“Hello, Dr. Diehl? I have a question about a cat named Devil Breath. He’s at our clinic today and Laurie said to get his records from you?”

“Devil Breath …” I repeated slowly.

Normally, I’d just email the vet records, but the Devil Breath experience was forever burned into my brain. While I’d escaped uninjured, my truck hadn’t been so lucky, and Laurie’s husband had ended up in the ER.

Laurie had 11 horses, including two rotten ponies. In addition to the long drive, trying to outsmart ponies, and juggling a variety of problems with the herd, there were six barn cats and four small dogs to attend to. A trip to Laurie’s was always a day-long adventure, and it was actually because of Laurie that I’d started keeping a well-stocked small animal pharmacy on my mobile vet truck.

Raining Cats & Dogs

On my most recent visit to Laurie’s, I’d done a lot of vet work on the herd and taken some X-rays of one of the ponies, who decided to kick me firmly in the shin. The other pony wasn’t getting vaccinated, as she’d knocked Laurie down and run away as fast as her fat little legs could carry her.

I was tired and sore, and I was glad to be cleaning up when Laurie announced that the dogs and cats needed shots. I sighed and set my dirty equipment down on the tailgate of the truck. One of these days I was going to start saying no to dog and cat work.

We set up on her back porch and got through all the dogs and the few cats that she could catch. It went very smoothly until we got to Devil Breath, a huge black barn cat.

Devil Breath was semi-feral on a good day, but he hated vets, and it was an art to get him safely vaccinated. I’d done a rapid exam and given the shots after speed-rolling Devil Breath in a towel. I wanted to watch him for a bit, so Laurie put him back into the carrier and set it in the shade.

My vet truck sat nearby, and the door to the vet unit was hanging open. As usual, I’d forgotten to close it, and my tailgate was a mess of dirty dental equipment and a used sheath-cleaning bucket with brown wads of cotton floating in the water.

A Foul Escape

Devil Breath was sulking in his carrier when Laurie’s husband saw him and exclaimed, “What did they do to you, Devil Breath?”

Suddenly, there was a clatter and a loud yell, and the husband stumbled into view clutching his arm and uttering expletives. Devil Breath shot past us, leaped onto my tailgate, knocked the sheath-cleaning bucket over, then disappeared into the depths of my open vet truck.

I watched in dismay as the foul water flowed into the truck, but soon realized that I had even worse problems, because Devil Breath was doing other things in there as the spilled sheath water pursued him. The smell of cat urine was overpowering.

Laurie gasped.

“Oh, Dr. Diehl! Your poor truck!”

I was more worried about her poor husband, who was now leaning against the house moaning, so I sent Laurie for some antiseptic.

I should have known better than to leave the vet truck open. They’re a magnet for barn and ranch cats, and over the years, I’d inadvertently stolen and safely returned several stowaways. I had learned a few tricks for de-catting my truck prior to leaving a farm, and confidently jumped behind the wheel.

I started the loud diesel engine, which is usually enough to scatter any hiding cats, then pumped the throttle a few times for good measure. Then I turned the truck uphill so the foul sheath water would drain from the vet unit, and I figured that Devil Breath would be long gone.

Except he wasn’t. I shined my flashlight into the unit, and disembodied eyes glared at me from the depths of the truck. When the smell of cat feces hit me, I realized that Devil Breath had engaged his entire arsenal, and that it was now officially war.

I yanked the unit’s sliding drawers out as far as they would go and began removing my equipment and supplies, stacking everything on Laurie’s deck. When the truck was empty, I opened the gull wing door on top of the unit, borrowed Laurie’s hose, and stuck it into the depths of the fouled vet unit. Then I turned it on full blast.

There was a muffled yowl, and Devil Breath shot from the back of the unit, followed by a flow of gross water and clumps of feces. I ran the hose for a good 10 minutes, removing all traces of the battle, then sprayed everything down with disinfectant and replaced my gear.

Laurie was preparing to take her husband to the hospital and had loaded the poor man into their little red Mazda. She rolled down her window as they drove past.

“Did you get him out?” she yelled.

I pointed in the direction of her barn. “Sorry about the mess in your yard.”

She shrugged.

“Well, at least he won’t poop in my barn!” Then she clapped her husband heartily on the shoulder as they drove off. “And Dr. Diehl gave him the rabies shot right before he bit you, so it’s your lucky day, dear.”

Returning to the Present

My phone squawked at me.

“Hello? Dr. Diehl, are you still there? The owner said Devil Breath might be difficult, do you have any recommendations?”

I snapped back to reality, and realized I was still on the phone with the vet clinic.

“A suit of armor, gauntlets, and a full-face shield should do it,” I said. “And nose plugs.”

The woman laughed merrily.

“Oh Dr. Diehl, you’re always so funny. We’ll keep our eyes peeled for those records.”

“You do that.” I told her. “I’ve retired from small animal practice.”

This edition of Vet Adventures appeared in the August 2023 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

The post Vet Adventures: Barn Cat Showdown appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

I’d been treating my patient, a sweet Quarter Horse mare named Maizey, for almost two weeks. Maizey had been running loose in a side pasture and got tangled in some fencing wire. I’d spent a very long night stitching the horse’s chest and torso back together. I wasn’t terribly worried about those wounds; it was the horse’s leg wound that was the problem.

The wire had wrapped around Maizey’s lower front leg and had tightened like a tourniquet. As the poor mare fought to get free, she succeeded in lacerating and degloving the cannon area from the knee to the ankle, and there was almost 5 inches of exposed bone on the leg with a large slab of damaged tissues hanging from the leg.

Purple Power

Fortunately, Celia realized quickly that her beloved mare was missing, and she and her husband went searching for her. Carl had cut Maizey free from the wire and pulled out his pet remedy: the purple spray found in almost every barn, despite me scolding him every time he used it.

By the time I arrived, Maizey was purple as well as red from the blood, and after I’d finished cleaning her up, I was purple and red from head to toe as well.

Carl roared with laughter when he saw me and informed me that I was going to be purple for some time, “cause that ain’t gonna wash off easily, Doc. It’s good strong stuff, and that’s why I like it.”

I’d gritted my teeth and pulled out a bottle of rubbing alcohol to clean my hands and arms. My clothing was beyond help, and I knew from experience that the stains weren’t coming out. Carl received another scolding from both Celia and I, but he paid no attention.

Carl suffered from chronic kidney and bladder stones, and lately he was visiting his doctor more and more frequently. After ribbing me for a while, he’d hopped in his truck to head to an appointment.

When Celia led Maizey down the aisle toward me for our weekly recheck, I could tell by her face that Carl had been at it again. There was a Vetrap and duct tape bandage on the horse’s lower leg that had slid down and was flopping around the ankle, exposing the wound. Even worse, it was purple again.

Celia brought her horse to a halt in front of me and gave me her special exasperated-with-Carl death look. I knew Carl was in for it when he returned from yet another doctor’s appointment.

“Let’s see what we’ve got, Celia,” I said as I began to cut the bandage off. “Maybe Carl went easy this time.”

Chemical Overload on the Wound

Unfortunately, Carl had not gone easy this time. In fact, he’d outdone himself, and I groaned when I saw a thick coating of the stuff on the leg.

Maizey had a stained muzzle from licking at the wound, and the horse left a large colorful smear across Celia’s barn jacket. Celia dragged the hose over grimly and began to wash the wound, as purple water ran across the barn floor and down the drain.

It took almost 30 minutes to get Maizey cleaned up, and because the spray was almost 90 percent alcohol, I had to place a special dressing on the leg. Wounds don’t like caustic chemicals and get irritated very easily. If all infection is gone, they prefer a clean, moist and quiet healing environment so that the healing cells can migrate to where they’re needed and not be disturbed, irritated by chemicals or scrubbed off by overzealous wound cleanings. My old mentor, Dr. George Platt, used to tell me sternly that if I wouldn’t put a particular substance in my eye, don’t put it on a horse’s wound, and I followed those instructions religiously.

As I finished bandaging Maizey, Celia muttered that she was going to put a padlock on the stall door to keep Carl out. As I walked out of the barn, I heard the familiar roar of Carl’s old truck, and soon he was parking in front of the barn. Celia remained behind, presumably to throw away every bottle of purple stuff that she could find. But when she heard the truck pull up, she hastened out of the barn, clutching a remaining can of the spray.

Giving Up for Good

Carl exited his truck and slowly walked toward us. Patch, his beloved Border Collie, shot out from underneath a nearby bush and followed him over.

“Carl, are you OK?” I asked. I’d never once seen Carl move slowly.

He grimaced. “They flushed out the plumbing today.” He pointed miserably at his groin. “It hurts like hell, Doc.”

Celia was moving towards us shaking the spray menacingly, and on a whim, I grabbed the bottle from her and started reading the label out loud.

“Ninety percent alcohol, wow, that’ll burn out just about any infection! And gentian violet soaks deeply into inflamed tissues. You might pee purple for a while, but Carl, you should use this stuff to treat your bladder infection!”

Carl looked me in horror, and I gave him an innocent smile and offered him the bottle. He muttered something, then headed to the house in a stiff, crouching gait, Patch at his side.

Celia was howling with laughter.

“Oh dear! Dr. Diehl, I don’t know what gets into you sometimes! I bet Carl never goes near this stuff again!”

Eventually I started packing up my truck. Celia gave me a quick hug, then smiled sadly.

“I better go tend to my husband, Doc. He’s not getting any younger and this bladder problem really worries me.”

I was starting to feel a little guilty, but Celia winked at me.

“I think I’ll hang a bottle of that purple stuff on the refrigerator door. Then he won’t eat all the ice cream.”

Also Read: More Editions of Vet Adventures

This column about treating a horse’s wound appeared in the August 2022 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

The post Vet Adventures: How Not to Treat a Horse’s Wound appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

I wasn’t worried about performing the actual mass removal; it was a procedure I’d done on many horses and wasn’t a difficult surgery. The mass was in a tricky location on the horse’s knee, and it would be difficult to get the area to heal well, but I was OK with that. What bothered me was that the mass removal needed to be done on Skip.

Skip was a beautiful black mare in her mid-teens, and if you didn’t know her, you might think that she was sweet. Mona found Skip languishing in a sale barn and had spontaneously purchased her before learning about the mare’s issues. To be fair, Skip was a pretty good horse under saddle, but when she decided that something had the remotest possibility of causing her any discomfort, she transformed into a land shark.

Reason to be Wary

Skip had demonstrated her lightning-fast moves on me on several occasions, so I had good reason to be wary of her. The first time was when I’d unsuspectingly stepped over to her shoulder to inspect a wound that had been stitched up by another veterinarian.

The second time was when I had to vaccinate her. I stupidly thought that I was ready for her bad behavior, but she was a great deal faster than me. Most horses will give some sort of a warning when they’re planning to maim you, but not Skip. Both interactions caught me completely by surprise and left me limping for several weeks.

We didn’t know for sure what had happened to Skip before Mona had acquired her, but it was suspected that she’d been used in a nasty event in certain rodeos where horses are roped and intentionally tripped for entertainment. Even though horse-tripping has been banned in most states, there were still places that secretly hosted these events, and Skip bore the classic scars and poorly healed skin flaps on her knees that were consistent with repeated hard falls.

Mona gave her new mare lots of love, and Skip had made a great deal of progress, but she would never fully overcome the trauma of her earlier life.

Postponing the Inevitable

Some scar tissue on Skip’s right knee had been steadily increasing in size, and Mona decided that she wanted it removed. I had X-rayed the horse’s knees (under heavy sedation) and was encouraged to see that despite the tissue trauma, the joints looked relatively good, but the large mass of tissue was becoming unsightly, and some infection was building up around it.

I’d rehearsed multiple imaginary surgeries on the mare, thought through every possible scenario and planned for every possible reaction, but Mona and I seemed to be taking turns postponing this particular horse’s procedure. Mona might develop a sudden migraine, or I’d remember an important meeting, or there’d be an emergency two counties away.

This went on for several months, but we were running out of excuses, and the mass was getting larger. I finally arranged to have Mona trailer Skip to a barn that would let me use their restraint stocks, and we set the date.

You might wonder why I didn’t just arrange to lay Skip down under general anesthesia, but honestly, I felt safer doing the procedure standing. After what the mare had done to me, I didn’t want to be the one holding her up against a wall and easing her to the ground while the general anesthesia took effect, and hiring an army of assistants was not within Mona’s budget. We either did it standing, or we didn’t do it at all.

Knee Procedure Day

On the appointed procedure day, Mona arrived with Skip, and coaxed the horse into the sturdy metal stocks with a bucket of grain. Skip ate happily while I prepared her injection. I strategically positioned myself near one of the upright stock poles to deliver the shot, and when Skip whipped her head around to bite me, she clonged into the steel pole instead.

Mona jerked Skip’s head away, so the mare seized Mona’s arm and tore a large hole in her coat. I finished the intravenous injection as down feathers floated through the air around us.

Unable to sink her teeth into me, Skip tried her best to kick, but was defeated by the stocks and finally gave up. I waited 15 minutes to allow the sedation to take effect, and for good measure, gave the mare a second dose before clipping and scrubbing the knee.

After bending several needles and chipping one of her front hooves on the stocks, Skip finally allowed me to inject a local anesthetic around the base of the skin mass. Soon I was hunkered down by the leg, happily cutting away the unsightly tissue. Skip snored loudly as I dressed and bandaged the knee, and Mona studied the nearby lump of tissue curiously.

“What is it, Doc? It looks like cancer or something.”

I smiled at her. “Oh, the lab will call it something or another, but I’m calling it ‘Afraid-of-Skip-itis.’ I should have done this two months ago.”

Mona pointed to her shredded coat. “Well, I don’t blame you one bit.”

Skip was now drooling and looked almost happy as Mona took hold of her halter and shook her gently. “What am I going to do with you?”

The tissue ended up being benign, and I was relieved when the knee healed quickly and we could stop the bandaging.

No Love Lost

Skip’s hatred of me had grown exponentially, and she was kicking and biting me regularly. But her knee looked good, and Mona was happy.

I had to do a two-month recheck on the mare, who I hadn’t missed a bit. As I entered the barn, a back door crashed open, and I saw a black streak galloping across a large field at top speed.

Mona laughed until she cried. “Well, that’s gratitude for you! So much for rechecking Skip today!”

I happily returned to my truck and drove away. I had to admit, I was grateful too.

This edition of Vet Adventures about prolonging a knee procedure on a difficult horse appeared in the July 2022 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

The post Vet Adventures: Prolonging a Procedure appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

I sighed as I watched Gander growing smaller in the distance, tail flying and dust clouds rising behind him as he galloped toward the open gate in the back field. Watching your patient run away is a familiar sight to most equine vets. And when horse and owner have to leave the state with updated health paperwork in three days, coming back at a more convenient time to draw blood and vaccinate is not an option.

I exhaled in frustration and tried not to glare at Ronald, the ruddy little man standing silently next to me. My day was already double-booked, but if I didn’t get the blood shipped to Denver today, Gander’s results would not come back in time.

No Way Out

Ronald lifted his hat and rubbed his forehead.

“Well dang that gelding anyway, Doc. Guess I should have shut that back gate.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Or set this appointment up two weeks ago, Ronald.”

“Well, I didn’t have the trip planned two weeks ago!”

Ronald and Gander were joining some old friends on a round-up ride in Oklahoma.

I began a lecture on the importance of planning ahead and being prepared, then shook my head wearily. Ronald would never change, and we had to figure out a way to catch Gander—one that didn’t involve me trudging through an enormous field.

Ronald had an idea and disappeared quickly into a nearby garage. A chugging sound came from the building and clouds of blue smoke emerged from the doorway. After about five minutes, the chugging stopped and Ronald reappeared, looking defeated.

“Plugs are bad. Knew I should have changed them this spring!”

He wiped his face with a grubby handkerchief and shook his fist in the direction of the building. “And my other truck won’t make it over them culverts out in that field.”

He scratched his forehead again, then looked hopefully at my vet truck.

“Well, Doc, maybe we could …”

I cut him off. “No way, Ronald. You got me stuck in that field last year, remember?”

I’d also broken three bottles of expensive medications when I’d lurched over a big log and sent them flying.

Ruthie’s Rules

I was muttering to myself and pacing around the outbuildings, trying not to look at my watch as Ronald puzzled over the situation. I wandered in frustration around the corner of an old barn as a small fuzzy creature with very long ears suddenly appeared and honked loudly at me. I scrambled backward, clutching my chest, squarely into Ronald.

“What on earth, Ronald!”

The little man grinned at me. “That’s my mini donkey, Ruthie. Watch her now, Doc. She gets a little pushy with folks.”

Ruthie marched briskly up to me and inspected my pant leg in annoyance. Her back was level with the middle of my thigh, and I marveled at the little donkey, her long ears standing at attention. She had a barrel-shaped body and tiny, perfect hooves. I moved to stroke her neck, but she stomped her feet, whipped her head in the air and trotted off, tail swinging haughtily from side to side.

Ronald watched her adoringly.

“Ruthie’s pretty sure she runs the place. And she’s mad because her buddy just ran away.”

He stopped short and held up a finger.

“And that gives me an idea, Doc! Don’t move!” Ronald grabbed a halter from a peg on the side of the barn and hurried after Ruthie. “If anyone can bring Gander in, it’s Ruthie!”

Soon Ronald was leading Ruthie toward the open gate, or rather pulling hard on her when she refused to move, then running frantically after her when she got mad and raced past him. I’d been given a bucket of grain and a metal spoon and instructed to bang it loudly when Ronald gave the signal.

When Ruthie spied Gander in the distance, Ronald unclipped her lead rope and she ran toward her big equine companion, her mane bobbing briskly. Gander’s head came up, and when he started trotting toward Ruthie, Ronald cried, “Now, Doc!”

I banged on the grain bucket, and Ruthie turned so fast, her little feet went out from under her, and she went down in a tangle of limbs and ears before scrambling up, unhurt. She tucked her tail and sprinted furiously back to the barn, her little head and long ears bobbing through the tall grass. I laughed until I cried.

Gander was in hot pursuit, and as the two galloped into the yard, Ronald swung the gate shut. Soon after, I was happily drawing blood for the Coggins and vaccinating Gander.

Cheers for Years

Ruthie had been relegated to a small pen, and she paced furiously and honked some more as Gander munched the grain.

Ronald shook a finger at Ruthie.

“You don’t get grain, you chubby! However …” He entered the pen and pulled some peppermints from his pocket. Ruthie tugged impatiently at his shirt as he unwrapped a mint for her.

I was starting to pack up, but Ronald called to me,“We still have to do Ruthie, Doc! Did you bring enough shots?”

“Ruthie’s going too?” I said, puzzled.

“Well of course she’s going!” said Ronald. “I can’t leave her here all alone!”

Of course Gander’s special equine companion would be making the trip.

Drawing blood and getting shots into the opinionated donkey was a challenge, but Ronald and I eventually succeeded. We leaned against the wall of the barn panting while Ruthie sulked in the corner of her pen.

When he’d caught his breath, Ronald pointed at her.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth, you little devil!” Then he snickered. “But how about that wipeout in the field, Doc? That’ll cheer me up for a month!”

I chuckled to myself for quite a while after that visit, so I guess Ruthie cheered me up for a month, too.

This edition of Dr. Diehl’s Vet Adventures about a unique equine companion appeared in the March 2022 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

The post Vet Adventures: A Unique Equine Companion appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

I was standing near the arena gate with my daughter, Morgan, who was waiting her turn to show Kevin, our American Saddlebred gelding (although he was regularly accused of being an Arabian cross). I’d been hopeful that my large hat and sunglasses would conceal my identity, but my flamboyant horse was a dead giveaway, in case anyone was actually fooled by my outfit.

It is the law of all things veterinarian that should vets appear in public, someone will hit us up for free advice, launch into a long saga about a sick or lame horse, or try to get us to look at a horse or a dog, so we always try to lay low. Unfortunately, with Kevin around, that was not possible. So much for balancing vet life with mom life.

And So It Begins

A horse had been excused from the arena, and the owner poked at him and announced that he was probably “out” in his hips. Her trainer pointed at me, and Morgan sighed in frustration as the woman walked over to us. She was used to people approaching me, but it was the third time today, and it was wearing on her.

“If you could just look inside my horse’s mouth real quick?” said the woman. “We think he might have some sharp points, or he might need his hips put back in. The chiro from Yuma was out last week but didn’t get to my horse, and he knows treatments that vets don’t learn about. Also my friend’s horse had ulcers, so could I get a few tubes of Gastrogard from you?”

She thumped Kevin’s neck. “I had an Arabian-cross once.”

Morgan glared.

“Mom, can you double-check my girth? And I’m thirsty—can I have my water bottle, please?”

I sighed, tightened the girth, and handed over the water bottle, which was filled with Morgan’s favorite blue sports drink. I explained that I was not working today and that I wasn’t handing out prescription drugs for horses that weren’t my patients and told the woman to call Monday for an appointment.

Fun fact: This type of owner almost never calls to schedule an actual appointment with the vet, but you better believe they have the lay-tooth-floater and the internet-certified “back-popper” on speed dial.

I was muttering to myself when the loudspeaker blared, and my blue-lipped daughter tapped my arm anxiously.

Making an Escape

“Mom, we have to go! That was my number!”

I noticed Morgan’s blue mouth and quickly mimed wiping it off, which she did on the inside of her show coat. We headed toward the gate, water bottle tucked under my arm. Morgan trotted confidently into the arena, and I had just started videoing when the woman’s loud voice boomed into my ear again.

“So if you could just look at his teeth real quick then I’ll know if he needs floated and then we can schedule everything on Monday. I’ve got two other horses here that need checked, too. Berty is a little thin, but he gets two cups of senior grain twice a day, and the chiro has him on a mineral supplement. Dixie has sciatica, and the chiro usually fixes her right up, but it could also be her teeth. She’s an old barrel horse, but she’s a decent jumper, and the chiro said the sciatica was from running barrels, but as long as we didn’t run her anymore and just stuck to English, she’d be fine. But Chicken Little really seems like he has something going on, and my thought is teeth or hips, but you’re the vet, so …”

I was focused on filming and didn’t respond. Kevin knocked a rail down but completed the course, and Morgan was beaming when they exited the ring.

We walked Kevin back to the trailer and the woman followed, still talking.

“Course Berty used to knock rails down but then the dentist did a special neurological-something float, and he’s never done it since, and your horse looks like he needs that, too. You should call my dentist, most vets don’t know about it …”

Electrolyte Bioactivation

I winked at my daughter. Then, turning my back to the woman, I poured some bright blue Gatorade into my hand and applied it to Kevin’s right hoof wall, then opened an app on my phone that turned my screen red, and slowly moved it back and forth over Kevin’s wet foot.

The woman’s mouth hung open.

“What are you doing to him?!”

“Oh, I would never recommend this to a client,” I said sternly. “It’s complete nonsense, and it hasn’t been researched or proven to do a thing. Some say that the iPhone 11 and 12 may have a Delta Nu red light spectrum that could improve performance, mental function and wellness. I’ve been trying it out on my own horses. The blue Gatorade on the hoof supposedly catalyzes the purple spectrum electrolyte bioactivation.”

Morgan was enthusiastic.

“Mom, today we could jump almost anything! It’s really helping Kevin!”

I gave her The Stare that mothers everywhere have perfected for when their kids are overdoing it, but the owner was studying her battered iPhone 8 glumly and hadn’t noticed. Morgan and I untacked Kevin and sponged him down, and when I looked up, the woman was gone.

When I’d snort-laughed for the fourth time in a row, Morgan looked at me.

“Mama, does the light really work?”

I sat next to her.

“The reason Kevin is doing better is because of the hard work you’ve put in! And I haven’t put Gatorade on his foot and waved my phone at it before today, I promise.”

“Did you do that because the lady was bothering us?”

“Yes, but I made it up and it seems to have backfired, because now you think that Gatorade and the iPhone 11 and 12 heals horses.”

My daughter smiled.

“Well, I guess we’ll find out next time I ride, won’t we?”

This installment of Dr. Diehl’s Vet Adventures about balancing vet life with mom life appeared in the January/February 2022 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

The post Vet Adventures: Balancing Mom Life appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

“She’ll feel a lot better now, Katie,” I said with satisfaction as I studied the mare’s mouth to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. I snapped my gloves off and started cleaning up as the dratted phone vibrated again. I opened my text app to see about a dozen new messages.

Message Barrage

I sighed and started scrolling through the texts. The first one showed a picture of a chubby white dog looking sad. The message read: “Hi, my dog needs spayed, she’s draining white stuff, and the rip-off vet said it would be between $4-5K and that’s too much, and will you do it cheaper?”

“I’m a horse vet,” I texted back. “There’s a hospital in Denver that may work with you on cost—ask your veterinarian for their phone number.”

The return text came in almost immediately, as I knew it would, asking for the hospital’s phone number.

The next text was a shaky video of a newborn foal walking away from the camera, and what did I think of her front legs? I ignored that one and opened the next, which was a request for a Sunday night prepurchase exam on a horse that would be at the evening rodeo in town, and could I meet them after the rodeo ended around 10 or 11 p.m. and do a lameness exam and take X-rays of hocks and stifles only? And she didn’t want to spend a lot. My initial response was a little colorful, so I deleted it and responded with a professional and polite, “No.”

There were several more messages from regular clients wanting appointments and a question about strangles, which I answered quickly, but the last text began with a dim and blurry picture of a horse in a stall. I zoomed in on the photo and could see that he was a dun color and was lying down, but I couldn’t see much else.

The message simply read: “Hi Dr. Diehl, can you come take a look at a cut leg? Happened a few days ago.”

Looking for Drom

I tried calling the number. There was no answer, so I left a message with lots of questions about the injury. It’s a mathematical certainty that the longer of a message I leave, the sooner the client calls back and the less likely it is that they’ve listened to any of it. Sure enough, the phone rang within five minutes and a chirpy woman was explaining that she hadn’t listened to my message.

“But we’re very worried about Drom, Dr. Diehl. Can you come right away?”

Drom? I knew I didn’t have a horse on my books by that name, and the owner explained that they were new to town. I repeated my questions about the injury, but after listening to her answers, I switched my next appointment and drove straight out to see poor Drom, who was clearly in bad shape.

I pulled up to a series of newly painted red-and-white outbuildings. A cheerful sign read Wrinkled Knee Ranch. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, but a dun horse’s head briefly appeared in a nearby window, and I knew I’d found my patient. I peered into the stall to see a very fat gelding munching hay from a feeder and resting a hind leg.

When no one had appeared after a good five minutes, I decided to examine Drom. There were no obvious swellings or cuts anywhere, but there were some crusty scabs on the pink skin on his hind pastern, and he flinched when I pressed on the area.

I was preparing a speech about pastern dermatitis with a few firm sentences on how it wasn’t really an emergency, when a woman appeared in the doorway of the stall looking at me strangely.

“Why are you looking at Andy, Dr. Diehl? Drom is over in the next barn.”

Helping An Unlikely Animal

I straightened up just as Andy unloaded a very wet pile of manure down my leg. The woman didn’t seem to notice, and I limped quickly after her, trying to shake the stinky mess off my pants.

She opened the top half of a large Dutch door and an enormous brown head emerged and blatted loudly at me.

“Oh, you have a camel!” I said stupidly. He’s cute!”

She gave me another strange look. “This is Drom. Your patient?”

I recovered quickly. “Of course! I meant that Drom is very cute! Let’s take a look at that leg!”

She haltered Drom and led him out of his large stall bemusedly. I started clipping and cleaning a deep laceration on his upper leg. I numbed the wound with a very small dose of lidocaine, as camelids can be sensitive to the drug, and soon had the wound stitched up neatly. Drom was a perfect gentleman, and the woman clapped her hands in delight as she inspected my work.

“You know your camels, Dr. Diehl. A lot of vets are afraid of them, but Drom and I can tell that you really know what you’re doing!”

The only other camel that I’d treated was in vet school, 15 years ago, but it didn’t matter. I was clearly a camel master now, and I headed proudly to my truck.

I was pulling out of the driveway when she hollered after me.

“But maybe practice your horse handling skills a little more so you won’t get crapped on next time!”

This Vet Adventures column about a vet helping an unlikely animal appeared in the October 2021 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

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In the eighth episode of The Horse Illustrated Episode of Horses in the Morning, sponsored by Title Sponsor Straight Arrow Products, hosts Glenn the Geek and Sarah Evers Conrad talk to Horse Illustrated columnist Dr. Courtney Diehl about her Vet Adventures and Rebecca Didier from Trafalgar Square Books about a winter reading list.

Hosts: Sarah Conrad, Digital Content Editor of Horse Illustrated & Young Rider and Glenn the Geek, host of Horses in the Morning

Title Sponsor: Straight Arrow Family of Brands

There’s an App for that!  Check out the new Horse Radio Network app for iPhone and Android. Follow Horse Radio Network on Twitter or follow Horses In The Morning on Facebook.

Dr. Courtney Diehl, Author of the Vet Adventures Column

Courtney Diehl, DVM, has been an equine veterinarian since 2000. She completed an internship in Saratoga Springs and a fellowship in critical care and emergency medicine at Hagyard-Davidson-McGee (now Hagyard Equine Medical Institute) and has owned two mobile equine practices in the Colorado Rocky Mountains over the course of her 21years in practice. She presently serves as vice president of the Colorado State Veterinary Board. Her Vet Adventures column is one of Horse Illustrated‘s most popular columns.

Additional Information: Read all of Dr. Courtney Diehl’s Vet Adventures columns, here.

Links:

◆ Official Website: www.mountainvet.net

Rebecca Didier of Trafalgar Square Books and Her Winter Reading List

Rebecca Didier has worked for Trafalgar Square Books, the leading publisher of equestrian books and videos, for 19 years. Trafalgar Square Publishing is a media partner of Horse Illustrated and Young Rider brands. She currently serves as both managing editor and graphic designer, and her role in the small company spans acquisitions, editorial, design, and marketing. She has worked with top riders, trainers, and equine experts from around the globe to bring their books to print. In addition, Trafalgar Square Books publishes a specialized list of craft titles, and a limited number of canine and nature books. Didier has designed more than 200 book covers for the non-fiction, biography, memoir, and fiction genres, as well as packaging for videos, including the Telly Award-winning series 7 Clinics with Buck Brannaman, from the director of the international hit feature film Buck. She is co-author of the book Dressage with Mind, Body & Soul with world-renowned animal behaviorist Linda Tellington-Jones. A book conceived of and edited by Rebecca—Naturally Curious: A Photographic Field Guide and Month-By-Month Journey Through the Fields, Woods, and Marshes of New England by naturalist Mary Holland—is a winner of the National Outdoor Book Award.

Additional Information:
◆ Book excerpts from Trafalgar published by Horse Illustrated

Links for Trafalgar Square Books

◆ Official Website: www.horseandriderbooks.com
◆ Instagram: www.instagram.com/horseandriderbooks
◆ Facebook: www.facebook.com/HorseandRiderBooks
◆ Twitter: www.twitter.com/TSBbooks

Title Sponsor

We want to thank our Title Sponsor, the Straight Arrow Family of Brands, makers of Mane ‘n Tail, Cowboy Magic & Exhibitor’s, with over 100 years of grooming excellence. For more information about your favorite products, please visit www.straightarrowinc.com and find Straight Arrow Products at a tack shop near you!

The “Magic” in Cowboy Magic comes from the bond between you and your horse. Cowboy Magic celebrates every moment with you, from quiet chats in the pasture to the adrenaline rush of competition. We want to invite you to embrace your “Magic Moment” with your horse by sharing your favorite photos with Cowboy Magic on social media using #CowboyMagicMoment.

The post Podcast Episode #8: Vet Adventures and Your Winter Reading List for December 23, 2021 from Title Sponsor Straight Arrow Products appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

Marvin the pony was a rare find, and his owners knew it. When young Lucas went for a ride, Marvin always brought him home safely. You’d never catch Marvin ducking and weaving around an arena as his rider held on for dear life. Marvin would never drop his head and come to a screeching halt, launching the unsuspecting child headfirst into a small cross-rail jump. He would never buck furiously as though demons were pursuing him, and then prick his ears innocently at his unhappy rider sprawled on the ground. In a world full of children terrorized by devil-minded ponies, Marvin was pretty much a saint. Or so he seemed. But this pony held one very bad habit.

A Very Good Boy

One day when I was working on the farm, I saw Lucas climbing Marvin like a tree, his coattails flapping as he struggled sideways into the saddle. The gray pony never moved a muscle, but the saddle did, rotating 180 degrees and dumping the child into the dirt under Marvin’s legs. I gasped as the boy struggled to his feet, and his helmeted head thudded into Marvin’s belly, but all Marvin did was nose Lucas’ side and stand patiently while his saddle was fixed.

Another time, Marvin and Lucas were jogging around the arena during a lesson, and an out-of-control horse charged past them, kicking out viciously. Marvin dodged the kick, unseating Lucas, who ended up straddling the back of the pony’s neck.

Marvin came to a stop immediately, and Lucas, who was apparently part monkey, was able to scramble back into his saddle without ever hitting the ground. He straightened his tweed coat, and they trotted off with dignity.

Needle-Shy

The only time Marvin was less than perfect was when I had to give him his shots. Lucas’ mother, Daphne, would take a firm grip on Marvin’s halter, walk him off, and I’d follow, syringes uncapped and ready.

When I first started doing Marvin’s shots, I’d give the pony a chance to behave and would try giving the shots in the usual manner. I’d take hold of the skin on his neck and ease the needle in, but when Marvin felt the first poke, all hell broke loose.

While he usually bolted forward, sometimes he’d rear, and sometimes he’d spin into me. He was powerful and fast and was instantly enraged by the pokes. We had found the bad habit of this pony.

By then, I’d either dropped the syringe into the dirt or bent the needle, and Daphne would be panting, hauling on the halter and scolding the pony. Lucas would hide behind a nearby stall door, chanting, “Come on now, Marvin. Marvin stop that! Marvin, you behave yourself! Marvin, you bad boy!”

Successful Tactics

On one memorable visit, the full syringe was left dangling from Marvin’s neck after he exploded, driving him into a frenzy of charging and rearing until he’d managed to shake it loose and trample it into the ground.

I retrieved the broken pieces of the syringe but never did find the needle. Daphne found it the next day, wedged in the sole of her muck boot. Clearly different tactics were needed to get the shots into this pony, and after some dramatic mishaps with a rope twitch, which I quickly abandoned, I’d discovered an approach that sort of worked.

Daphne would walk Marvin briskly along the gravel path, rattling a feed bucket and distracting him. I’d sidle up to him with my heart pounding and syringes uncapped and tucked between my fingers. I’d rapidly shoot them into the gray neck without any warning, and—if I was lucky—I was in and out before Marvin had a chance to react.

Daphne would swiftly distract him with the grain, and all was well. If I messed up, it was war, so I made a point to get it right.

New On the Black

One spring, there was a new vet sniffing around the barn, and while I normally
welcomed new colleagues, it was clear that this woman had no interest in any sort of a professional relationship with me.

She wanted my clients and was doing everything in her power to lure them, launching direct email campaigns, hanging posters, and offering discounted vaccine and Coggins clinics to all new clients. It was a free country, and horse owners had a right to use whichever vet they wanted, but it still stung a little when I didn’t hear from Daphne and Lucas that season.

I was very busy with my regular barns, so I put Marvin out of my mind and focused on my work. But one day in late spring my phone rang, and Daphne’s number popped up on the screen.

“Dr. Diehl, I’m embarrassed. We decided to use another vet this spring to save money, but things didn’t go so well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “What happened?”

“Well, as you know, Marvin’s a little tricky with shots. He kind of outdid himself this time.”

I hid a grin at the pony’s probable display of his only bad habit..

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Daphne said. “The vet wouldn’t listen when I told her how you do it. They tried giving the shots the usual way, and he knocked the tech down and ran away. Then they tried to twitch him when I said not to, and he struck the twitch off, and it hit the vet in the face and broke her nose. I feel absolutely awful. We’ve arranged for a trainer to work with him, but can you please come vaccinate him?”

Back to Business

I said that I would, and we got Marvin vaccinated, barely. After his experience at the vaccine clinic, he was worse than usual, but my old trick eventually worked, and soon he was munching his handful of grain, and I was shakily capping my empty syringes. Lucas emerged from his hiding place, wideeyed, and marched up to Marvin, shaking a small finger.

“Marvin, you’re naughty, and I’m very, very mad at you.”

Then he produced a carrot from his coat pocket. Marvin crunched the carrot adoringly, and Lucas stroked the lowered gray head. “But you sure showed that other vet, didn’t you!”

This Vet Adventure column about a pony’s very bad habit appeared in the July 2020 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

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Horse manure provided me with a shovel full of lessons! I turned 51 with a poop shovel in hand. Not exactly the middle age I had anticipated.

When my daughter reached ninth grade, my husband and I gave in to her pleas for a horse. George agreed we could buy a horse if Jenni and I found a way to afford one. It seemed it was time for me to resume a paying career. Being a tax accountant, I opted to work tax season, January through mid-April, hoping to make enough money to cover a year’s worth of horse expenses.

We bought a Spotted Saddle Horse named Jim and visited him daily at our boarding stable. I had long dreamt of owning a horse and welcomed the opportunity to be involved in Jim’s care. Jenni spent hours riding and training Jim, while I helped brush, bathe, and saddle him.

The Poop-Shoveler

Of course, caring for a horse includes mucking out his stall. Translation: shoveling horse manure — hard, but necessary, work. “Good boy! Here’s your carrot,” Jenni would say as she hugged Jim at the end of each visit, while I eased my sore back into the car for the drive home.

We tended to Jim every day, rain or shine. It was a huge commitment, but my daughter’s confidence and passion for animals was growing.

Our boarding facility was the farm where Jenni’s riding instructor, Rebekah, lived. And when Rebekah decided to move, we opted to move also. Since the new location didn’t yet have fencing, we needed a place for the horse until fences were erected. Some acquaintances of Rebekah’s offered the use of their farm for free. But there was a catch.

Scaling Up

The farm’s owner didn’t believe in dragging his fields. Hores manure attracted flies, he said, so he wanted it removed from his property as a condition for free boarding. I had cleaned up after Jim enough that I didn’t think this would be a problem.

Rebekah had three horses and one of Rebekah’s friends had three horses. Counting Jim, that made seven horses on a five-acre tract. Do you know how much poop seven horses produce in one day?

This should not have been a big deal with several owners to do the work, but the other women worked year-round jobs, while I only worked during tax season. We were, unfortunately, in the middle of September. I delved into the cleanup while the others were at work and school. And having obsessive-compulsive tendencies, I couldn’t stop with a reasonable amount of work. And I should have seen that I was disturbing boundaries I’d established for self-care and the care of my family, but I didn’t.

My urgency wouldn’t subside until I had cleaned the entire pasture. This was my daily routine—place muck bucket on rolling cart; line bucket with plastic bag; pull bucket from one pile to another; shovel poop into bucket; drag bucket back to barn; tie bag; lift bag out of bucket (and develop a hernia in the process).

If the bags were the least bit too full, they’d break, sending horse apples in all directions, requiring me to re-shovel previously shoveled poop. Bend, scoop, lift. Bend, scoop, lift. Three or four hours of this felt like the lower-back workout from hell.

Digging in Deeper

After the first week, the other horse owners learned they could stop by the stable after work without the need to shovel a single nugget of horse manure.

“Karen, thanks for clearing the field again. I fed my horses and rode a while, but never would have had time to clean before dark.”

“You’re a gem, Karen!”

I would hear similar words nightly in phone calls from the two women.

This stuff has to be shoveled every single day, I remember thinking. I can still feel the wave of anxiety that clenched my stomach and rendered me incapable of actually saying something. I knew the other women enjoyed taking a ride after a hard day at work. But I wasn’t sure they understood how much work I was doing.

The other ladies’ expressions of gratitude made me feel good, though. And after the many words of thanks, I couldn’t stop my shoveling, no matter how much my lower back hurt.

You may wonder where Jenni was in all of this. She shoveled a number of piles when she went to train and feed Jim every day after school. Her focus was on working with her horse, however, which is what I wanted.

“Why are you doing this, Mom?” she asked many mornings before school, when my worn-out jeans and dirty boots gave the clear signal I was on my way, yet again, to the farm.

I worried the owners of the farm would ask us to leave if their field wasn’t clean, so I continued my morning routine—for three long months.

Why did I nearly slip a disc? Because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do the things I said I’d do. I agreed to keep the field clean. Period. Also, maybe I thought my fellow horse owners would like me more the more I did for them. It’s true that after a few weeks, I had nearly achieved sainthood based on their expressions of love.

Looking Back

Years later, I continue my battle with OCD and a sore lower back. But I did learn some things from this experience. First, I have an intelligent daughter who knows how to set boundaries; I should follow her example. Secondly, I need to not obsess over things. Finally, horse manure is heavy, and shoveling it can make your back hurt for years to come.

And here’s another truth I discovered: if it takes shoveling horse manure for people to like you, you might be better off living as a hermit. Since I also do cross-stitch using wise sayings, maybe I should cross-stitch that bit of wisdom and hang it as a reminder on my wall.

Karen Curran is a horse lover from Tennessee.

This article about horse manure and a shovel full of lessons appeared in the March 2021 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

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Emily shares a humorous story any rider can connect with, especially if you’ve ever not wanted to clean your tack locker or tack trunk.

The afternoons are getting warmer. The humidity is turning the gray winter dust covering everything in sight into a vague slime.

You can feel the rainy, sticky hand of spring on your shoulder: “It’s time,” she whispers.

“It’s time to clean.”

One Tuesday night, you have plenty of time. No work crises. A busy spouse. But that won’t do. You need to pick another day, a day when you have 10,000 things to do, deadlines looming, and your significant other is texting, “Are you coming home tonight?”

Much better. You are officially suffocating under your personal and professional commitments. What better time to undertake an hours-long cleansing of your horse and all your belongings?

Starting Over

Before you start to clean, you take in the state of shambles that is your tack locker; two to three months of ignoring cleaning duties in the cold has led to sticky tack, disgusting saddle pads, grimy blankets and a dusty tack trunk. You seriously consider throwing everything away, switching barns and starting over. But a new identity is not in the budget. And it’s just a little crud. You can do this!

You begin by shampooing and scrubbing your surly, businesslike mare, who is positively aggrieved by the extra attention.

“I also hate this,” you assure her, as she lifts her giraffe nose and moves away from your sponge. Soap runs down your arms into your undergarments, and her tail whips you in the eyeball. But eventually she is clean, dry and munching hay.

Getting to the Bottom

Next, you empty your tack trunk. You are horrified to learn you have roughly 200 half-used tack sponges. You wipe down or shake out everything—tack cleaner, shampoo bottles, treat buckets, leather punch, saddle pads, old horse boots. You toss mysterious plastic bags and vet bill envelopes. Hordes of insects scurry away because you are ruthless, and they are afraid of your ruthlessness.

You tip over the trunk and dump out the dust, dirt and broken treats. Now you’re cooking with gas. You stab at the grungiest areas with a broom before attacking them with a rag.

At this point, you’re starting to feel bad about the spiders you’re evicting. But you’re also regretting all the times you saw them this winter and turned a blind eye, thinking, I know, spider. It’s cold. You can stay.

Bridles & Brushes

Every piece of leather in your trunk is moldy, which is a surprise because you’d forgotten you even had leather in your tack trunk. You assail the jumble of straps with mold-inhibiting tack cleaner and return them to the trunk to forget about them for another year.

Your tack is the only inanimate stuff in passable condition. But your saddle, bridle and breastplate still suffer a thorough delousing.

You throw away four sponges during this filth exorcism, which is for the best since you’ve evidently been hoarding hundreds of them for the tack cleaning apocalypse.

You feel a surge of guilt as you behold your grooming tools with fresh, spring eyes. They are undoubtedly making your horse dirtier.

You slog the brushes to the hose to assault them with soap, chewing yourself out for not doing this every week of your life like a responsible horse person. You nestle the clean brushes, picks and curries into the grooming box and feel good about yourself for several seconds. Until you see your blankets.

Kill It With Fire

Your blankets are on life support. They are but a faint suggestion of their original color. One belly strap has been gleefully ripped from its seam by your ungrateful mare. You resist the urge to light the blankets on fire. For too much money, the professional blanket cleaner conducts actual magic, and the blankets return clean, repaired and shrink-wrapped into cubes, as if winter and your horse never happened.

Your dirty saddle pads have accumulated in a wretched, smelly stack that should be destroyed. But you can’t justify all new pads, so you bitterly scrape off most of the horsehair and smuggle them into your washing machine when your spouse isn’t watching. They must be washed twice.

Now you’re ready for spring. New grass! New goals! New promises to clean your brushes regularly! You enjoy a whole four minutes of spotless bliss before your horse rolls. But she’s so cute.

This Your Horse Life column features a humorous story about how to clean your tack locker appeared in the April 2020 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

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