To Myself on My Graduation from Vet School....25 Years Later

Add caption

Dear New Dr. Steph, Ever the geeky fan of science fiction and fantasy, I am writing this in the hopes that some day time travel will become a reality, and a courier from the future will deliver this letter to you, the new vet, from the me you will become in 25 years. On a steamy June day in 1988, you and your classmates crowded into Ohio Stadium in Columbus, received your Doctor of Veterinary Medicine degrees and were turned loose on the unsuspecting animal world, armed with a good education, a lot of optimism, and a package or two of shoulder-length plastic palpation sleeves that had been rattling around in your locker since your large animal rotation. Life as you knew it would never be quite the same again. Your first emergency case was a bulldog who lost an argument with a car. You will never forget that panicky feeling: where to begin? But you'll also remember the patience of your first employer, Dr. Larry Smith of Salt Run Vet Clinic in Maineville, who calmed you down and taught you that it wasn't rocket science, exactly: relieve the pain, treat the symptoms. There will be good calls and moments of inspiration and, interspersed with routine countless vaccinations and dewormings, the occasional chance to literally yank someone's beloved companion out of the jaws of death. That's a very cool feeling. You'll love it. There will be cases that don't end so well. You will soon learn that you can't please everyone, you can't save every patient, and not everyone will even like you, no matter how hard you try. You won't always be right. You will see a pointer puppy with a severe heart murmur, and you will predict that her cardiac defect will kill her before she reaches adulthood. But you'll be wrong, because she'll live to be a lovely old dog before her heart finally gives out (thus you will learn that sometimes it's good to be wrong). You will also learn more practical matters: A rottweiler is capable of passing an entire king-sized bedsheet. A "broken bone sticking out" of a cat's leg may actually be a crouton stuck to its elbow (so mind you do a thorough physical exam before reaching any conclusions about your patients). Out of consideration for those who coexist with you, you will learn to to tightly close and label any samples of yellow liquid stored in your home refrigerator. The same goes for solids. You will count yourself lucky to have found a husband who doesn't complain about tubes of horse blood stashed between the taco sauce and the pickle relish. You will suddenly become the popular person at parties. Once partygoers discover you are a veterinarian, you will be besieged with people wanting to talk - about why dogs eat grass and throw up, the problems of great-aunt Beulah's cat Mr. Dribbles, and by the way, would you please take three unwanted kittens? (You will learn to say no...sometimes.) One day you will realize that the fifteen-year-old dog you are euthanizing is one you first saw as a puppy. You'll discover you've owned the practice longer than either of the two legendary DVM's who worked there before you, Merlin Oswalt and "Old Doc Peck." Someone will refer to you as "Ol' Doc Steph" and you'll realize you're one of the senior vets in the neighborhood. When the heck did that happen? You'll be shocked, but eventually you'll feel pretty good about it. Someone will give you a shady sales pitch and you will be able to peer over your reading glasses, say "do I look like I was born yesterday?" and mean it. Then, just when you're sitting back on your laurels - or some other spreading part of your anatomy - the next patient through the door will be a grumpy diabetic cat you can't regulate - let alone handle- a kitten failing to thrive, or some other puzzling case you absolutely have no idea how to sort out. And for a few moments - until you remember that article you read or that new book you just bought - you'll feel as confused and frustrated as you did the first day you went to work. But it will be ok. You'll be doing surgery with a laser and communicating with computers and sending photos to colleagues to ask for a second opinion with a gadget you carry in your back pocket. Xray images will be digital and bloodwork from a sick patient will be in your hands in a matter of minutes rather than days away. The phone, however, will still drive you crazy. You will adopt more pets than you need and mourn the loss of every one as its life ends. You always said if performing euthanasias got easy it would be time to quit. It never has. Most importantly, you will never cease to be amazed by the ability of an animal to heal, given half a chance; by the bond of love that can be shared between a pet and its owner, and by the grace and gracious attitude of folks who, even when grief stricken at the loss of a pet, find it in their hearts to comfort and thank you for your part in that creature's life. I hope you will never forget to be grateful for those things. One final thought: If by some chance this letter is mistakenly delivered 25 years into the future instead of to the past, and my 80 year old self is reading this, I have one message for you: for crying out loud, retire already!

The donkey lay suffering in silence, his leg broken. A brown cow stood nearby, one horn dangling, one ear askew. A lamb curled on the straw, missing an eye. One witness in the background had lost his head. From a veterinarian’s point of view, the situation was a real mess. The donkey was the most critical patient; I stabilized his injured leg with a small piece of wood, although I thought an amputation was imminent. The cow’s horn hung by a thread, with no evident bleeding, so I simply snipped off the useless piece. I could probably reattach the ear at its base. The lamb’s missing eye could be replaced by a glass prosthetic . The plight of the headless bystander was obviously a job for a good surgical adhesive – once I located the head. It had probably become the puck in a game of cat hockey. I finally found it in the kitchen. I assembled my instruments and fired up the glue gun. Time was of the essence; there were gifts to wrap and cookies in the oven. The end of a toothpick replaced the horn of the ox, and a dollop of hot glue returned its drooping ear to an anatomically correct position. I carefully amputated the donkey’s leg and carved a replacement from a tongue depressor. Having owned one-eyed cats and blind dogs, I knew the lamb would get along fine with his single eye. And although Balthazar will sport forever a collar of dried adhesive, his head settled nicely back on his shoulders. Traditional holiday decoration here includes setting up the nativity scene on the dining room piano, marauding cats notwithstanding. Fresh hay is strewn across the wooden floor of the little stable. The figurines are placed in their time-honored positions: the Holy Family in the stable with the donkey and ox; the shepherd and his sheep just outside, and the richly clad Three Kings approaching with their gifts. I’m not sure how old the crèche is , but Burk Family lore holds that the set predates my parents. I was taught about the Adoration of the Magi as a child, but enamored as I was even then of anything equine, what I really adored the idea of being born in a stable. I spent hours arranging the characters, which probably accounts for some of their current scars. I imagine all that my little figures have witnessed as they looked out from their manger over the years: The sad Christmas Eve in 1942 when Dad’s civilian clothing returned from boot camp in a battered package, and one shoe fell out at Mom’s feet. The happy Christmas of 1945 with the card from Okinawa saying “I am coming home.” The Christmas when a month-old baby girl stared in fascination at the lights of the tree, and the one when she unwrapped a big package that held a saddle (of course I still have it!) . The holidays after the deaths of family members. Those when we knew someone’s passing was imminent. The awesome Christmas the astronauts sent a message from the moon. The subdued Christmas after 9-11 – and this year, another one overshadowed by sadness. Some years it seems almost wrong to celebrate the holidays with mirth . It’s difficult to conjure up joy when incidents like the recent tragedy in Connecticut threaten to choke out merriment and warmth.

I replace my little figures in the stable and wonder what Mary knew as she held her newborn child. Was her joy tinged with sadness, knowing what lay ahead for her son? Yet the artist sculpted on her delicate face the soft smile of pure love. The ancients anticipated the midwinter solstice with joy – celebrating even in the darkest of days the return of the light. Saint Francis of Assisi prayed “where there is hatred, let me sow love…where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.” In the 1500’s another Italian , Fra Giovanni, wrote “the gloom of the world is but a shadow; yet within our reach is joy.” A wise Native Americans said “to have joy, one must share it.” Maybe that’s our most human defense against the darkness –and maybe it’s the best.

What Did You Do In The War, Dad?

“What did you do in the War, Dad?” Many kids have asked this question. World War II had been over for less than twenty years when I started elementary school; plenty of parents, uncles, aunts and even older siblings who had served in the military were still living at the time. My Dad’s answer was merely, “I was a supply sergeant. ” When he admitted he had not participated in active combat, I must have decided that his war experiences were of little interest, and went on burying my nose in books about Paul Revere’s Ride and King Tut and the Wars of the Roses. You know, “real” history. What a self-centered knucklehead I was . My Dad and and my uncles Bob and Ed Cape (who’d been “hurt in the War” and wore a leg brace to support his paralyzed right side) were right there but I completely missed the fact that I had walking, talking history lessons within reach. And now, sadly, they’re all gone. But I’ve been given a second chance; among my mother’s possessions I found Dad’s letters from a tour of duty that began in December 1942 in Fort Moultrie, South Carolina, and ended three years later in Okinawa, Japan. Reading his words makes me feel as though I’m peeking through a window to a chapter in my parents’ lives that played out long before I was born. There are several hundred letters. I’m putting them in chronologic order and sampling a few at a time. It’s like reading the best of novels: there is love and longing, mystery, pathos, humor and of course wartime drama. Dad describes seeing dead soldiers, both Japanese and American “stacked up like old tires on the side of the road.” A soldier next to him was shot in the head by a sniper. I discovered what he meant by “supply sergeant” - he was responsible for provisioning over 5500 American soldiers rescued from Japanese POW camps. “Some of them look pretty good, “ he wrote succinctly, “others do not.” Some things, could not be said in letters, since wartime correspondence was subject to the shears of military censors. I’ve been consulting the Internet and as many other sources as possible – including the rapidly decreasing number of living WWII veterans – to flesh out exactly what Dad was up to in those bygone days. Which leads me to this statement: If you’re interested in military history, the coolest museum you’ve probably never visited is right under your nose in Germantown, Ohio. The Veterans’ Memorial Museum began in the 1990’s as a private collection assembled by curator David Shortt, CWO, U.S. Army Ret. It now fills, spills and overflows out of an old tobacco warehouse at 123 S. Main Street. You never saw so much military stuff in all your life. Uniforms on mannequins standing at attention, display cases filled with letters, medals, and memorabilia. Tattered, faded flags waving gently in the breeze from the open door; the big red one with the swastika still has the power to send a chill down the spine. The place vibrates with stories told and untold. While the majority of items in the museum’s collection date from the WWII era, a sizeable number of displays address more recent conflicts. There are also treasures from WWI, the Civil War and even the American Revolution. Minutes slip easily into hours in the quiet aisles as you look, read, think. Several generations of veterans drift in to drink coffee and reminisce. In the area housing artifacts from the Pacific Theater, I experienced a jolt of recognition. Familiar uniforms and postmarks, trinkets and mementos like items Dad sent to Mom: a pressed flower, a Japanese cigarette, “scrip” currency with the ink still as bright as if it had been printed yesterday. If I’m lucky, during some future visit I’ll come across information on the 282 Coastal Artillery Batallion, shipped north from New Caledonia to participate in the invasion of Japan. So look out Dad, I’m tracking you down, and remembering you one picture, one letter, and now, thanks to the Veterans’ Memorial Museum, one exhibit at a time. Happy Veterans’ Day, Dad. And thanks.

Remembering Dad....Finally

One summer day around 1930, a blue dog ambled across a Middletown street. On returning home, the dog’s owner (referred to in family lore as “Old Man Wilson The Undertaker” ), was so shocked at the sight of his turquoise terrier trotting down Broad Street that he drove his Duesenberg into a tree. He knew – as did the rest of the neighborhood – that the Burk boys were at it again. Frederick E. Burk was the youngest of five children, all of whom grew up in the home and family grocery store on the corner of Broad St. and Girard Ave. in the early 1900’s. Spoiled by two sisters and corrupted by two brothers, it’s no wonder he grew up blessed with an ample helping of “ornery. “ The influence of a volatile Sicilian immigrant father made him emotional and demonstrative as well, but rarely in a bad way. When I remember Dad, it is always with a smile and often outright laughter. I give him both the credit and the blame for my own goofy sense of humor. Not for me the subtleties of a Woody Allen movie; give me a good “Funniest Home Video” pratfall any day. I recently uploaded an iPhone app that deals with, well, flatulence. In honor of Dad. This should give you an idea of the silliness I had to contend with as I grew up. Of course some of it rubbed off. I’m convinced that when I wrote an essay in the style of Jane Austin recently, it was all Dad’s fault that it was about the results of “Taking the Activia Challenge.” Dad had a great zest for fun. When a gang of us Midway Street kids took to our bikes, it was often my father who could be seen leading the pack – pedaling away while sitting on the handlebars, facing backwards. He also introduced us to what might be referred to today as “Extreme Jump Rope,” producing an inch-thick specimen that must have been a mooring line for a battleship in a previous life. I can still hear that thing flying past my ears with a businesslike “wooofffff.” We quickly became adept at jumping because we were afraid a mistake would result in decapitation. A genteel swearer, Dad’s language was liberally peppered with “hells,” “damns” and other low-level profanity . He believed anything with a motor would work eventually provided you strung together the right cusswords . He once swore fluently at a chainsaw for a good thirty minutes before realizing he’d left the starter switch in the off position. I teased him about it for weeks. Dad was diagnosed with cancer in 1985, but he lived long enough to see me graduate from vet school , and enjoyed hearing about my classes and cases –the messier the better. Of course he was particularly entertained any time I had to pull on one of those long plastic gloves and introduce myself to the rear end of a cow or horse. Our class at Ohio State chose to wave to the crowd at the stadium during graduation ceremonies with inflated versions of those same gloves, and Dad couldn’t have been happier. When Mom and I went to the funeral home after Dad’s death –the current incarnation of the business started all those years ago by “Old Man Wilson, incidentally –we were amazed by how handsome he looked despite the ravages of 5 years of illness. His beautiful silver hair was neatly combed, the bloated side effects of his chemotherapy had disappeared, one corner of his mouth quirked upward – in short, he looked like he was ready to sit up and make a typical smart remark. Mom burst into tears – one of the few times I ever saw my strong, stoic mother weep - – and I tried to comfort her by saying “now, he wouldn’t want us to cry.” Her eyes flashed at me behind her glasses as she snapped, “Oh yes he would! ” I was silent for a minute, and then said “you know, you’re right” and we both cracked up in spite of our tears. Even through our grief, Fred Burk was still making us laugh.

Finally Remembering Dad

One summer day around 1930, a blue dog ambled across a Middletown street. On returning home, the dog’s owner (referred to in family lore as “Old Man Wilson The Undertaker” ), was so shocked at the sight of his turquoise terrier trotting down Broad Street that he drove his Duesenberg into a tree. He knew – as did the rest of the neighborhood – that the Burk boys were at it again.
Frederick E. Burk was the youngest of five children, all of whom grew up in the home and family grocery store on the corner of Broad St. and Girard Ave. in the early 1900’s. Spoiled by two sisters and corrupted by two brothers, it’s no wonder he grew up blessed with an ample helping of “ornery. “ The influence of a volatile Sicilian immigrant father made him emotional and demonstrative as well, but rarely in a bad way.
When I remember Dad, it is always with a smile and often outright laughter. I give him both the credit and the blame for my own goofy sense of humor. Not for me the subtleties of a Woody Allen movie; give me a good “Funniest Home Video” pratfall any day. I recently uploaded an iPhone app that deals with, well, flatulence. In honor of Dad. This should give you an idea of the silliness I had to contend with as I grew up. Of course some of it rubbed off. I’m convinced that when I wrote an essay in the style of Jane Austin recently, it was all Dad’s fault that it was about the results of “Taking the Activia Challenge.”
Dad had a great zest for fun. When a gang of us Midway Street kids took to our bikes, it was often my father who could be seen leading the pack – pedaling away while sitting on the handlebars, facing backwards. He also introduced us to what might be referred to today as “Extreme Jump Rope,” producing an inch-thick specimen that must have been a mooring line for a battleship in a previous life. I can still hear that thing flying past my ears with a businesslike “wooofffff.” We quickly became adept at jumping because we were afraid a mistake would result in decapitation.
A genteel swearer, Dad’s language was liberally peppered with “hells,” “damns” and other low-level profanity . He believed anything with a motor would work eventually provided you strung together the right cusswords . He once swore fluently at a chainsaw for a good thirty minutes before realizing he’d left the starter switch in the off position. I teased him about it for weeks.
Dad was diagnosed with cancer in 1985, but he lived long enough to see me graduate from vet school , and enjoyed hearing about my classes and cases –the messier the better. Of course he was particularly entertained any time I had to pull on one of those long plastic gloves and introduce myself to the rear end of a cow or horse. Our class at Ohio State chose to wave to the crowd at the stadium during graduation ceremonies with inflated versions of those same gloves, and Dad couldn’t have been happier.
When Mom and I went to the funeral home after Dad’s death –the current incarnation of the business started all those years ago by “Old Man Wilson, incidentally –we were amazed by how handsome he looked despite the ravages of 5 years of illness. His beautiful silver hair was neatly combed, the bloated side effects of his chemotherapy had disappeared, one corner of his mouth quirked upward – in short, he looked like he was ready to sit up and make a typical smart remark. Mom burst into tears – one of the few times I ever saw my strong, stoic mother weep - – and I tried to comfort her by saying “now, he wouldn’t want us to cry.” Her eyes flashed at me behind her glasses as she snapped, “Oh yes he would! ” I was silent for a minute, and then said “you know, you’re right” and we both cracked up in spite of our tears. Even through our grief, Fred Burk was still making us laugh.

Madison Township's Cabin

Inspired by the upcoming dedication of Madison Township’s restored log cabin (May 13, 3 p.m. at the Madison Township Community Park off West Alexandria Rd.), I admitted to myself that I had a hankering to head west. Specifically, I went looking for the place “our” cabin was born. The mechanics of moving and reconstructing the cabin have been recounted elsewhere; I was curious – ok, maybe just plain nosy – about the people who lived there. I turned off a one-lane country road onto a gravel track and gunned my little Toyota up the hillside. The melting fingers of retreating glaciers thousands of years ago clawed gullies and valleys into this landscape, and the car leveled out in a high, grassy field between two tributaries of Browns Run Creek. The air was sweet with the scent of the previous night’s rain. The intermittent sun coaxed swirls of mist off the earth. Despite the absence of motorized sounds, it was noisy. My boots swished through the wet, knee-high grass. Tree frogs creaked in the woods. Tufted titmice shouted “weedy-weedy” from locust trees frothy with blossoms, and somewhere overhead a redtailed hawk wheeled, shrieking - sounds the original settlers would have recognized. A huge, battered oak stood near the gravel drive. Was it a relative of the white oak that had been sacrificed to form a floor joist for our cabin? Tree-ring dating techniques on that particular log indicated the tree sprouted in the year 1600. In the autumn of 1833, when it was cut down, Andrew Jackson was president, Ohio had been a state for 30 years, Middletown had been settled , and Madison was a township in its own right, having split off from Lemon Township in 1810. The property was purchased from the U.S. government by Daniel Johnson in 1815; it was sold to Jacob Francis in 1823. He and his wife Lydia had 8 children before Lydia died on Christmas Day, 1833. Was her death caused by complications from the birth of her son, Charles, on December 2, the work of helping to build the house, or both? With 8 motherless children needing attention, Jacob wasted no time in marrying Maria Brighton Young in July 1834. The first of eight more children may have already been on the way; son Lewis was born in March of 1835. Jacob lived to the phenomenal age of 97, surviving the cholera epidemics of the mid-1800’s and the Civil War. He still lies in Madison Township, in the Mt. Pleasant Cemetery off Germantown Rd. When we cut down a tree with chainsaws and split the wood with a gas-powered log splitter, it’s nonetheless an all-day affair. I thought about the trees cleared from this knob, using only the horsepower that comes with four legs and a tail – and probably most of the sixteen children. In 1856 the cabin was given a second story; perhaps an extra bedroom seemed like a good idea. The property remained in the Francis family for at least 102 years, changed hands several more times and by 1929 belonged the Blantons. Along the way the cabin had morphed into a clapboard sided farmhouse – fortunately for us, since the siding protected the hand-hewn beams hidden away underneath. In 2008, after the death of Raymond Blanton, the family dismantled the house and donated the cabin to the Madison Township Historical Society at the suggestion of neighboring farmer Ed Simpkins. Some of the many hands which worked to reconstruct the home belong to descendents of the original settlers of the township. What could be more fitting? I stood in the field for a while and thought of all the living that had been done in that place – births, deaths, loves and losses, the endless wheel of the farm year, gardening and haymaking and splitting and stacking firewood for winter. Coincidentally, my mother’s family had lived less than a mile away in the late 1920’s. Remembering her stories – about threshing teams, twin mule colts and the music of beagles tracking hapless rabbits along the creekbed – helped flesh out the scene. I could almost hear the voices of the past in the soft morning air. That evening – as is our habit - I plopped down on the couch with my husband and the dogs. The Sci Fi channel was on and I grinned to myself. You don’t need a fancy gizmo to experience time travel. Sometimes you just need to head down a country road.

Back in the Day...a Tale From the Early Years

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.