Read Online The Gift of Pets: Stories Only a Vet Could Tell by Bruce R. Coston - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bruce R. Coston
Ads: Link
emasculated.
The opposite testicle was dispatched just as quickly and soon we were back in the truck and pulling away from the immaculate farm.
“Do they use a different kind of emasculator at the school nowadays? You didn’t seem to recognize this brand.”
It was true that the strict boarding school I attended was known for ironfisted enforcement of the rules, but I searched my memory for anything used at my high school that might approximate the surgical detonator I had just seen. “I don’t think they even have one at my school,” I replied. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dr. Evers cast a questioning look across the seat at me. I avoided his gaze.
“One last call before lunch,” said my mentor after an awkward pause. “This is just a little laceration on the fetlock of a horse. Shouldn’t take long at all. This horseman is on the other end of the spectrum from the one at the place we just left. He’s a real down-to-earth guy. I think you’ll like him.”
After a few turns, we pulled into the long driveway of a farm with warped, unpainted boards on the fence. The doors hung askew from their hinges and the tops of the stalls had been worn away by a long history of habitual cribbers. Cribbing is a vice that sometimes develops in bored horses that are stalled for long periods of time. They grab the boards at the top of the stall with their teeth and pull, tugging great gasps of air into their stomachs as they do so. Over time, this causes telltale damage to the wood. The taste of creosote will sometimes break this habit, so I was not surprised to see the wood at the tops of the stalls slathered with the strong-smelling tarry substance.
A middle-aged man wearing jeans and steel-toed cowboy boots came out of the barn and welcomed us with a broad smile. With a calloused hand, he swiped a stray strand of dusty hair back over the top of his rapidly balding head.
“Hello, Doug. Mighty fine day we got going, isn’t it?” Dr. Evers greeted him warmly.
“Good to see you again, Dr. Evers. Who is this you got with you?”
“This is Bruce. He’s going to be an equine practitioner soon and wanted to ride along with us for a day.”
“You all looking to hire another doctor for your practice, then? Already got a passel of them, don’t you?”
Dr. Evers cast a furtive glance my way before answering. “No, we aren’t planning on hiring Bruce here. Just hosting him for a day of observation.”
“Well, it’s good to meet you anyway, Bruce,” Doug said. “Can’t learn from any better horse doctor than Dr. Evers, that’s for doggone sure. The horse I called you for is back here in the barn. He’s got a right nasty little cut, too. Wouldn’t have called you if I thought I could handle it myself.”
We followed Doug to a stall at the far end of the barn that housed a small palomino gelding who held his right rear foot gingerly up off the ground. From a circumferential wound on his leg just below his fetlock joint, there oozed a reddish liquid, which attracted a host of flies. A pinkish mass of raw tissue bubbled out of the wound. Dr. Evers took one look at it and turned to me.
“What do you call that, Bruce?”
Finally, an answer I knew. I had spent hours in my younger years poring over anatomical diagrams of horses with arrows pointing to all the salient areas with the proper anatomical terms labeled out to the side. I had this one nailed.
“That’s the fetlock joint, sir,” I responded proudly.
“No, not the joint, son. What do you call that gangly red tissue below the fetlock?”
I was crestfallen. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been asked a question I could answer. I offered the only answer I could come up with but held no illusions that it was right.
“A scar?” I offered haltingly. I heard Doug choke back a laugh, but I didn’t dare look in his direction.
“No, Bruce. Amazingly, the medical term for that tissue is not a scar.” At this, Doug could contain himself no
The opposite testicle was dispatched just as quickly and soon we were back in the truck and pulling away from the immaculate farm.
“Do they use a different kind of emasculator at the school nowadays? You didn’t seem to recognize this brand.”
It was true that the strict boarding school I attended was known for ironfisted enforcement of the rules, but I searched my memory for anything used at my high school that might approximate the surgical detonator I had just seen. “I don’t think they even have one at my school,” I replied. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dr. Evers cast a questioning look across the seat at me. I avoided his gaze.
“One last call before lunch,” said my mentor after an awkward pause. “This is just a little laceration on the fetlock of a horse. Shouldn’t take long at all. This horseman is on the other end of the spectrum from the one at the place we just left. He’s a real down-to-earth guy. I think you’ll like him.”
After a few turns, we pulled into the long driveway of a farm with warped, unpainted boards on the fence. The doors hung askew from their hinges and the tops of the stalls had been worn away by a long history of habitual cribbers. Cribbing is a vice that sometimes develops in bored horses that are stalled for long periods of time. They grab the boards at the top of the stall with their teeth and pull, tugging great gasps of air into their stomachs as they do so. Over time, this causes telltale damage to the wood. The taste of creosote will sometimes break this habit, so I was not surprised to see the wood at the tops of the stalls slathered with the strong-smelling tarry substance.
A middle-aged man wearing jeans and steel-toed cowboy boots came out of the barn and welcomed us with a broad smile. With a calloused hand, he swiped a stray strand of dusty hair back over the top of his rapidly balding head.
“Hello, Doug. Mighty fine day we got going, isn’t it?” Dr. Evers greeted him warmly.
“Good to see you again, Dr. Evers. Who is this you got with you?”
“This is Bruce. He’s going to be an equine practitioner soon and wanted to ride along with us for a day.”
“You all looking to hire another doctor for your practice, then? Already got a passel of them, don’t you?”
Dr. Evers cast a furtive glance my way before answering. “No, we aren’t planning on hiring Bruce here. Just hosting him for a day of observation.”
“Well, it’s good to meet you anyway, Bruce,” Doug said. “Can’t learn from any better horse doctor than Dr. Evers, that’s for doggone sure. The horse I called you for is back here in the barn. He’s got a right nasty little cut, too. Wouldn’t have called you if I thought I could handle it myself.”
We followed Doug to a stall at the far end of the barn that housed a small palomino gelding who held his right rear foot gingerly up off the ground. From a circumferential wound on his leg just below his fetlock joint, there oozed a reddish liquid, which attracted a host of flies. A pinkish mass of raw tissue bubbled out of the wound. Dr. Evers took one look at it and turned to me.
“What do you call that, Bruce?”
Finally, an answer I knew. I had spent hours in my younger years poring over anatomical diagrams of horses with arrows pointing to all the salient areas with the proper anatomical terms labeled out to the side. I had this one nailed.
“That’s the fetlock joint, sir,” I responded proudly.
“No, not the joint, son. What do you call that gangly red tissue below the fetlock?”
I was crestfallen. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been asked a question I could answer. I offered the only answer I could come up with but held no illusions that it was right.
“A scar?” I offered haltingly. I heard Doug choke back a laugh, but I didn’t dare look in his direction.
“No, Bruce. Amazingly, the medical term for that tissue is not a scar.” At this, Doug could contain himself no
Similar Books
