I was humiliated. How was it I couldn’t successfully juggle a full-time job with a full-time course load and cope with all the baggage of living on my own for the first time? I took it as a personal failure and returned home for the Christmas break with all the confidence of a whipped pup, dejected and beaten. I wouldn’t – couldn’t – go back to school. Not there. Not yet.
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 esta
blishments 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.
“I’m Phoenix.” I thought about thrusting my arm out and shaking hands, but halfway through the motion, shyness overtook me and my hand sort of dangled there in the air. Without missing a beat, Charla rescued my abandoned hand and pumped it hard.
“I am so glad you’re here!” Charla’s jaw was a bit too square and her face a bit too broad to be handsome, but there was a gentle twinkle in the eyes that shone out from beneath her short strawberry blonde bangs. “Dr. Norris said you used to work here?”
“Just as a volunteer on Saturdays. With Kathy and Ashley. Are they still here?”
Charla shook her head. “Ashley quit about a month ago. She’s who you’re replacing. And I guess Kathy must have been before my time. But I’ve only been here about six months now. I took Pam’s place. Was she here when you were?”
“No. But I saw Joan, the receptionist, still is.”
Charla brightened. “She likes to be called the office manager. She’s good, too. This place wouldn’t run without her.” I nodded non-commitally. I had liked Joan well enough from what I’d seen of her, but since I had rarely been up at the front desk, I hadn’t seen much of her or the work she did. “Oh, and Brenda will be here this afternoon. We rotate staying late. So hey, we’re really full this morning; if you’re ready, let’s get to work.”
As she led me through the clinic to the back, I saw that little had changed. Even the file stand holding the records of the animals kenneled in the back was still in the same place. And the chalkboard was still being used to announce the activities for that day: Jackson – bath and dip; Lewis – board two dogs; Martine – cat spay; and so on.
What I probably should have been paying attention to, though, escaped me completely at the time. Not only were Kathy and Ashley both gone, but there had been a Pam working there who was also gone. And a Brenda was here now. In College Station, I had, in five short months, become accustomed to the high turnover rate in the fast food industry. But how many people actually aspired to becoming fast food workers? How many kids dreamed of donning a hair net and assembling food items for a daily parade of anonymous eaters? Workers and managers alike took for granted that the majority of folk working in fast food were only there for the interim -- that other jobs, other destinies awaited them. But wasn’t animal care worker an end goal in itself?
Unless of course, like me, you were still harboring remote thoughts of returning to college and pursuing a degree in veterinary medicine. Only then was it a stepping stone and learning ground on the way to something better.
So, never once questioning why all the others had left, I followed Charla through the familiar kennel door.
The noisy yapping began almost at the same time the allergies hit. A couple of sneezes and then that stuffy feeling in the sinuses. I looked down the row of cages, counting the cats in them. Fully enough to cause major congestion, I soon realized, as I sniffed my way down the aisle. Allergy shots as a child had done nothing to daunt the response I always had around cats.
I made a mental note to pick up an industrial-size box of antihistamines and decongestants on my way home. If Madame Curie could hang around radium until it became the death of her, I thought, I could surely hang around cats if I were armed with enough allergy meds. Today, though, it looked like I was going to have to tough it out.
Throwing My Weight Around
I went straight to work cleaning cages and walking dogs. Charla and I developed a nice rhythm, moving animals and scrubbing cages and runs without getting in each other’s way. At 8:00, Dr. Norris came bustling in, charts in hand, tailed closely by Dr. Reese. Without so much as a glance down the aisle of animals, they began asking Charla to bring them the patients that needed treating. Only when it became obvious Charla couldn’t be carrying or holding animals for both vets at the same time was I at last recruited to help.
Dr. Reese picked up one of the 5X7 record cards, pushing a strand of long brown hair behind her ear as she read over it. “Phoenix, I need a weight on the male Golden. Can you get it for me, please?”
I winced. Reese was always polite enough. “Please” and “thank you” had always fallen easily from her lips. If only there had been any hint of sincerity behind them. But she struck me as a little too cold, a little too calculating. And the nearly two years I had spent away had not changed her a whit. Couple that with her habit of peering over the top of her reading glasses and making snap judgments regarding people, animals or situations, and it became clear why most anyone acquainted with her for any length of time went from being easy and open in her presence to being guarded and standoffish. Passive/aggressive behavior has a way of distancing those who catch on to it.
But it wasn’t merely the insincere “please” that made me wince. A proper scale for weighing larger animals was not in Norris’ budget. So instead of leading a big dog onto a low platform and simply getting the pooch to stay still in order to get an accurate weight, we had a pair of ordinary bathroom scales in each exam room. One of the assistants would step on the scale and weigh themself first, then pick up the dog and weigh dog and self together. A quick exercise in subtraction, and the result would be reported on the record for everyone’s future reading pleasure.
Forty and 50 pound pups posed little problem. Sixty and 70 pound animals topped my comfortable weight limit, and only if the animals were tractable. Trying to heft a struggling dog off the floor, find and step onto the tiny scale platform, then look over the bulk of the thrashing animal at the wildly fluctuating dial hoping for it to settle on a number for even a split second could strain anyone’s back. Occasionally, one of the vets would step in to help keep a struggling dog still. Or another assistant would be called in to help lift the dog. But the ultimate position for the dog was, by necessity, resting in the arms of one person perched atop the scale.
I eyed the Golden Retriever in question. Big-boned and well-fed, he would easily weigh in at 90 to 95 pounds. I figured I might have had 10 pounds on the dog. Certainly no more than that. Dr. Reese carried double my weight and more. Maybe she was too embarrassed to step on the scales herself. Maybe she was truly afraid of springing them with the additional weight of a heavy dog. At any rate, in all the time I worked at the clinic, I never once saw her step on the scale to weigh an animal. And part of me harbored the theory that whatever other motivations might have been lurking in her refusal to step on the scales, control was ce
rtainly foremost among them.
Where Dr. Norris took his pleasure in overt control, Reese delighted in passive control. “Can you come help me, please?” is the request I would get after Dr. Reese searched me out. In the early days, I hoped my help was needed to control a feisty dog or cat. Or, better yet, to help in some diagnostic procedure. Most of the time, I would enter the exam room and there would be an obese German Shepherd, a massive Mastiff, or a tall Wolfhound – something close to my weight and size – that needed to be weighed. And as often as not, the owner would be a sturdy male in the prime of life who took his workouts at the gym quite seriously.
Often the sturdy male would offer, “Oh here, let me do that,” as I moved toward scale and dog. And before I had a chance to reply, Reese would quickly point out, “No, that’s what Phoenix is here for.” Only on the rare occasion when it was clear an enormous dog would simply dwarf me, would Reese relent and allow me to step on the scales and let the owner help get the dog into my arms.
And every time, Reese smiled and laughed as I grit my teeth and heaved the dog up without complaint. This time was no different. Luckily, Jess proved to be polite and accommodating as most Goldens are, and the dial stopped briefly at 194 pounds before my grip on Jess gave and down he went, catching himself easily like an acrobat.
“Ninety-two pounds,” I announced.
Reese looked at me over the top of her glasses. “You’re sure?”
What? Did she think I was lying, or that perhaps I didn’t know how to subtract? Either way, I felt insulted. And the band of tension that gripped the inside of my head just behind my eyes was maybe an omen I should have paid more heed to. But I stifled my annoyance and simply nodded.
“The dose on this Levamasole has to be precise, you know.”
Vet Tech Tales: The Early Years Page 5
