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THE ASTORIAN • SATuRdAy, FEbRuARy 1, 2020
Some ranchers resistant to use of antibiotics
By SIERRA DAWN McCLAIN
Capital Press
FOSSIL — When fifth-generation cattle
rancher Mehrten Homer first brought anti-
biotic-free beef to market at Price Chop-
per, an Oregon grocery chain now called
Market of Choice, he recalls the man at the
meat counter laughed. Bigger and cheaper
beef sells, the man said. Surely no one
would pay more for labels like “never given
antibiotics.”
But Homer and his family didn’t give up.
And in time, their customers were hooked.
Today, Painted Hills Natural Beef in
Wheeler County, a cooperative Homer and
six other ranching families founded in 1996,
is one of the Northwest’s most recognized
beef brands.
Each week, they process 500 cattle —
producing about 422,430 pounds of steak,
roasts, hamburger and other products. Com-
bined, the beef weighs more than an average
railroad locomotive.
“I don’t know anything else but cattle,”
said Homer. He touched his cowboy hat with
a sandpapery finger. “It was all I knew then.
It’s still all I know.”
Consumer demand for antibiotic-free
meat has climbed as health messages have
reached buyers. The shift reflects an effort
to slow the spread of antibiotic-resistant
“superbugs” — bacteria that have developed
immunity to one or more antibiotics, claim-
ing animals’ lives and killing one infected
person in the U.S. every 15 minutes.
Some people blame the crisis on doc-
tors for over-prescribing antibiotics; oth-
ers accuse livestock producers of drug over-
use in food animals. But drug resistance is
a wickerwork of interconnecting causes
and consequences, and experts say the pub-
lic should focus less on finger-pointing and
more on solutions.
“If you understand antibiotic resistance,
then it hasn’t been explained to you ade-
quately,” said Mike Apley, veterinarian and
professor at Kansas State University’s Col-
lege of Veterinary Medicine.
‘Wonder drugs’
Antibiotics such as penicillin, dubbed the
“wonder drug of World War II,” have saved
countless lives.
Alexander Fleming, the scientist who dis-
covered penicillin, wrote, “When I woke up
just after dawn on September 28, 1928, I cer-
tainly didn’t plan to revolutionize all medi-
cine by discovering the world’s first antibi-
otic, or bacteria killer. But I suppose that was
exactly what I did.”
Yet Fleming recognized the danger of his
discovery’s misuse. In his 1945 Nobel Prize
acceptance speech, he warned against the
potential for resistance.
“But did we pay attention to that warn-
ing?” asked Ellen Silbergeld, a Johns Hop-
kins University professor who has worked
with the World Health Organization on anti-
biotic resistance. “No. We humans have not
been very careful in how we’ve managed
antibiotics.”
Health care providers have grown depen-
dent on these miracle drugs. According to
the Centers for Disease Control and Preven-
tion, about 47 million antibiotic courses, or
30%, are prescribed annually in U.S. med-
ical facilities for infections that don’t need
antibiotics. The result: bacteria that can sur-
vive, or resist, antibiotics used against them.
Animals, too, face drug-resistant
infections.
Producers say antibiotics in modera-
tion are as necessary to animals as to peo-
ple. Humane livestock production, they say,
means sick animals must be treated, not left
to suffer.
The first antibiotics were not intended for
animals. But in 1950, an American company,
Lederle Laboratories, noticed chickens grew
faster when fed the antibiotic chlortetracy-
cline. The drugs bounded in popularity as
producers used them to fatten animals, pre-
vent disease and treat illness.
But overuse in animals, as with people,
has engendered resistant bacteria. And as
antibiotics become less effective, more live-
stock die from incurable infections.
The burden would be lightened if
researchers developed new classes of antibi-
otics. But that’s not happening.
“The antibiotic groups farmers have
today are likely the same ones they’ll have
for the rest of their lives,” said Apley of
Kansas State University.
The last new antibiotic group was intro-
duced in 1978. Since then, new antibiotics
Sierra Dawn McClain/Capital Press
Mehrten Homer of Painted Hills Natural Beef feeds his breeding stock high on a hill in Fossil.
have been released, but they represent chem-
ical modifications of existing groups rather
than new classes.
This is because of the scrawny economic
incentive. A U.S. Food and Drug Adminis-
tration spokesperson told the Capital Press
it costs about $2 billion to develop one new
drug, but since doctors and veterinarians are
encouraged to prescribe antibiotics in mod-
eration, the return on that investment is slim.
And because resistance can develop in six
years, the long-term effectiveness of any
new drug is fleeting.
That’s why, Apley said, scientists call
this the “post-antibiotic era.” He said hospi-
tals and farmers should use antibiotics judi-
ciously to make sure the drugs in their tool-
kit keep working.
Prevention in practice
Mehrten Homer, president of the Painted
Hills Natural Beef co-op, backed his truck
toward the barn and, with an assist from his
automated Hydra Bed, hoisted a round bale
of sweet-smelling triticale onto his pickup.
Then he drove toward higher pastures,
bumping along the narrow road that snaked
around the ridge of the hills. It was a Janu-
ary morning and the yellow-brown slopes of
Fossil were scumbled with white snow.
At 74 he still works outside six hours a
day.
“I can’t quit,” he said. “Don’t even know
what that word means. Why retire when you
love what you’re doin’?”
On the hilltop, he unwound the mammoth
hay bale and called the cows and their calves
with a cooing noise. He coaxes rather than
drives his animals to new pasture to reduce
their stress.
The cows tramped forward. A bald eagle
swooped overhead, and a bony coyote
slipped through the grass, glancing over its
shoulder before disappearing over the ridge.
Here, on 17,000 acres, Homer and his
family raise cattle for Painted Hills. The
majority of their animals come from auc-
tions, but they also keep a herd of breeding
stock.
The business has always raised cattle
antibiotic-free. It isn’t easy or cheap, Will
Homer, Mehrten’s son, said. But he said the
beef is healthier and tastier that way.
Raising healthy cattle
The Homers use management strategies
to limit illness.
For most of their lives, the cattle graze
on foothills in groups of 100 head. It takes
about 35 acres to support a single animal,
Mehrten Homer said.
At 14 months, the cattle are moved to a
feeding facility for finishing with corn, bar-
ley and alfalfa.
Perry Martin, feed lot manager, said keep-
ing the animals robust is his priority.
“We do everything we can to keep these
animals healthy and safe short of wrapping
them in bubble wrap,” Martin said.
A conventional feed yard affords each
animal only 9 to 12 inches of bunk space
at the feed trough; Martin stocks by square
footage of the feedlot instead, giving each
animal 200 square feet.
Genetics play another crucial part in dis-
ease prevention.
“We study genetic backgrounds and keep
deep records,” Martin said. “We use those
lines that have a history of staying healthy.”
Geography and climate play a role,
too. Cattle from wetter areas are more dis-
ease-prone, he said.
Because stress leads to sickness, when
new calves arrive on the ranch, they are
given 24 hours to eat and rest. They also get
vaccines, said Will Homer.
He has established relationships with
trucking companies to ensure drivers trans-
porting cattle drive slowly to keep animals
calm.
Allowing cows to birth naturally also
reduces illness, Mehrten Homer said. Calv-
ing takes place on the range underneath
juniper trees — “those nasty water-sucking
leeches,” as he calls them — which stay dry
under their canopies.
Part of preventing infections, said Will
Homer, is cultivating industry knowledge.
The Homers said technology has advan-
tages, but many decisions should still be
rooted in “good old-fashioned knowledge”
like body scoring, a visual rating system for
conditioning.
At the slaughterhouse
According to Buck McKay, a public
affairs specialist for the U.S. Department of
Agriculture, the agency’s Food Safety and
Inspection Service approves the claim “anti-
biotic free” and similar labeling for animals
that never receive antibiotics.
To use this label, producers must provide
documentation. The USDA has the right to
enforce, but critics say inspections are rare.
A producer may choose to house ani-
mals that have received antibiotics in the
same facility as antibiotic-free animals. The
USDA merely requires these animals be
marked and separated before slaughter —
with a colored ear tag, for example. Produc-
ers typically sell these meats on a different
market, either under their own brand name
or to another.
Painted Hills Natural Beef follows this
pattern. The company works with a Tyson
plant in Wallula, Washington, to process
their animals — “everything but the moo,”
as Will Homer says. In the morning, when
the facility has been sterilized from the pre-
vious day, the Homers send their antibiot-
ic-free animals to Tyson for processing. The
few animals that received antibiotics when
sick are sent to the slaughterhouse in a sep-
arate batch at the end of the day to avoid
cross-contamination and are sold to another
brand.
This method isn’t foolproof. The jour-
nal Annals of Agricultural and Environ-
mental Medicine shows antibiotic-resistant
bacterial strains have been found on sur-
face swabs from slaughterhouses across the
U.S., even after cleaning. But a combination
of antimicrobial spray treatments on car-
casses and keeping batches of animals sepa-
rated has been proven to radically reduce the
amount of E. coli in processed meat.
When steaks are high
Consumer expectations are shifting, and
producers are changing to meet demands.
Tyson has reduced the use of antibiot-
ics in its chicken flocks by using probiotics,
essential oils and improved breeding prac-
tices — although the business still uses some
poultry feed with shared-class antibiotics.
McDonalds, Wendy’s and Taco Bell no
longer buy chicken from growers using
medically important antibiotics. “Medically
important” is a designation for antibiotics
crucial to curing human diseases.
Despite the changes, Silbergeld, of Johns
Hopkins, said combatting antibiotic resis-
tance is impossible without greater pub-
lic pressure to push companies to use drugs
responsibly.
But public pressure is far from
overpowering.
First, while 73% of U.S. consumers are
more likely to choose products labeled “nat-
ural,” an unregulated umbrella term that
means little in practice, only 35% of con-
sumers seek labels such as “no antibiotics,”
according to Information Resources Inc., a
market research firm.
Second, many consumers may not be able
to afford antibiotic-free options. According
to Jerome Rosa of the Oregon Cattlemen’s
Association, “antibiotic-free” beef costs
about 5-10% more than conventional beef.
The most recent data on food stamps —
formally called the Supplemental Nutri-
tion Assistance Program — shows nearly
35 million people in the U.S. receive ben-
efits, and the average SNAP benefit per per-
son amounts to $1.40 per meal. For many
low-income families, choosing pricier labels
such as “antibiotic-free,” even if desirable, is
not affordable.
So the market continues for meat from
food animals that may have been given
antibiotics.
Whatever the consumer demands, Will
Homer said Painted Hills Natural Beef will
keep producing beef without antibiotics.
“I actually think it’s tougher on the ani-
mals,” he said. “They have to be hardier.
But because it’s the right thing and improves
meat quality, we’ll keep doing it.”
Oscar: Dog made three great escapes throughout his life
Continued from Page b1
an ultimate frisbee field one day.
We quickly learned that Oscar had two
switches: on or off. One time, he chased a fris-
bee until all four of his paws were bloody.
I also feared he would disappear and die
mysteriously. He made three great escapes.
The most daring one happened at my hus-
band’s construction job site while I was out
of town. Oscar slipped out a car window. We
later learned he had been running down U.S.
Highway 30. A kind woman picked him up,
ran his microchip at Petco and found us days
later. My husband camped in a tent all night
at the job site awaiting his return, not know-
ing Oscar was cuddling up to his rescuers.
At 12 years old, Oscar became an inter-
national traveler when he moved with me
to South Korea to teach English. I feared he
would die in the bottom of an airplane cring-
ing in fear at all the loud noises. When we
returned to the U.S. three years later, he was
14 years old. I worried he only had a few
years left.
When Oscar turned 19, I began to won-
der if he would live forever. I let down my
guard even though he had lost his ability to
leap five times his height, chase a stick or
dart like a squirrel. His muzzle turned gray
and he grew little rings of white hairs around
his eyes.
When he was 20 years old, I came home
from work one evening to the sound of wail-
ing. I rushed to find Oscar on his dog bed,
legs tensed out stiff in agony and his eyes
glassy.
“How long had he been like this? How
could this happen while I was at work?” I
asked myself.
My body filled with fear over making the
right decision.
As I carried Oscar into Columbia Veter-
inary Hospital wrapped in a blanket he was
limp and his eyes were blank and cloudy. My
husband left work to join me and we stood
next to the metal table. Our friend Dr. Hlavin
gently told us that Oscar was dying and it
was OK to let go.
At that moment, years of suspense around
Oscar’s death dissipated. He would not die
from getting hit by a car, in the bottom of an
airplane or by running himself to death. For
the first time in 20 years, I knew that Oscar
would die in a completely unexpected way:
no fear, no drama; just surrounded by his tiny
pack of humans petting his head as he gently
drifted away.
Heather douglas is a freelance writer,
illustrator and educator.
Heather Douglas
Oscar traveled to South Korea with his owner
when he was 12.