Texas Equine Veterinary Association

www.texasequineva.com • 27 SCREW DOWN MEDICINE by Bo Brock, DVM, DABVP "Where is that young veterinarian? I need to have a word with him! He gave my horse a shot of "screw-down" medicine and I didn't know it!" I was in the other room, but I recognized the voice. It was Skeet Black. He was a 78-year-old ranch foreman that had retired about five months prior to this day after having been foreman on the same ranch for 50 years. And I knew the young veterinarian he was speaking of was me. I had only been a veterinarian for about three months and things weren't coming too easy. Seemed like I would have weeks when everything I tried to do just went wrong. I was living through one of those weeks when Skeet's very distinctive old cowboy voice came floating in from the waiting room into the small animal surgery room where I was spaying a dog. The dog spay wasn't going very well, it was a four-year-old, in-heat Labrador, and I was beginning to think I would rather have jock itch myself than spay fat dogs. Everything that could possibly go wrong in a spay was going wrong, and now I had to shift my focus to an old cowboy dude that was obviously mad at me about something. I hadn't even seen this guy for a month. What could I have done to his horse that took an entire month to finally go wrong, and why did he have to come in hollering at the very moment when my horrible surgeries skills were captivating my attention? "Screw-down medicine?" What in the heck is that? I had only been out of school a few months, but I had about 350 hours of college, and I had never heard that term even once. Let me see, what had I done to his mare? Oh yeah, Skeet had retired and decided to take up team roping. He bought a 22-year-old mare that was a seasoned head horse and he was roping with some of the locals. He had brought her in because she was not coming out of the box fast enough and wasn't turning quick enough to face. I remembered it well now. My attention momentarily switched back to the bleeding fat lab. I was so frustrated with spaying fat dogs that I quit considering Skeet for a moment until his next words penetrated the surgery room. "You say he is doing a surgery? Well I am just gonna wait right here till he gets done. I need to have a word with that fella, and I am not gonna leave until I do." His voice rang with aggravation and border on mad. Apparently, I had given this screw-down medicine to his mare and something about it had ticked this old rascal off. I was scanning my burdened brain for what I had done to this horse. All I did was inject her hock joints with some triamcinolone. She had bone spavin in those hocks, and I just want to give her old joints some relief so she could carry this 78-year-old fart up and down a roping arena without any pain. I figured this would make her go faster and feel better and everyone would be happy. I had done it on horses before, and everyone seemed to like it . . . but not ole' Skeet. I was finishing up the wretched spay, finally, and knew I would have to face him shortly. I had no idea what he was going to say or why I was in trouble. My stomach was in knots, almost like when I would get sent to the principal's office in the fifth grade for doing something that elementary school turd heads needed a swat or two for. Get a picture of what I was about to face in your mind. Just outside the door stands a man who was a ranch foreman for 50 years. This guy stood in front of me when he brought the mare in and rolled his own cigarette and smoked it. He had ridden horses for so long that his 40 or so inch inseam Levi 501s had a permanent bow in them. He wore long sleeves shirts with those snap buttons when they were completely out of style. His cowboy hat was so ancient and weathered that the brim had taken on a shape of a taco and the sweat ring extended up to the crown. His boots came to a point and the leather was so worn that it was as thin as the skin on his giant earlobes. And this fella sounded as if he was furious with me. I finally worked up the courage to open the door to the surgery room and face ole' Skeet. I was still shaking with aggravation from the terrible time I had just had spaying a dog. When I opened the door, I couldn't believe what I saw. There stood cowboy Skeet in a pair of Nike sweat pants and house shoes. He was leaning over a walker that was seven inches too short for his long lanky frame and he didn't have his false teeth in which made him look 95 instead of 78. "There you are you young veterinary rascal," he said as he saw my figure appear in the slowly opening door. "Let me tell you somin' youngin', I don't know what it was that you gave my mare, but it made her feel so good that she left me in the box when she took off. You told me to stay off of her for three days and then start roping again. Well I did, and that critter took off so fast that I just flew over the cantle of that saddle, bounced off of her butt, and landed straddle of the fence that goes around Lester's roping arena. Doctor said I was lucky to even have any balls left after that spill. Now I gotta hip that is aching and have to walk along behind this walker thing for a month." I just come in to tell you that you better tell people to "screw down" after you give one of them there shots. I am tellin' ya, that critter can run fast and fart loud. Now don't you forget it! I have done just what he told me. That has been nearly 25 years ago and if you ever come to the clinic with a horse that needs its hock injected, don't be surprised if I tell you, "now when I give this, you better screw down, cause this rascal is gonna run fast and fart loud!!

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