It was a crisp, fall Saturday afternoon. The sun was shining, and I was just finishing up a run after work and getting ready to eat lunch when my phone rang. The intro to “The Walker” by Fitz and the Tantrums was blaring in my ears. When you’re a veterinarian, or work in a profession that you’re on call a lot, using your favorite song as a ringtone is a good way to turn it into your LEAST favorite song. I answered, “Hello, this is Dr. Stroupe.” A local producer said, “Hey Doc. I got a heifer that’s having trouble calving. You want to come here and pull the calf or have me haul her into the clinic?” “Which farm do I need to go to?” I asked. Just my luck, the location was literally less than a mile from my house. Because the farm was so close, I told him I would be there in a few minutes and not to worry about hauling her into the clinic. That would be the first of many mistakes I made that day. I hung up the phone, went inside, and hollered in the door to my husband Patrick, “Honey, we got an OB.” In case you’re wondering, OB is short for obstetrical and the abbreviation we use for an animal that is having trouble giving birth, usually in reference to cows having trouble calving. “Alright,” my husband said as he got up from the computer chair, pulling on his coveralls. Let me just say this: I am extremely fortunate to have a spouse that is so willing to help me on an after-hours basis. For the most part, he enjoys the farm calls. He probably wouldn’t say the same for restraining a fractious, bad-tempered or difficult, Yorkie for me at the clinic, but he still helps with that, too. We dressed in our coveralls, hopped in the truck, and headed down the gravel road. We pulled into the driveway a couple of minutes later and the producer was waiting for us on his fourwheeler. The producer walked up and greeted us. “Yeah...my son bought some bred heifers from the sale barn a few days ago. I told him it was a bad idea to buy third period (advanced pregnancy) heifers because we get more breach calves when we do.” I grabbed my OB tackle box, some warm disinfectant water, and my OB jack (just in case I needed it) and headed to the old barn. By the way, an OB jack is basically a come-along that you hook up to the cow in those rare cases where you need a little extra force to get the calf out. I hate using a jack and often cringe and cross my legs when I have to do so, but I feel getting it out of the truck is almost a good-luck charm. If it’s with me and ready to use, then I won’t need it. We walked to the small, old, wooden barn that was likely built several decades ago. Because this farmer was renting this ground to run his cattle, he hadn’t invested a lot in the facilities, and I can’t say I blame him. It’s hard to justify spending money on property that isn’t yours. The barn was open on both sides, but a corral inside the barn had been constructed with cattle panel. I approached the corral and the black angus heifer was spinning and snorting with her head lowered, clearly not happy to see any of us. “Ahhh, geez,” I thought to myself. I got my lariat out and made my loop. I started surveying the barn for a suitable post I could tie the heifer to. Honestly, there weren’t many as the barn had pretty solid sides. We finally found a square post in the corner we thought would work. I went around to the back of the barn to approach the heifer. On this side of the barn, the cattle panel was just propped up in the corner and not necessarily being held by anything. That was a big red flag, but I didn’t see a lot of materials or ways to build a reinforcement, so I took a deep breath and got my lariat ready to rope the cow. “#$&@!!,” I yelled as the heifer charged at the precariously placed cattle panel, which hit a loose board that almost fell on top of me. “Well, here goes nothin’.” I tossed the lariat at her head a couple of times as she spun in the corral. I caught her on the third try and tied her to the post. I’m just going to say this: You won’t hear me bragging about my roping skills because, quite frankly, I don’t have any. That might be selling myself a little bit short, but I like to tell producers that I am not a very good cowboy, and I am an expensive cowboy. I’ve even jokingly said that I charge by the throw. If that were really true, I would be a very rich woman by now. Once the lariat was tied, I placed a halter on the cow’s head and tied the halter to the same post. I then loosened the lariat so the cow didn’t choke while we were working with her. I grabbed my warm disinfectant water and OB box. As I approached the back end of the heifer, she was swinging and dancing around as much as she could. Patrick got in the pen with me to help push the heifer to one side. I put my plastic sleeves on, lubed up, and got to work. As soon as I reached into her, I felt the calf’s tail. “We’ve got a breach!” I said to the farmer. He nodded his head, not surprised. For those who are not aware, a breach is when the calf is coming butt first. I reached down and found the right hoof. “Give me my chain, please,” I said to Patrick as he dipped his hand into the disinfectant water and handed me my OB chain. I grabbed the end of the chain with my right arm and shoved it in as far as I could until I felt that hoof. I got down as low as I possibly could, and I pushed the chain from the outside of the leg to the inside of the leg. I then carefully tried to bring my hand around to grab the end of the chain from the other side and make my loop. In describing it, this process may sound quite simple but in reality this is quite difficult to achieve. It usually involves some grunting, cursing, switching arms when one of your arms gets tired (it pays to be ambidextrous in this profession), and fighting straining and slippery placenta. Finally, I grabbed the end of my chain once it was looped around the leg, pulled it to the outside of the heifer, and then threaded the other end of the chain through the loop on the end to create the loop I needed. I then pulled to tighten my loop while simultaneously pushing down with my other hand to make sure my loop got positioned just above the fetlock (joint above the hoof). As I was manipulating and positioning the calf, floods of amniotic fluid (uterus juice) came running out. It ran down my coveralls and into my boots, soaking my socks. A few minutes later, the cow urinated all over me, soaking through my coveralls and all layers of my clothing. This doesn’t bother me so much. I long ago got used to the amniotic fluid/urine shower mixture. Once my loop was in position, I pushed forward on the calf’s butt as hard as I could with one hand while pulling on my chain with the other hand. When my handy husband is there to assist me, sometimes one of us will push on the calf’s butt while the other one pulls the chain. Suddenly, the right hoof of the calf appeared and I breathed a sigh of relief. Getting the first leg out is a big milestone while delivering a breach calf. But, as you know, calves have two hindlimbs. So I reached in and went through the exact same steps with the left leg and eventually got it out. While breach calves can be quite difficult to deliver, this one wasn’t actually too bad compared to other breaches I’ve experienced. Both hindlimbs were out, so I repositioned the chains, and hooked the handles up to each limb. Patrick and I each took a limb and pulled.
Less than a minute later, we had delivered our calf. Unfortunately, the calf was dead. However, this wasn’t unexpected. I have delivered some live breach calves in my day, but it is somewhat rare. Patrick grabbed both handles and moved the calf off out of the way while I started gathering my things and getting them out of the pen before we took her halter off. At this point the heifer was tied to the corner of the barn, and her head was up against the precariously-placed cattle panel. I grabbed the end of my lariat and looped it through a loop on the side of the halter. I then started to climb over the cattle panel so I would be behind a barrier when I untied the heifer. This was a big mistake. Instead of walking farther over to the side before climbing over the cattle panel, I decided to climb over the cattle panel that was right in front of the heifer’s head. While the heifer was still tied, she saw me in front of her and started ramming my body against the cattle panel in front of her. I pulled up with all of my strength. “Keep moving up!” I kept telling myself, but it was quite difficult to do this with a 1200-pound heifer pushing me into the panel with all her might. With each thrust forward, the cattle panel wobbled precariously as the farmer on the other side tried to hold it steady so I didn’t get knocked off. Eventually, I was able to pull myself up to the top of the panel, but at this point the heifer was pressing my legs against the panel so hard that I couldn’t swing them around the jump on the other side to safety. I made multiple attempts to swing my legs around to the other side, but the heifer persisted. My bones started to burn as she started to press harder into the gate. The force increased and I started to come to the realization that she might break both of my legs or worse if I didn’t get to the other side of this cattle panel. The strange calm that had come over me was dissipating. My eyes widened. I looked at the farmer steadying the panel across from me, and he gave me a concerned look. The heifer pushed my legs harder and harder into the gate. My eyes widened and I started to panic. My husband was still off in the distance dealing with the calf, unaware of what was happening in the barn. The panic really set in, and I started to scream. My husband heard and came running behind the heifer, waving his arms and yelling. The heifer looked behind her, distracted by my husband’s antics, which gave me enough time to swing my legs around and jump over the cattle panel. I sat there for a few seconds, shaking from the adrenaline coursing through my veins. In all honesty, the first thought that came to mind was, “I can’t believe I screamed like a darn sissy.” Actually my thoughts probably included more colorful language, but we’ll keep this PG since my mom reads this blog. The farmer leaned down asking, “Are you okay?” apologizing profusely. I said, “No hard feelings. I have no one to blame for what just happened but myself.” That was the truth. Were the facilities ideal? Not really, but it’s important for a practitioner to recognize when they’ve done something stupid. One misstep like that when dealing with large animals can lead to serious injury, a reality I had just become very familiar with. We released the heifer from the lariat and let her out into the pasture. My husband and the farmer helped me gather up my things as I gingerly walked to my vet trucking on bruised, sore, and scraped up legs. I made a squishing sound with each step from my soaked socks and boots. I lightheartedly joked, “Well, it’s a good thing I already went running today.” I kept smiling, we said our goodbyes, and we climbed in the truck to head home. We got a certain distance away down the driveway, far enough away from the producer, and I burst into tears. My husband gave me a sympathetic look. “I can’t believe I was so stupid,” I said between sobs. “It’s embarrassing!” My husband reassured me, saying, “There’s nothing you can do to change what happened. All you can do is learn from it. I’m sure they don’t hold it against you.” I wouldn’t consider myself a particularly emotional person. My feelings were taken over partly with embarrassment and partly from the fear of what just happened. Most veterinarians join the profession knowing that there are real dangers involved. However, that doesn’t make you immune from being shaken when it happens, and it doesn’t keep you from worrying that the next encounter could result in a long-term disability that could prevent you from working or living your life. Even worse, it doesn’t keep you from worrying about death. All you can do is learn from every situation. Don’t rush. Step back and assess each situation before acting. Sometimes that’s hard for someone with a “git ‘r done” personality like mine. We got home and I changed out of my coveralls and wet socks. For farm calls, I keep an old pair of boots in my truck with rubber slip ons over them. They generally stay in the truck so I can easily take off my nicer work boots and then put on the old boots with the rubber slip ons. I brought my work boots inside, and I turned them upside down to put on the boot dryer I have. A thick, reddish brown goo starts pouring out of them as I turn them upside down and running onto the floor. “Yuck!” I yelled as I grabbed paper towels and cleaner to clean up the mess and plastic bags to place under the boot rack. Once I turned the dryer on, the goo continued to pour out of my boots. “Well, I think these boots are ruined,” I said as I threw them in the trash. I guess in the grand scheme of things, ruined boots really aren’t a big deal. No sense in crying over ruined boots or spilled amniotic fluid/goo. But, in my opinion, it is okay to cry over a bruised ego.
4 Comments
Jill Chandlerj
2/21/2016 01:15:14 pm
There's always that first/last time.
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Trish Elliott
2/24/2016 10:39:13 am
I always enjoy your posts. You explain the details so well that I can see it happening as I read. PS I am secretly happy that Brittany has redirected her schooling away from the vet world. It is such a tough, demanding 24/7/365 job.
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Bekki Galloway
2/24/2016 09:53:46 pm
Yes! I read your blog! This week I am left with the "just dodged an accident" panic. Phew!
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Jessica Stroupe, DVM
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