Vet Tech Tales: The Early Years (8 page)

Not surprisingly, maturity comes with age and experience. At the time, I had neither. Nor did I have a family who took my education seriously, waiting as they were for the day I would simply marry someone who would take care of me. All I knew then was that four months in the real world had taught me life was a choice between following your dream
or
earning a living. You couldn’t do both. Not well enough to suit a perfectionist.

In a fit of teenage angst, I made a rash decision. I quit school.

I took a full-time job at the warehouse where I had worked the past two summers pulling merchandise to fulfill customer orders. The work was tedious, monotonous and not in the least challenging. But it earned me enough to buy my parents’ old car and rent a small two-bedroom house near the downtown area closer to work.

It also gave me a chance to try to figure out what to do with the rest of my life, something I was pressed to do quickly, before it was too late.

After all, I was already 17 years old and time was fast slipping away.

Love Is All You Need

For seven months after leaving Texas
A&M
I pulled orders at a warehouse. When I began pulling them in my sleep and couldn’t get the looping list of item numbers out of my head, I knew the job was threatening my sanity.

I swallowed my pride and called my friend Lisa. Over the past year she had continued to volunteer weekends at Dr. Vann’s clinic.
A month before she had graduated from high school and taken a permanent, paying position with him.
The type of person who could be supportive through anything without judging, Lisa was the only friend I had kept in close contact with since returning from A&M.

“Dr. Vann wouldn’t need anyone else, would he?” I asked. Only with Lisa could I not care how vulnerable I sounded.

The voice at the other end of the phone was, as usual, sympathetic. “I don’t think so. We’re pretty full up. I barely got on myself.” She was quiet for a moment, then, “I think Ashley over at Dr. Norris’ quit a couple of weeks ago. He may be looking for someone. Why don’t you go talk to him?”

“He knows I went off to college. What’s he going to think if I come crawling back, begging for a job now?”

“He’s the one who needs to answer that.” What I loved most about Lisa was her sensible, pragmatic outlook about most everything. “The worst he can do is tell you no. Besides, there are lots of other vets around if you don’t get on there. What have you got to lose?”

My dignity.
My pride
.
I sighed. “Nothing, I guess. I’ll go by tomorrow during my lunch break.”

I dropped by Dr. Norris’ clinic the next day meaning only to fill out a job application. I intended to leave it and beat a hasty retreat. Unfortunately, Joan the receptionist remembered me from before and hurried into the back to get Dr. Norris after I gave her my completed application.

If only book smart equated to common sense smart, I might have been better prepared for my impromptu interview with Dr. Norris, but I was young yet and hadn't quite caught on to the way of the world.

Two years had passed since I’d last seen Dr. Norris, but he still looked the same – short
statured
, thick about the middle, graying hair and a tousled beard. Compact. Like a 60-pound bull terrier facing off against 2000 pounds of steer, he didn’t impress through size. Like a bull terrier he commanded attention through attitude and confidence. Mostly, he reeked of hubris.
An alpha male.
His blessing – his curse.

He sat down in the chair next to mine in the waiting room and studied me for a moment. His tiny green
eyes,
nearly lost between cheek and brow, searched mine. It wasn’t competence he was looking for. What I didn't realize then was how he preyed on weakness, surrounded
himself
with it to bolster his ego. Submissiveness in others allowed him to exercise control, further inflating the haughty self-image he wore so flagrantly on his sleeve. Meek creature that I was then, I think he saw in me the weakness that he so craved. I know he saw the desperation.

"So," he said at last, "what can I do for you?"

Foolishly, I blurted out, "I need a job." Foolish because I didn't actually
need
a job, I simply wanted a different job.
Foolish because, for me, working in a veterinary clinic would be so much more than just a job.
I could have – should have – eased my way into the request for employment, but I didn't. I dangled myself like bait before a hungry shark, completely oblivious to the predator who now governed my fate.

A smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Why do you want to work here?"

To gain practical experience before continuing to pursue a degree in veterinary medicine.
To test out my chosen career before committing large amounts of my time, my money and myself to a profession that may or may not be right for me. Sensible answers these. Solid answers indicative of a thoughtful, intelligent life plan. Unfortunately, they weren't the answers that I gave.

"I really love animals," I gushed, totally clueless that wasn't necessarily a prerequisite for being a paid vet assistant. And it certainly didn't speak to any particular abilities I brought to the table with me. Never mind that I had solid critical-thinking skills as demonstrated by aptitude tests and college entrance exams – though assuredly no one would be able to tell it by this interview. Never mind that I had the basics of chemistry, microbiology, anatomy and physiology down cold. Never mind that I was a fast learner full of curiosity or that I had been taught a work ethic that demanded no less than a constant 110 percent. No, my greatest asset was that I loved animals.
Really loved them.
Loved them more, I tried to impart with my gushing, than every other vet assistant wannabe out there.

To his credit, Dr. Norris didn't throw me out immediately. But then, he wasn't necessarily interested in the most qualified employees. He glanced at my application. "How much are you making now?"

I named the salary, barely above minimum wage, adding, "With time-and-a-half for overtime, of course."

 
"I can't pay that. I can only offer minimum wage. No benefits. And any time worked over 40 hours is straight time. We're open 8 to 6 Monday through Friday and 8 to noon on Saturday. But someone has to be here at 7:30 to start feeding and treating the animals that stay overnight. That goes for Sunday, too.
And holidays.
After we close, the whole place has to be cleaned, tables and counters wiped down, floors vacuumed and mopped. And the tile gets buffed and waxed every weekend. That's all in addition to keeping the cages and runs clean, the feeding bowls washed, the bedding laundered and the surgical equipment sterilized. I see my own emergencies, so I expect you to be on call 24 hours a day. Remember, this isn’t volunteer work. Still think you want the job?"

I quickly calculated 40 hours at minimum wage less 15% for taxes. It only just covered my basic living expenses. Entertainment would be confined to the double feature at the dollar theater. Ramen noodles would be the entrée of the day. And should I get sick or have an accident with no medical benefits … then again I was barely 18 and, like all teens, invincible. Besides, the opportunity to work around animals far outweighed any thought of negotiating for decent compensation. A fact that Dr. Norris counted on, I’m sure.

In fact, he seemed hardly surprised when I asked no other question except, "When can I start?"

 
Allergic to Work

The clinic, sharing building space with a dry cleaners and a copy center, squatted unobtrusively just off a busy boulevard, one of numerous small businesses along the well-traveled street. Though there seemed little at first glance to set this small store-front clinic apart from the dozens of others that crowded the west side of the city, a more eclectic site for serving clientele would have been hard to find.

Further to the west, small retailers were selling out to larger commercial chain stores while older establishments were being razed to accommodate a more
monied
demographic.

The city’s cultural arts district sprouted up a few blocks to the east, with tiny art galleries and eccentric craft shops dotting the charming bricked stretch of road that ran through them. Behind the galleries, grand old homes and old money waited silently for progress to notice them.

A short distance north, two elite country clubs vied for members from the tony section of town that had grown up around them. Corporate CEOs, doctors, lawyers and others doing well in a recovering economy were buying up two or three lots at a time, tearing down the history-rich homes sitting on them, and erecting elephantine structures in their stead.

Ironically, only a handful of blocks away to the south
lay
the outskirts of one of the city’s most desperately poor neighborhoods, with drugs and guns on open display and police cruisers prowling 24/7.

When I pulled into the parking lot the first day on the job, I was already excited. After all, this time I wasn’t just a rookie volunteer. I had experience now. I knew I could be productive right out of the chute. Cage cleaning, basic grooming, filling syringes, setting up fecal and heartworm tests – I could do it all. And while I hadn’t yet actually had to face restraining a dog or cat out for blood, I was game to try. At 7:30 sharp I rang the bell, nervously straightening the green-checked polyester smock I had bought on sale in hopes of looking more professional. Seeing my reflection in the glass door, I realized it only made me look 20 pounds heavier.

It wasn’t Kathy who unlocked the door this time. It was
Charla
, who smiled and waved and looked genuinely pleased to see me.