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| Tools for tagging and/or causing trouble |
As the only veterinarian for 100 square
miles, Dad was called upon for many different animal situations.
Some dire.
And some not so much.
It was also his job to carry out the
government programs of the time.
Brucellosis testing, for one.
And vaccinating for whatever was
currently deemed important.
I should probably explain that, when a
government vaccine program was initiated, the bottles of vaccine were
sent along with little, metal tags.
After an animal had been properly
vaccinated, a tag was clamped at the edge of one ear.
Proof of the deed.
Both duties involved long hours
standing beside a chute - vaccine gun in one hand and tagging pliers
in the other - while cattle were shuffled and sorted.
One herd was taking a particularly long
time.
Unseasoned help?
Uncooperative animals?
Whatever the reason, Dad found himself
standing for long periods of time with literally nothing to do.
Not a good situation for someone like
him.
Mischief happens.
The owner had turned away, trying to
see over the fence at what was going on in the next pen.
Dad glanced over.
The coat and coveralls the rancher was
wearing were . . . right there.
Hmmm.
He reached out with his tagging pliers.
And tagged.
Deftly (Ooh, I like that word!) and
effectively pinning the man's coat and coveralls together.
The work continued.
Cattle were pressed forward down the
chute.
Vaccinated and tagged.
And released.
Finally, the long job drew to a close.
As Dad was packing away his
instruments, the rancher invited him inside for a chat and a hot
drink.
I should mention here that the people
who live in the wide stretches of ranching country are among the most
welcoming and friendly in the world.
Any excuse is a good excuse for an
invitation to visit.
I love it.
Back to my story . . .
Dad accepted the invite.
The two of them walked to the farm
house.
And into the back porch.
Dad removed his boots.
The rancher did the same.
Dad removed his coat.
The rancher . . . didn't.
Oh, there was an attempt.
Some grunting and a couple of gruff
words.
But, for some reason, the man and his
coat simply couldn't . . . part company.
So to speak.
Finally, the man stripped off his coat
and coveralls together.
And discovered the little, metal clip
that held both of them firmly together.
He turned an accusing glare on Dad.
Who, with a wide grin on his face,
found somewhere else to look.
The tag was easily pried off.
And coat and coveralls hung neatly –
and separately – in the closet.
But the prank was never forgotten.
For years afterwards, whenever
vaccinating, my Dad, veterinarians in general, the Government,
ranching, chores, or ranch life were mentioned, that rancher would
recall the time that Dad stapled him into his clothes.
The days come and go on a ranch.
But a good prank goes on forever.
