This show's not for the squeamish

The empty surgical table sitting front and center before the Pet Center's double bank of bleachers at the Minnesota State Fair is a clear indication that daily "shows" of surgical spaying and neutering will pull no punches. Three video screens, televising only a white sheet for the moment, promise to provide a clear view as people scrunch together to accommodate the crowd.

How cool is this? At the fair!

Then, as an anesthetized dog is wheeled into the glass-walled sterile room and its slack, splayed abdomen suddenly appears on the screens, reality kicks in. A few people slip out, apparently deciding that they haven't seen nearly enough gutter-guard demonstrations.

Several times over the course of the next 45 minutes or so, Dr. Jody Lulich of the University of Minnesota Veterinary Medical Center and surgical play-by-play guy, will counsel those who feel faint: "Don't just get up and leave. Put your head in your lap, raise your hand and we'll help you down from the bleachers."

For 18 years, fairgoers have heard this advice as they've settled in for an exhibit that you frankly don't expect to encounter at the State Fair. Talia Braufman of Wayzata and Elina Pittman of Plymouth climbed onto the bleachers out of curiosity. But they're both 8 1/2, both wearing pink Crocs that they'd bought separately, but intuitively, and decided to stick it out together, partly because Elina has a dog and Talia says she's getting a dog, "for the most part."

"I was really just listening to the guy," Talia said. "It was kind of gross," but also compelling -- especially since she's getting a dog, "probably."

The pet surgery suite, in the Pet Center on the northern edge of the fairgrounds, has four shows daily in which a male dog is neutered or a female dog gets an ovario-hysterectomy. Female dogs provide the more graphic show, since there's more of an incision, although that procedure is becoming less common as laparoscopic surgery advances, said the surgeon, Dr. Betty Kramek-Heffernan.

The dogs come from various animal-rescue agencies; this day, from the Midwest Animal Rescue Service. Surgeons, assistants and moderators from the university's Vet Center volunteer their time in an effort to educate the public about the importance of "fixing" your pets. The number of unwanted animals grows each year, leading to more euthanizations.

Lulich wowed the crowd by asking how many kittens, over the course of 10 years, two cats and their offspring could produce if allowed to breed without restriction. He started at 10,000, went to 20,000, then to 30,000 before finally leveling off at 80,000.

Then it was time to begin. As the TV screen showed the surgeon's scalpel hovering, then revealing that first layer of innards, a few more people slipped out, deciding that they apparently hadn't seen nearly enough giant zucchini. Flesh, it became clear, is many layers deep, and it took Kramek-Heffernan several deliberate passes before the abdominal cavity was open.

From then on, the procedure resembled nothing so much as hands delving into an open purse looking for car keys or, in this case, a uterus and ovaries. Lulich pointed out a stretch of intestine, the spleen and the bladder as the surgeon worked around them, finally pulling out the surprisingly long, Y-shaped organ. She clamped it, clipped it and began deftly sewing up each layer.

The crowd dispersed, some rolling their eyes at having made it past the blood, others as nonchalant as if they'd skipped off the Mighty Midway's Sky Flyer. Backstage, Kramer-Heffernan was bending over the still sedated pet, holding a paw.

"They all get a complimentary manicure," she said. "This is a great time to do it."

Kim Ode • 612-673-7185