March 1980, Gem Valley, Idaho
Now that both twins were delivered, I felt more confident.
“Hey Doc, she’s up already!” I glanced over at Greg Mauchly, the dairyman, toweling off the first little heifer twin. I sutured the first of two layers of muscle.
“What do you figure?” Lee, my technician, said. “Another hour?” She looked as tired as I felt, her blonde braids flecked with straw, coveralls smeared with blood.
“God, I hope not. I’m beat. I need coffee.” I knew there was no coffee to be had. My clients in rural Idaho were all Mormons.
“Hey Doc,” Lee said quietly. “Did you feel that?”
“What?”
“The cow—she…maybe,” Lee trailed off. “Just thought I felt a thump, on her side here.”
Greg looked over from the other side of the stall. “Everything okay, ladies?” Since last year, when he hadn’t trusted me to do surgery on his cow with a twisted stomach, I had been at his dairy often, treating calves with scours, cows with cystic ovaries, toxic mastitis cases, wounds.
He had finally gotten comfortable with the fact that I was a real vet.
Damn. I felt it, too. A thump like the cow’s heart had given an extra hard beat.
“Oh…my…God,” I said. I had almost finished closing the incision, and now there was another calf in there thumping around.
“Triplets?” I asked, mostly to myself, in a hushed voice.
“Greg!” I yelled. “You ever hear of a Holstein having triplets?”
“Ha! Doc, don’t fool around with me.” He set the bucket down hard, hot water sloshing. “Holsteins don’t have triplets.”
“This one does.”
“Well, my heck! Triplets?” He stared at me, took off his cap and scratched his head. “Are you sure?” For a Mormon, who never swears, “my heck” is big-deal profanity.
After pulling out all the sutures I had so carefully placed, and some grunting and pulling, all 80 pounds of bull calf was on the pile of straw behind his mother, shaking his head and sneezing mucus out his nose. I stared at him in disbelief—I had delivered triplets.
“Diane!” Greg yelled to his wife. “Come see! We got us triplets!” Greg knelt in the straw and rubbed the dark, wet hair of calf number three.
“Call the Idaho Guardian—they’re going to want to know about this.”
“Triplets, bless her heart.” I patted the old girl on her rump.
Lee and I needed to clean up, and we had a long drive down the valley before starting on the day’s calls, which were piling up on the answering machine, but we took our time, patting the three newborns on their wet heads.
The reporter for the Idaho Guardian was on the way with his camera. A clear blue sky glowed, a fresh breeze full of sweet alfalfa and silage blew in. These triplets were going to make Greg famous in Gem Valley and maybe beyond, by golly, and darn it if it wasn’t the Lady Cow Vet who delivered them.
More about Dr. Linda Rhodes, DVM:
When I graduated in 1978, there were very few women large animal veterinarians, and it was nearly impossible for me to find a job. I finally found work in a dairy practice in Utah, and I have written a memoir of those years called The Lady Cow Vet, the nickname my dairymen gave me. Here is an excerpt from the memoir about a memorable C-section I did in Idaho in 1980.
Now, I am gathering oral histories of other women from that era who were pioneers in large animal medicine. If you have stories of breaking into what was then an almost all male profession, I would like to hear from you.
You can learn more about the project at www.ladycowvet.com, where I have posted the first of what I hope are many interviews under the “Profiles” tab. Please email me at ladycowvet@gmail.com
I look forward to hearing your stories!
Linda
