The air temperature outside was over 90 degrees F; inside the cab, air temperatures reached 115 degrees F according to the small digital thermometer Mom gave to me for Christmas last year. No, there is not functioning air conditioner.

Dave, Steve's brother, opened-up the field for me; this means he made the first few difficult passes into the field. Then, when he left to return to his own farm, it was up to me. When it goes well, it is a lot of work but very satisfying. My left hand does the steering - and is within reach of the too-soon-empty water bottle. My right hand bounces from lever to lever; adjusting the combine head's height with the contours of the land, and tweaking the speed of the reel. The reel, a big round spool of "combs" picking through the wheat, must be also be height adjusted from time to time.

Of course, the head became plugged, and both hands had to move rapidly to shut down the RPM's (Rotations Per Minute or engine/fan speed), cut the power to the head and turn off the great machine. Then, strand by strand, the entangled wheat (or oat) stalks had to be teased from the combine head. The weather was ideal for combining - if not for the operator - so after 10 hours the field was done.

Aiden had been busy in the house; filling in for many of the duties normally assigned to me. He made dinner - a fabulous brisket with saurkraut - and handled laundry and a few household cleaning tasks. His contribution was certainly appreciated when finally Steve - exhausted from similar hay baling conditions - and I - admittedly nearing heat-stroke for under-estimating the amount of water to drink - stumbled dusty and bleary-eyed in the door.

Now, Steve is combining not only our own soybeans, but those of his brother, Dave. It is good to return the favor - and much needed for Dave to receive much needed rest and medical treatments. Aiden is again taking care of our supper; only this time while await my lessons in at UW-Madison's Science Hall. Tonight I will explore "Special Topics in Soils" with a tag-team of two professors; Pete Nowak, a Rural Sociologist, and Fred Madison, a Soil Scientist. Both came from farming families; both hope to educate conservationists and farmers... actually hoping to create a world where one is not one without the other. I hope, I may soon be such an example.

Hops - First Pick Approaching!

Little light green "pine" cones hang heavily on some of the vines; they almost drip from the entire vine length, pulling the darker green, maple-shaped leaves downward. Unlike a pine cone, hop cones are light, almost fluffy. The drooping leaves therefore, truly speak to their abundance on some vines. One can only hope for a repeat of this on all the vines, next year.

This is the first year for our hops production, and the rhizomes were just planted this past spring. They vary a great deal in their height; some nearly reach the full 15-16 feet of the trellis top while others only waist high. This height variation aside, the vines are sturdy and otherwise vigorous. More vines than expected have produced flowers - and this is a sign of good management and good luck! Ultimately it will mean a plentiful and quality harvest of the little cones that make-up one of the more famous flavor components of beer.

Inexperienced in hop production, this first harvest is considered practice by our production mentors at Gorst Valley Hops Cooperative. Guidance on judging hops for ripeness has been sent and reviewed carefully. Ultimately, it will be the acid content specific to each variety that will determine ripeness. Thus, just yesterday samples were sent to the lab for the first time!

James Altweis, one of Gorst Valley Hops founders, is also the resident chemist. He will be busy today testing the acidity of our varieties; Sterling, Nugget and Cascade. When this season slows for him (& us) I promise more information on this process.

Meanwhile, get your ice-cream buckets ready... our first hops harvest and corresponding harvest party is fast approaching. Stay tuned!

A Dog’s “Tail” Part 2 of 2

One Dog’s Encounter with a School Bus; or, “How I spent my spring break.”

During the long quiet evening home, a quick call is made to the school bus driver. Mutual regret and concern are expressed. Theories why Simba only recently decided to chase the bus exchanged. Apologies accepted; both for the accident and for allowing Simba the opportunity to cause it.

Now idle minds are free to ponder the decisions of the day, and question every one of them. Regardless of price tags and not including very specific injuries, Dr. Turbeville feels surgery is not always the best solution for dogs that have been hit by vehicles. She feels it usually prolongs their recuperation time. 

Dr. Turbeville knows of only a few exceptions. When a dog is spayed or neutered (procedures that respectively prevent female and male dogs from pro-creating) dogs have a much easier time than humans undergoing similar surgeries. For humans, the muscles in the abdomen must be cut. Cutting into muscle is painful and muscles do not repair themselves quickly.

Dogs have an abdominal muscle structure completely different from humans. Instead of running across the abdomen, the muscles run horizontally from the legs to a vertical band of connective tissue. Dr. Turbeville calls it the “white line, “and adds that there are no nerves in the mass of cartilage and tissue. Thus it is almost as though the dogs belly can be unzipped. When the procedure it done, dissolving stitches are used to zip the white line back up.

Blood is needed for surgery, of course. The blood for animals must be donated, just as it is for humans.  There are a number of different pet blood donation programs in the Midwest, but the closest one known to Dr. Turbeville is Veterinary Emergency Service (VES) in Middleton, WI.  

As the evening without Simba drags on, time on the Internet seems like a good distraction.

According to information on the VES Web site (www.veterinaryemergencyservice.com), VES provides emergency and surgical services; they also operate a canine and feline blood bank. The site explains pets need transfusions for the same reasons people do. This includes surgery, poisoning, heat stroke, trauma, cancer or other disease. Currently all the blood donors are pets of VES employees, but they hope to take public donations in the future.

A few “googles” later, and it is easy to see that public pet blood donation programs are not very common.  There are only two listed in Wisconsin and only a handful nationwide.  Fatigue settles in after only a few clicks. Lethargically, laptops and eyelids close for the night.

Morning finally arrives; the whole house is awake. It’s 6:45 AM, and the bus isn’t here yet. Even though the office doors may not yet technically be open, staff at Verona Veterinary Services will be there.  The smile can be heard through the telephone. Simba is awake, eating and drinking; he even went outside.  More blood tests have been taken; if the results indicate the internal bleeding has stopped, Simba will come home tonight. Great news to share with classmates – and most importantly the bus driver.

As the day unfolds, Dr. Turbeville sends word the test results reflect good news. Simba is still anemic, but his cell counts are on the rise. This indicates the internal bleeding has stopped and his body is re-building his normal blood supply. She wants to watch him a few hours for possible reactions to medications, before Simba is picked up. The vet cautions that Simba is not completely through the full 48 hour period of most concern. However, she knows he will be more comfortable at home. So will his owners.  

Arriving to pick him up, Simba recognizes the voices at the main desk. It triggers a forlorn howling; “take me hooooome!” With a giggle, the veterinary technician leads the way toward the sound.

“Frankenstein’s dog” awaits us. A classic white plastic neck cone prevents Simba from licking the staples and myriad of other mended wounds. At first he doesn’t move, but lays on top of the blanket brought from home. His black and medicated eyes stare up oddly. Then there is recognition. He struggles to get up – and succeeds. Just like the B-movie monster, Simba marches stiff-legged forward. It is hard to know if it is more appropriate to laugh or cry. For now, everyone opts for the former.

Once home, he must be kept calm for at least a week . He is not allowed to climb stairs, jump or do any activity that may cause him to stretch his abdomen – and thus strain the recovering internal organs. Also, he is not allowed to herd children, birds, cattle and certainly not vehicles! In short, he must be kept from acting like a border collie until he is fully recovered. The task is not easy.

Simba is lead out of the Vet’s office via a cement ramp to the parking lot. Everyone halts and stares at the car door – no stairs also means no jumping up into the car seat. The strongest of Simba’s owners lifts him like a calf; hugging his arms around all four legs so the dog’s tender abdomen won’t be squeezed or stretched.  Once in the car, Simba uncharacteristically falls asleep.

The crunch of gravel under the car tires pops Simba awake. His hind legs strangely still, he stiffens and pushes his front legs until he is propped up enough to peek out the window. A short whine and twitch of his tail communicates his pleasure at arriving back home on the farm. 

After he is lifted out of the car, Simba is paraded around to the back door. Two pieces of 3/4-inch plywood have been leaned against the steps. He struggles up the make-shift ramp and into the house. Upon reaching the first piece of carpeting, he lies down and is once again asleep.

Almost instantly, twitching of paws and muffled whimpers proclaim Simba is dreaming. Is he reliving the accident? Maybe the vet visit is playing out in his mind? Or perhaps he is chasing squirrels – it is decided not to wake him. He needs his rest.

He also needs pain medication, antibiotics, and must to be taken outside frequently due both to injuries and the effects of the medications. With acres available for roaming, it is strange to take him out on a leash. This is the only way however to keep him from raccoon wrestling at night – a previously frequent past-time.

Timing is everything; Spring break affords the opportunity to care for Simba properly through the most critical period of his recovery. While younger collegiate companions dig their toes in the sand of some southern shore, around here it’s more satisfying to warm one’s feet under a dozing dog.  It’s comforting to both dog and owner to be near each other.

For the first four days, Simba needs coaxing to do just about anything but sleep. Teasing that he is a “spoiled rotten dog,” water and food are brought to him. Treats of trimmed meat scraps or cheese inspire him to get up to go outside. As we stand in the backyard sun, a squirrel scampers across the yard. His ears perk up, but he doesn’t make any effort to follow.

Back inside, he is unusually quiet. The normal sounds of farm life, formerly cause for great excitement, are no longer note-worthy. Trucks and tractors come and go without announcement.  The only sounds are the occasional groaning sigh, and the clip-clip of his nails across the hardwood floor as he moves with the sun from one nap place to the next.

Because Simba is normally outside so much, his nails (or claws) rarely need manual trimming. His constant running and (sometimes infuriating) digging keep his paws manicured naturally. There is a blood vessel in each nail that must be avoided when trimming a dog’s nails. The thought of accidently snipping one, and causing Simba further injury, is not pleasant. The household agrees it can wait until Simba next visits his Vet.

Suddenly the room resounds with a frantic canine announcement, “Bark, bark, bus bus bus!” Simba’s voice has returned. So has his youngest care-taker. Today, and from now on, Simba will greet him inside the house – far away from the bus.

The bedtime routine temporarily changes after the accident. With a pat on the head – and sometimes an extra bedtime snack biscuit – Simba is left downstairs on his cushy pillow. Even though he has been content to convalesce on the first floor, two kitchen chairs block the stairway. There is still a worry he may re-injure himself through the climb.

A week after the accident, the first thunderstorm of the season races through the night. In the morning, Simba is found on the landing outside the bedrooms. He looks up, tail a-wagging with his accomplishment. There is only one problem; Simba can’t get back down on his own. Good-natured grumbling and a strong back carry him back to the first floor.

Incredibly, the chairs are still in place at the bottom of the stairs. The secret to Simba’s assent will never be revealed. The chairs are returned to the table, and soon the Houdini of hounds is timidly traveling in both directions. Down is definitely tough, but he can do it.

As time moves forward, Simba gets stronger and some of his agility returns. Food and water are eaten voluntarily. Inside, he returns to a favored perch; a window seat with a view of the bird feeder. The plywood ramp is returned to the shed, and he is allowed outside without a leash.

Squirrels and raccoons are irresistible again, but the chase may forever be futile. Simba’s rear hip joints are still a bit crooked and stiff; it is as though he aged significantly. Capturing critters is beyond his current capacity.

Perhaps the warmth of summer will loosen his knots and replenish his speed. For now however we are all content to simply have him with us.

Simba stretches in the springtime sun, and exhales his agreement.

Torque Writer (TM) This work is protected by US Copyright law, and may not be reproduced (wholly or partially) without the written consent and signature of the author, Rebecca L. Olson.

A Dog’s “Tail” Part 1 of 2

One Dog’s Encounter with a School Bus; or, “How I spent my spring break.”

The morning sun flashes into the kitchen window, a reflection off the windshield of the returning school bus. Perplexed, coffee mugs are set aside; confused glances exchanged. Only 5 minutes has passed since the bus left the farm drive for school. It is strangely quiet… where is the dog?

The door flies open and a young, anxious voice provides the answer, “Simba got hit by the bus!”
Dogs and humans have probably shared farm life since the first upright nomad stuck a seed in the ground and stayed. Dogs seem capable of any task humans are patient enough to set before them. Willing apprentices, they may become guardians and playmates to children, protectors of property and livestock, and alert field companions. All they ask in exchange is to be included; to remain near.

It takes a brush with loss, to be reminded this desire to stay close is a two-way street. Often unexpectedly, dogs become life constants; our emotional connections quietly tied to each other. Equally unexpected may be the physical similarities and differences held within a furry frame of fidelity. It is during times of urgency this knowledge comes forward whether one is ready for it, or not. Simba’s accident is one of those times.
Simba, an over-sized short-haired border collie, had been pulled onto the bus by his young owner immediately after the accident.  His black and white figure, now spotted with red, won’t move from under the bus’s front seat. 

Amidst a bus load of crying children, he is coaxed half-way into the aisle.  It is just far enough so he may be pulled out and assisted shakily down the bus stairs. He resists attempts to be lifted. With great effort, he makes his way across the lawn and onto the front porch. There, his legs give out and this time no amount of persuasion will move him.

An old blanket is frantically teased under his panting body.  Lifting each blanket corner, he is gently placed into a plastic ice-fishing sled.  His spine may be injured and this will keep him from moving too much – or at least that is the hope.  Immediately, the make-shift gurney is placed in the back seat of the car.

Simba’s vet, Dr. Cariann Turbeville, is called. There is relief hearing a voice on the other end of the line; Verona Veterinary Service is already open. 

It will take nearly 30 minutes to reach the Vet’s office. Simba’s injuries are assessed enroute. The skin is torn along his jaw, halfway to his ear, and must be held in place to slow the bleeding. There are gravel filled lacerations of varying sizes across his left side. Blood leaks from somewhere underneath him too.   As the trees whiz by, his eyes begin to close and his whimpering wanes.

“You foolish dog,” is repeated softly. A free hand strokes the intact side of his muzzle.  The tip of Simba’s tail feebly wags.

Questions dart around the car. Would it be better to go to the veterinary hospital? How much longer will that take?  After four years on the farm why did he start chasing the bus now? Then there is the question no one is supposed to ask: How much can we afford?  It is a relief to halt these wretched thoughts when the car reaches the Vet’s Office. Simba briefly lifts his head as he is gurneyed into the office. Otherwise he doesn’t move. 

“Springtime is the worse time for these accidents, “explains Dr. Turbeville. Unfortunately, Dr. Turbeville doesn’t think Simba’s behavior will change with the passing of spring. “Once they [dogs] start, they don’t stop.”

There is some research on animal behavior that may explain Simba’s behavior, according to the Vet. She knows of several studies on the natural breeding cycles of canines. Even though she is not aware of conclusive findings, some researchers and vets speculate a male dog can sense a female “in heat,” or receptive to breeding, up to 5 miles away.  Female dogs typically go into heat twice each year; in Autumn and again in Spring. Even neutered dogs, like Simba, may adapt uncharacteristic behaviors – such as chasing vehicles – if the scent of a female reaches their sensitive sniffers.   

Verona Veterinary Service is not an emergency animal clinic, but staff there know Simba and are ready for him.  Sympathetic coos come from the waiting area as Simba is ushered into an examination room.

Just as clinics do for humans in crisis, there are multiple hands at work. The vet, along with an intern, begins by checking Simba’s heart rate.  An intravenous (IV) solution is started, by a veterinary technician, to keep the dog hydrated. This also allows pain medication to be delivered. His blood pressure is checked. Visible injuries are cleansed, stitched and stapled.  

“His skin looks very pale. He must have lost quite a bit of blood,” assesses Dr. Turbeville.

Despite the amount of visible blood loss, Dr. Turbeville doesn’t feel it fully explains Simba’s pale skin color.  Attention is turning to the trauma that cannot be outwardly seen. Blood tests confirm Simba is anemic; a sign he is bleeding internally.  X-rays are required to check for broken bones, and to investigate the sources of the internal blood-loss.  But the vet first has a more immediate concern; shock.

Dr. Turbeville explains that shock can be fatal. In cases of traumatic injury, shock describes conditions that interfere with the heart’s ability to receive and pump oxygen-carrying blood throughout the body. The risk of shock may be reduced by keeping the injured calm, warm and hydrated; regardless if human or canine.  The blanket helps; so does the IV.

IV’s are given to both humans and animals to prevent shock. The IV solution keeps fluids levels stable, which in turn helps keep blood pressure up, says Dr. Turbeville. She explains a decrease in blood pressure may restrict the flow of blood and fluids to the kidneys. Without that flow, it only takes a few minutes and the kidneys will shut down. Once the kidneys cease cleansing body fluids, toxins begin to build up. Then other organs, such as the liver and heart, begin to fail.

Unlike humans, dogs and other animals cannot easily communicate where they feel pain. This makes it more challenging to pin-point the location of injuries.  Simba must be given anesthetic and his entire body X-rayed while he sleeps. The vet cautions, if he goes into shock while sleeping, there is a risk he won’t wake up.

In general, dogs have a circulatory advantage over humans that reduces the impacts of injury and shock according to Dr. Turbeville.  There are four main arteries carrying blood to a dog’s heart, compared to only one, the aorta, in humans. In dogs, if any of the main arteries are damaged, the others can easily take over.

“Don’t easily believe someone who says a dog has had a heart attack,” cautions Dr. Turbeville. “It’s not likely.”

Dr. Turbeville explains further; if the dog is too stressed, such as after a traumatic injury like Simba’s, their circulatory advantage won’t matter. Dogs typically want to move around when nervous and the movement may further damage existing internal injuries, causing them to bleed more.  Keeping him still is a priority.

As the initial dose of pain medication takes effect, Simba rallies. The presence of his care-takers is not calming but instead exciting to the confused dog. His glassy stare follows every move.  He squirms and seems to plead to be taken home.  Recognizing the urgent need to keep him calm, Simba is left in the hands of Dr. Turbeville and her staff. 

Several hours later, amidst the glow of a wall-mounted light box, the X-rays reveal amazing and troubling things.

Surprisingly, Simba has only a single hair-line fracture on the left front leg and no other broken bones. While a few of his joints appear slightly out of alignment, it is amazing to learn no surgery or casts will be needed. These injuries will heal with rest over time.  

Equally remarkable, is that his bladder is unscathed. Dr. Turbeville says this is very lucky; most dogs require surgery to repair ruptures to the bladder after colliding with vehicles. She feels the bus must have been traveling slowly.

Less surprising and more ominous are the dark spots over many of his organs. Dr. Turbeville explains each dark spot on the X-ray indicates a collection of blood. The largest of these shadows is over his left lung, but her examination indicates Simba is breathing fine.

The most troubling revelation is the darkest mass, just a bit lower than the lung, above his stomach. It could just be tumor; not uncommon for a seven-year-old dog like Simba. Under the circumstances however, the vet worries it may be a hematoma on the spleen.  

“The next 48 hours will be critical,” consoles Dr. Turbeville.  She is both tender and direct. “He will either make it, or he won’t.”

Simba’s vet explains a hematoma is just a fancy word for bruise or a collection of broken blood vessels. If the broken blood vessels on Simba’s spleen have stopped bleeding, then with rest his body will reabsorb the blood in a few days. The same will happen for the less serious internal injuries, too. If however the bleeding continues or the spleen ruptures, Simba will quickly bleed to death.

Surgery is possible to repair or remove Simba’s spleen but it is very expensive – she estimates over $8000.00. It is possible to live without a spleen, Dr. Turbeville continues. The spleen contains white blood cells and helps the body fight infection.  If removed, other organs, such as the liver, typically take over some of the spleen’s functions.  After removing the spleen, the immune system may be compromised but it isn’t eliminated.

Unfortunately, according to Dr. Turbeville, the surgery required to repair or remove the spleen is risky.  Simba will need to be transported to a veterinary hospital and the spleen could rupture from this activity. It is also possible that surgery itself might cause an unrepairable rupture.  In Simba’s case, she feels surgery has less than a 50% chance of success.

Simba’s youngest care-taker shakes his head and blurts out, “I don’t think we should do it.”

The room is quick to agree.  Simba will remain at the Vet overnight. He will be kept calm and as pain-free as safely possible.  Blood work will be done again to see if the internal bleeding has stopped. If all goes well, he may be home the following evening to recuperate. If it goes poorly overnight, he may die alone.

Reluctantly, after short pats on the head to say good bye, Simba is left to sleep off his anesthetic.  

To be continued….

Torque Writer (TM) This work is protected by US Copyright law, and may not be reproduced (wholly or partially) without the written consent and signature of the author, Rebecca L. Olson.

Quiet Science of Buffer Strips Part 3 of 3

Managed pockets of Marshland have long history; troubles yet to face.

“Arrrgh!” A falsely throaty voice sends a humorous shock above the sound of Celtic flute and drum song. The serenity of the fields is replaced with the energy of an Irish pub on Capitol Square in Madison, Wisconsin.  This energy is matched by a gathering of a unique kind of independent conservationists; Here, there be “slough pirates.”

Dave Marshall, a consulting aquatic biologist and owner of “Underwater Habitat Investigations, LLC,” sits amidst a small group of his colleagues. This is more than a casual meeting over a black-and-tan (a stratified beverage of light and dark beer, for those uninitiated) at the local pub. This is where one warms up after a long cold day trudging through the back-waters, or sloughs, of Southern Wisconsin’s river systems.   Marshall is studying the species in these less traveled places.

“These were thought to be lost places; just a spot for rivers to overflow and carp to breed. Or maybe at best a cleansing mechanism for the river,” begins Marshall. 

According to Marshall, for decades, sloughs have been described in the prevailing scientific literature as “brackish” areas with low oxygen; insignificant to people or wildlife. Yet, there were few scientists that actually stepped into the slough to collect any meaningful data. Marshall has spent the last several years surveying this type of unique aquatic habitat – specifically on the Wisconsin and Sugar River systems. His findings are surprising, even to him.

“What I think I am rediscovering is that these places are a habitat in their own right – not just a support system for the river,” continues Marshall.

Instead of just finding a carp breeding ground, Marshall has found numerous and abundant other fish species. Some sloughs include relatively common game panfish, such as blue gill, pumpkin seed and sun fish. These fish actually eat the young of the carp, controlling the population of the less desired fish before it leaves for the river system.

Others sloughs have proved to be a refuge to rare species. One such species, the Starhead Topminnow, was thought to be extinct in Southern Wisconsin, before Marshall rediscovered it harbored in a slough along the Sugar River in Green County.

It hasn’t been all good news however, on a trip to the sloughs of the Sugar River, Marshall discovered a Mosquito Fish – an invasive species likely dumped from someone’s neglected fish tank. Like carp, this small silver fish survives, even thrives, in areas of poor water quality. Sadly, return trips have proved that it did not die off over winter.  On a bright note, it doesn’t appear to be taking over this particular slough either.

Marshall’s theory is that because the slough is otherwise healthy, the other native fish are consuming the Mosquito Fish eggs. Marshall, who has also studied the effects of agricultural practices on adjacent waterways, feels buffer strips may be a significant reason the slough remains healthy.  This particular slough was located adjacent to an area where buffers are preventing the surrounding agricultural runoff from reaching the water.

While Marshall’s surveys are a start, what he really hopes will happen is that a comprehensive study of Wisconsin’s sloughs will one day be possible. Of course, this means that the sloughs must remain protected in some way, until funding and staff can be put in place.

“We really don’t know the full value to place on it [buffer protected sloughs and oxbow lakes]” admits Marshall. “I hope to find out.”

Torque Writer (TM) This work is protected by US Copyright law, and may not be reproduced (wholly or partially) without the written consent and signature of the author, Rebecca L. Olson.