Stampede: The life you save might be your client's

We had three horses with serious colic, a pig under anesthesia, a cow with a prolapse that was trying to have a baby and a waiting room full of dogs. It is times like these that you can't decide what to do first, and everyone needs you right now. But none of them needed us more than Tex.

He was standing patiently with his horse while he waited his turn. The horse was very sick, and it appeared as if we were going to have to do a colic surgery. The pig anesthetized was on the surgery table with its nose covered by an oxygen mask, and the cow was in the chute straining and grunting to no avail.

I had gone into the clinic to get instruments to do the pig surgery when my ear caught that spine-tingling sound of someone gagging like they might throw-up. With all the nasty smells that a veterinary clinic can produce, this sound happens on occasion. I looked back out the door into the large animal part of the clinic just in time to see ole Tex go down.

I thought this to be a bit strange. The guy just piled up in the corner in a position that any normal 55 year old had avoided for at least 45 years. It was like he was sitting down, but both of his feet were higher than his head. This caused me some stress.

Dr. Zach Smith was looking at me while I looked out the door. He had heard the retching, but he couldn't see the door. He must have detected the panic on my face because we both ran for the door at the same time.

Tex was trying to get his feet from behind his head when we approached. I wasn't sure what had happened, but I knew it was going to take some doing to get him out of the knot he had fallen into. Zach pulled one way, and I pulled the other. With a few tugs, Tex uncoiled and stood.

"I just gotta get a little air," he managed as he headed for the garage door.

We followed him with great concern as he bent over the tailgate of the pickup. I was a bit worried, and the expression on Zach's face was no consolation either.

"You gonna be all right?" Zach asked.

"Just need a little air is all," Tex muttered.

"Why don't we take you inside and let you lay on the couch for a minute?" Zach persisted.

To my surprise, Tex agreed.

You know when a tough ole cowboy dude says he'll go inside and lay down, something is terribly wrong. Zach and I each took a side; about three steps into the journey, Tex collapsed. Zach caught him, and we carried him over to the horse surgery table.

A scene like no other

Now we have a pig anesthetized on the pig surgery table, Tex's horse rolling around in pain on the floor of the surgery room, Tex passed out on the horse surgery table not two feet from the sleeping pig, and neither of us knew what to do next.

I can remember thinking that Tex would be given pretty good care if he were a pig or a horse. Zach didn't look too confident either. We went to work anyway.

Zach was feeling for a pulse in his wrist, and I was listening to his chest with a stethoscope. Neither of us found a thing. "Oh my, Oh my, Oh my," I stammered as I grabbed the pulse oximeter off the pig's tongue and hooked it to Tex. It read a heart rate of 180 and a blood oxygen count of 76; you need 95.

Zach stayed fairly composed, but I panicked. I grabbed the oxygen mask off the pig and put it on Tex. I started moving toward the chest; I figured if there was any CPR fixin to happen, Zach could have the mouth-to-mouth part, and I would do the chest compressions. We met at the chest.

"You'd better call the ambulance, Bo," Zach lamented.

I'd be willing to wager that it was the first time an ambulance driver rolled onto a scene where two veterinarians were treating a sick cowboy like a pig having a heart attack. We had him hooked to monitors, and we were giving him oxygen through the pig mask. We were listening to his chest and trying to check eye responses.

In our combined 15 years of veterinary experience, we had treated at least 100 crashing animals, but we were overwhelmed with the prospect of losing one human life.

Everything turned out OK. Tex went to the Lamesa Hospital where they fixed him up and had him back at the clinic in about four hours. His ticker was fine; he was hypoglycemic. I talked to him the other day, and he said the only side effects from the entire ordeal are a faint "oink" when he coughs and a subconscious urge to root around in the dirt of the backyard.