May 2009 Updates page 4
13 May
A Blooming Mounty
by Charles Dahlstrom
"Be...be...be prepared, the motto of the Boy Scouts." That line from my adolescence ran obsessively through my mind like a punishing mantra as I trudged on through the crusty snow. The muscles of my arms and back burned with exhaustion from the strain of lugging the awkward weight of my sixty-pound wirehaired hunting dog. I twisted another turn on the crude tourniquet on TJ’s foreleg and she whimpered weakly with the pain. She turned and licked my face, but after a few more labored steps the muscles in her neck softened and her head drooped again to hang straight down; the loss of blood was sapping her strength. I paused and slumped to one knee, resting her weight on my upper leg. I sucked deeply on the frigid January air, trying desperately to replenish my own depleted oxygen supply. Looking down I saw the drops of warm blood congealing and then freezing into crystals on the surface of the crusted snow. Looking back on our trail, I groaned to see that we had gone only about 50 yards since our last rest stop; we had nearly a half mile to go to the vehicle.
TJ and Berk pointing a covey of quail.
Even in the fading light, the drops of blood were brilliantly visible and my mind flashed on a story told by a rank old Canadian hunting guide many years ago. Swede made no apologies for his dislike of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I always suspected his love affair with cheap Canadian rye had something to do with this lack of respect for law enforcement. One night in bush camp after a few "belts of the good stuff," Swede had been nagging bitterly about the Mounties' woodsmanship: "Bloomin' Mounties...couldn't track an elephant through three feet of fresh powder snow...(pause)...with its throat cut."
Swede's rugged face had cracked with delight as he handed down this cruel judgment. In his harsh outdoor world few moments were sweeter than the opportunity to insult a rival's field skills.
I considered my own rapid fire heart beat and breathlessness and had a moment of reflection on my mortality. If I keeled over with a heart attack, TJ would bleed out within minutes. I thought about the Kansas "Mounty" who would be assigned the task of tracking us down. My wife would be frantic with worry when I didn't check in with her by phone that evening. She knew the general area we were hunting and would contact the sheriff; but it’s doubtful any search would be started that night. Maybe a concerned landowner would report our vehicle parked on the field crossing the next morning. If the Mounty on our trail was a bird hunter, he would make note that the northwesterly course of the track coincided with the prevailing Kansas winds. He would admire the crisscrossing pattern of TJ's search and would notice that she checked out the downwind sides of each piece of heavy cover. If he was observant, he would recognize the flurry of track activity near the plum thicket and understand that this marked the rise of a covey. The few downy white breast feathers frozen in the snow would help him make sense of the scene. I imagined his thoughts shifting back and forth from the evidence of our quail hunt to the cruel reality of his assigned duty.
The Mounty would happen abruptly upon the scene of TJ's injury. The scramble of boot and dog tracks would be peppered with drops, streaks and pools of frozen blood. He would find the blood-soaked and frozen wool gloves and spot the side-by-side, blotchy with red stains, leaning against the oak tree. He would crack open the breach and puzzle over the meaning of one spent round. He might conclude that TJ had gotten in the way of a covey flush and caught a load of birdshot, but if he took the time to backtrack TJ's blood trail he would find the single rusted strand of barbed wire that set off this course of tragic events.
TJ had been methodically working the creek bottom when I heard her yelp in pain. She came hopping awkwardly through the thick brambles on one front leg. Her other foreleg had a three-inch diagonal gash above the knee. A flap of liver-ticked hide hung down exposing the raw pink meat beneath; blood oozed down over her foot. In that instant my heart was jammed sideways in my throat.
I had been a dutiful boy scout in my youth and had even earned a Merit Badge for First Aid. "Be be be prepared" had echoed in my head. But I wasn't prepared. Today's hunt was a last minute, end-of-the-season decision. I had cleaned out my shooting vest the week before; at this moment of vital need the compact kit with sterile gauze, medical tape and forceps was sitting on the shelf in my den. I cursed my poor planning.
During my Army infantry training nearly 40 years ago, I had been a reliable soldier and learned the basics of life saving well. "Stop the bleeding" reverberated through my mind carried by the memory of Drill Sergeant Wilkins' commanding voice. I pressed the flap of hide back into place, but the blood kept seeping out between my fingers; I knew we needed a tourniquet. As I took stock of the resources at hand, I noticed the long leather loops of my bootlace. With one hand gripping tightly around TJ's leg to slow the bleeding, I untied the lace of my new Danners with the other hand. As I loosened the lace, I recalled with regret that my Swiss Army knife was lying uselessly at home on the shelf next to the forgotten first aid kit.
I thought disgustedly of myself: "Bloomin' Mounties, all right." After considerable reflection on whether or not I had other choices or whether or not it was a wise move, I stretched the extra length of bootlace out away from my foot and used the full choke barrel of my side-by-side to shoot it off; at this range of mere inches probably the modified barrel would have sufficed.
Again, the memories of my training came back to me: "a tourniquet is placed between the wound and the heart." I later learned from the vet that it was TJ's vein that had been severed. Those actually paying attention during their anatomy class would have already recognized many of my numerous errors. In that area of the leg, the veins run close to the surface carrying blood back to the heart. Applying the tourniquet above the wounded vein required that I tighten the band to the degree that the artery deep within TJ's leg became constricted. The vet explained to me later that a small rubber band an inch below the wound would have easily stopped the bleeding. He also explained that a pressure dressing to the wound was the easiest and most effective, but of course one would have to remember to actually have the first aid kit in their pocket to have such supplies. But, live and learn, huh?
Well, we plowed on through that crusty snow that evening and finally reached the vehicle. I was splattered with blood from the chest down and completely winded. My heart was intact, but pounding like a trip-hammer. We raced for the nearest town. The vet stitched TJ up, gave me the brief overview in canine vascular medicine and we (rather I) was back trudging across the field in the dark within a couple hours to retrieve my side-by-side, the blood-stiffened wool gloves and the various articles of clothing I had shed along the way out of our near disaster.
TJ has healed well. Hopefully she will work a little more slowly and carefully in the heavy cover...if not due to wisdom then maybe from age as she creeps into her latter years. I believe I have learned a few things as well. My first aid kit is a permanent fixture in my hunting vest; I even added a few rubber bands. I took the time during the off season to study a book on canine first aid. And I pledged to never again make sport of the woodsmanship of others. I discovered that a bit of poor planning, an aging memory and some bad luck can make many of us look like a "Bloomin...er...Boy Scout Tenderfoot."
12 May
Success
From Brian and Heath. Congratulations to Brian!
Thanks Brian, we always enjoy pictures.
Feedback
Comments about farm lobby updates relate to the farm lobby being the leading anti-hunting conservation organization in the USA. The farm lobby seeks to reduce conservation limits to farm programs, sustain conservation payments concurrent with federal crop supports. A double farmer benefit approach at general tax payer costs. A failed system as the most tax dollar crop support payments are paid to a minority of corporate or larger farms while propping up industries operating outside of market demands.
"The Nebraska Farm Bureau is asking the USDA to consider purchasing pork products..."
Brownfield Ag News For America, Nebraska Farm Bureau asks USDA to purchase pork, May 11, 2009.
The Other Side
"...The findings, published in the latest Applied Animal Behavior Science, hold moral significance, argues author Jonathan Balcombe. He believes scientists, conservationists and other animal rights activists should not overlook animal joy..."
What the animal rights folks have long sought in a number of aspects - a scientific basis to their agenda.
Animals just want to have fun, survey finds, From tickling to playing catch, animals do some things simply for enjoyment, by Jennifer Viegas, Discovery, May 11, 2009.
