In 1897 Dr. Aileen Cust graduated from veterinary college in Great Britain, but authorities refused to grant her a license to practice. The Catholic Church considered the idea of a woman veterinarian practically sacrilegious.
The sole woman student in my friend and mentor Dr. Merlin Oswalt’s 1956 class at Ohio State was frequently chased around the anatomy lab by her male classmates with, to put it delicately, the private parts of a stallion.
My cousin Dr. Robert Cape, who graduated from the same vet school in 1970, remembered his three women classmates mainly for the shortness of their skirts.
“I want to be a veterinarian, “ I announced to my parents, peering at them earnestly over my stuffed animal “patients” around 1965. “That’s a man’s job,” I was informed, but 17 years later when I repeated the statement they were all for it (presumably they were relieved that I had abandoned the idea of archeology and shifted to something closer to home, where I could take care of my own growing collection of pets).
When I was admitted to Ohio State in 1984, the novelty of women in veterinary school had pretty much worn off . Nonetheless, some members of the male fifty percent of my class still felt women shouldn’t be vets, and one local DVM even daringly voiced that opinion to Miami’s PreVet Club, despite the fact that the group was around 95% female . I often wondered if he had a death wish...
After graduation I worked in a mixed practice east of Cincinnati. I spent an inordinate amount of time worrying my way out to farm calls; in addition to not embarrassing myself as a new graduate, I would have to prove my capabilities despite being “that girl” veterinarian.
We were frequent visitors to Farmer Dan’s place– more frequently than he liked paying us – to address reproductive problems brought on by poor management practices. Despite our best efforts to educate him, he persisted in doing things his way, keeping far too many underfed cattle on his weedy , windswept acreage.
One day when my male boss was out of town Farmer Dan called to schedule some routine procedures for his cows. I offered to come out. “Well, Cher,” he drawled (back then I had long, decorative curls framing my long, decorative nose, hence the reference), “I know you need the practice, but I’d rather have Larry.”
I slammed down the phone , fuming. “I hope he has an emergency and I’m the only one available!” (Oh boy…be careful what you wish for). Forty- five minutes later he called again and shortly thereafter I found myself contemplating the black-and-white business end of a Holstein cow that was unable to deliver her calf. I could feel Farmer Dan staring beadily at the back of my head, clearly wondering how much of his time and money I was going to waste.
My patient had evidently decided she was done with labor for the day. She was chewing unconcernedly on a wisp of hay, oblivious to the two hind legs protruding from her birth canal. This didn’t make sense, I thought to myself. This was no young heifer with a small pelvis; she was a full-grown dairy cow. There was enough room to move furniture around in there, let alone deliver a calf. I began to sweat . What was I going to be able to do that a dairy farmer with about 50 years of experience hadn’t already tried? I pulled on and lubricated a shoulder-length plastic glove, slid my hand between the two small, nobby legs…and heard an angelic choir tuning up for a rendition of Handel’s Messiah. I had done the one thing the farmer hadn’t thought of – a thorough examination. The cow was trying to deliver twins, and Farmer Dan had been pulling on two hind legs, all right – but each leg belonged to a different calf.
I located a tiny pelvis and pushed, watching with satisfaction as one leg , along with most of my arm, disappeared back into the cow. Behind me Farmer Dan made noises of disapproval (I had undone all his work!). Biting my lip to keep from grinning, I guided two legs from the same calf into the birth canal. The cow at this point kindly decided to help , and with a timely contraction from Mom the calf slithered out easily.
I helped out calf number two, turned to Farmer Dan, blew a curl out of my eye and said sweetly, “now, while I’m here, do you want me to treat your other cows?”
Wordlessly he gestured toward his corral.
The angels , directed by Dr. Cust and consisting of all my female veterinary predecessors, started the Halleluia Chorus.
Reading this, I am struck by how much changed in a generation. I was never told 'that's a man's job', even when I told my parents I was going to be a truck driver. When I hear of females struggling in the male dominated world, I am grateful to those who have 'blazed the path', and then I think of how far we have yet to go.
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