What did you want to be when you grew up? I wanted to be a vet. I don't remember ever wanting to be anything else. Poor Bright Eyes got the brunt of it. She's the sausage dog pictured in my blog header, the sad-eyed and balding doggle that Santa Claus brought to me one Christmas, to my abject disappointment. She wasn't sad-eyed and balding then, of course (much as I occasionally like to make out that I had an impoverished childhood, I really didn't. We had a black and white telly, is all). She had a glossy coat and neither of her eyes drooped. But I wanted one of those little animatronic ones that barked and did backflips, and she just sat there. My mother told me years later that they'd given me the one I wanted for Christmas as a toddler and I'd freaked out, screamed the house down and wet my drawers. I don't remember that. It's convenient not to.
Anyway, Bright Eyes became my first patient. I don't know where I got the idea from, or the surgical implements, but I slit her belly open, pulled out what seemed the appropriate amount of stuffing and then stitched her back together again, pronouncing her "spayed". To my parents' credit, they didn't send me to a psychiatrist. Instead, they indulged me with some James Herriot books and a visit to the school of veterinary medicine in UCD. They're still a source of such trusting encouragement that I owe them a debt of gratitude for what I've become. Though I am not, unfortunately, a vet. Nor did my sister grow up to become a truck driver, nor my brother to become Michael Jackson. That we were equally supported in our dreams says a lot for my parents too.
I decided against a career as a veterinarian when one of the boys in school pointed out to me that vets kill animals. "Not on purpose!" I said (and now I think of that Simpsons episode with the hamster and the basketball net). But he explained to me that sometimes it was on purpose, and that that was what it meant when something had to be "put down". I never fully forgave him for breaking that truth and with it, my dream.
I think of this again today after leaving work at one. I am worn out and uninterested after last week's overtime. In my desk I still have the card my father gave to me on my first day there. He's a bit of a hippie, my da. I take it out sometimes, read it and try to take it to heart. I'd like to be more like he is. Sometimes it works. And sometimes it doesn't, so I take the rest of the day off and pour my heart into a bowl of pasta instead.
Anyway, Bright Eyes became my first patient. I don't know where I got the idea from, or the surgical implements, but I slit her belly open, pulled out what seemed the appropriate amount of stuffing and then stitched her back together again, pronouncing her "spayed". To my parents' credit, they didn't send me to a psychiatrist. Instead, they indulged me with some James Herriot books and a visit to the school of veterinary medicine in UCD. They're still a source of such trusting encouragement that I owe them a debt of gratitude for what I've become. Though I am not, unfortunately, a vet. Nor did my sister grow up to become a truck driver, nor my brother to become Michael Jackson. That we were equally supported in our dreams says a lot for my parents too.
I decided against a career as a veterinarian when one of the boys in school pointed out to me that vets kill animals. "Not on purpose!" I said (and now I think of that Simpsons episode with the hamster and the basketball net). But he explained to me that sometimes it was on purpose, and that that was what it meant when something had to be "put down". I never fully forgave him for breaking that truth and with it, my dream.
I think of this again today after leaving work at one. I am worn out and uninterested after last week's overtime. In my desk I still have the card my father gave to me on my first day there. He's a bit of a hippie, my da. I take it out sometimes, read it and try to take it to heart. I'd like to be more like he is. Sometimes it works. And sometimes it doesn't, so I take the rest of the day off and pour my heart into a bowl of pasta instead.
