Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: WEDNESDAY, February 26, 1992 TAG: 9202260165
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-1 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
SOURCE: BECKY HEPLER
DATELINE: BLACKSBURG LENGTH: Long
DOCTOR TO LIVESTOCK
Veterinarian Kent Adams sipped his black coffee and said with a grin, "I grew up on a dairy farm and was brainwashed to find something more respectable to do. Wouldn't you know I'd get into something with hours no better than a dairy farmer?"That's because, as a large-animal veterinarian, he works mostly on farms and his practice, Appalachian Veterinary Services, offers 24-hour emergency service. A day can start before sunrise and end after midnight.
Adams has only himself to blame for his predicament. Fresh out of Virginia Tech's vet school, he could have opted for the small-animal trade with its regular schedule, an office and the better time-to-money ratio.
"In the time it takes you to work on a cow, you could probably see five dogs," he said.
He wanted that outdoor life.
Even more gratifying were the consequences: His work has not only sentimental value but financial value. He could save a family pet; he could also protect a farmer's investment and livelihood. "So much of what I do is economically driven," he said.
So Adams doctors farm animals. After two years at Abingdon in one of the biggest large-animal practices in Southwest Virginia, he has come home to the New River Valley to start his own practice.
This cold, rainy morning finds Adams bounding down a muddy track to a cattle operation in Dublin. More feed lot than farm, the place is part of an organization based in Roanoke.
The operators are shipping more than 200 head of cattle to a finishing lot in Michigan and Adams is on hand for regulatory purposes, to sign the health certificates demanded by both states and to check on other animals that may be shipped at later dates.
The stark gray winter light makes the scene look like a black-and-white photo. Steam rises in a ghostly fog off the wet calves huddled in the loading pen. The only color is the ruddy cheeks of the farmhands who are tagging and loading the cattle onto three rigs with long, ventilated animal carriers called possum-bellied trailers.
Each truck can carry 60 to 70 cows, but the animals are loaded only a few at a time because the interior is compartmentalized. "It takes longer to load, but it's better for the cattle because they're not so packed together," Adams said.
"The important thing to remember is, if you see this type of truck on the highway, give it a wide berth," he said, pointing out the brown manure streaks on its sides.
The animals being shipped are healthy, but Adams said that even under the best conditions, some will fall victim to "shipping fever complex," a pneumonia that results from weather, close quarters and stress. That brings up the question, why ship the cattle at all? Why not ship the food to the cow?
"Logistics and economics," Adams said. "It's easier and cheaper to ship one 750-pound calf than to ship the 3,600 pounds of grain to feed it. Besides, those Midwestern states can get the grain for 60 percent less than what farmers here would pay for it because of the freight costs."
On any farm with more than one cow, you'll find a maze of fencing, stalls and stanchions that allow you to control the animals' behavior.
On this farm, the maze appears worthy of a psychological testing lab, and Adams pointed out its subtle features.
"This is really well-designed," he said. "Look how it funnels down to a single lane, large enough so the cow can go through it but not so large that the cow can turn around in it and cause havoc by going the other way."
At one end, a stanchion holds the cow's head so the vet can work on the animal without being gored - an important point when the patient outweighs the doctor five to one.
"I had a classmate who swore she preferred doctoring sheep, because that was the only farm animal that doesn't try to kill you while you're working on it," Adams said. "For me, though, they're a black box with holes at both ends. The wool makes accurate assessment a real challenge.
"It's like trying to use a stethoscope on a pig. They rarely stop squealing long enough for you to hear much. You end up relying on . . . experience and, sometimes, instinct."
Cows are easy to work on and very hardy, according to Adams. "You could do surgery on a cow in the middle of a field and it would most likely survive," he said. "Try that with a horse and you'll be digging a big grave."
You can tell Adams is in his element working with cattle. He coos to them to calm them and his movements are gentle. He really tries to make his procedures as painless as possible. It is hard to believe that he and his vocation are at the heart of a controversy.
"One day I found my truck completely plastered with `Meat Is Murder' bumper stickers, compliments of an animal-rights group," he said.
"I couldn't be a veterinarian if I didn't believe in animal rights. It seems to me that their antagonism is misdirected. I guess I'm suspicious of hidden agendas."
Adams trucks on to his next appointment in Fairlawn. If the first farm had an assembly-line quality, this second one is handcrafted.
Linda and Paul Caldwell have 30 head of cattle spread over four leased properties and it's a part-time venture supplementing their used-car lot on Virginia 114. The cows are almost pets.
"We raised Elsie from a calf," Linda Caldwell said of the Hereford-Jersey mix that greeted her with a kiss. She follows Caldwell and Adams to the patient, Josephine, languishing in a pen with a Charolais to keep her company.
"The first thing you have to learn as a vet is how to be a cowboy and rope a cow," Adams said as he tried to get the cow secured. The vet is here to check on a bit of work he had done the previous Saturday night when Josephine tried to deliver unusually large twin calves. Adams had to do surgery to get the calves out. They had died prior to delivery.
Josephine is still not looking too perky, but the stitches are healing nicely. While Adams went to his truck to get some medicine, Caldwell confided, "I'm real pleased with Kent's work. We've used a lot of different veterinarians, but he's one of the best."
The next stop is at Whitethorne, where two horses need vaccinations and Coggins tests. Myra Nolen put the halter on Buck, her dun-colored quarter horse, while Adams rummaged through his truck, preparing the vaccines and equipment.
Buck is only marginally attracted to this idea, but he is patient and only a little jumpy as Adams administers the shots for tetanus, influenza and rhinopneumanitis, and gets blood samples for the Coggins test, a way of tracking equine infectious anemia. Buck's buddy, Mack, is not so cooperative.
Mack, a big bay, drags Myra around the barnyard. Then he uproots a post to which he is tied. Obviously, Mack's needle phobia is severe.
Adams gets the secret weapon out of his truck. It's a twitch, an odd-shaped piece of metal that clamps onto a horse's nose and instantly produces a glassy-eyed lassitude, the equine equivalent of the Vulcan shoulder pinch Spock uses to quiet enemies on "Star Trek."
"Horses have unique pleasure centers. There is something about holding their noses that causes them to zone out," Adams said as he proceeded to take blood and give shots.
Then he repacked the truck, which is sort of an office on wheels with running hot and cold water plus a refrigerated compartment for medicines.
Adams has a real office, but it is in Wytheville. He and one of his colleagues from the Abingdon practice decided to strike out on their own, with Dr. Thomas Lavelle taking the area around Wytheville and Adams covering the New River Valley.
"It's a communications nightmare," Adams said, but it's working. With the two sharing the bill on the medicine, they can stock a wider range and better supply of pharmaceuticals and expensive lab equipment.
After lunch, there are no calls or emergencies, so Adams goes to the main office to prepare the blood samples and deliver the health papers for the shipped cattle.
The bureaucratic aspect wrapped up, Adams drives back to Montgomery County, this workday at an end after only eight action-packed hours.
"Of course, this is our slow season," he said. "Once spring gets here and calving and foaling begin, then it's around the clock."