16 CapitalPress.com
June 2, 2017
A day with a dairy vet: Ben Wustenberg
By BRETT TALLMAN
For the Capital Press
SALEM, Ore. — Late in
the afternoon the day before
Mother’s Day, Ben Wusten-
berg was headed to a 1,000-
cow dairy outside Salem to
operate on a Holstein with a
displaced abomasum.
Also called the true stom-
ach, the abomasum is normal-
ly at the floor of a cow’s ab-
domen. Sometimes it can fill
with gas and float high in the
abdomen, causing a loss of
appetite. It often occurs after
calving.
“I did three D.A.’s yester-
day,” he said, “That’s pretty
typical (of veterinary work)
— it all seems to hit at once.”
Wustenberg works for Vet-
erinary Services of Oregon, a
St. Paul-based practice owned
by Richard Veeman. July will
mark his sixth year with Vee-
man, who hired both Wusten-
Brett Tallman/For the Capital Press
Veterinarian Ben Wustenberg operates on a Holstein with a dis-
placed abomasum at a dairy near Salem, Ore., on May 13.
berg and his wife, Leticia, out
of Oregon State University’s
College of Veterinary Medi-
cine.
“My dad, Mark, was a
large-animal vet in Tilla-
mook,” he said. “Now he’s
the vice president of quali-
ty and member services for
Tillamook County Creamery
Association. My mom, Judy,
is a dairy nutritionist and my
brother, Liam, is a cheese-
maker. None of us got very
far from milk.”
Outside the milking par-
lor, Wustenberg stepped out
of a pair of Nikes and into
rubber boots, already situated
inside green rain bibs. Inside
he found a sink and sterilized
his tools.
“For a long time I want-
ed to be anything but a vet,”
he said, “but during my ju-
nior year I had one class on
Wednesdays. I started shad-
owing Richard (Veeman) and
pretty soon I spent the whole
week looking forward to
Wednesday. Nobody would
sit next to me in class, though,
because I’d come in smelling
like a dairy.”
In the maternity pen was a
Holstein, number 5892, with
her head in the stanchion.
“D.A.” had been written on
her black-and-white rump in
orange spray paint. Her udder
was nearly empty and, though
there was silage in the trough
in front of her, she wasn’t eat-
ing.
Draping a sanitary towel
over a toolbox, Wustenberg
set up his workstation inside
the stall. When he was ready
to start, Manuel, the herdsman
who diagnosed 5892, arrived
to help.
“It used to be that a vet
would get call to diagnose, op-
erate and follow up,” Wusten-
berg said. “Now some of these
herdsmen — guys like Manuel
— call me and say ‘We’ve got
a D.A.’ They’ve been doing this
so long, they can spot things like
a D.A. right away and make the
diagnosis themselves.”
After making the incision,
Wustenberg worked his way
through three layers of mus-
cle with his fingers. Reaching
the abomasum, he used a nee-
dle and hose to puncture the
bloated chamber and drain the
gas.
“Some people say the gas
smells like almonds,” he said,
adding, “I don’t know what
kind of almonds they’re eat-
ing.”
Thirty minutes after he
had started, the 10-inch inci-
sion was closed again with a
Ford interlocking suture. To
prevent the abomasum from
floating back out of place, it
was pinned to the animal’s
side, where the scar tissue
from the incision would hold
it in place. Aside from re-
lieving herself as the gas was
draining, the animal hardly
seemed to notice.
“This,” he said, running
his hand over the tidy suture
to line up both sides of the in-
cision, “is my favorite part.”
As Wustenberg left the
barn, number 5892 went back
to eating.
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