Unbridled Passion

 

Unbridled Compassion
by Dave Wright

Margo

I gazed with pride at my diploma hanging on the wall of the Denver Pet Hospital: Margarite Philips, Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. I leaned back in my office chair and thought of how I had finally secured my dream job: How as a young girl, I loved every critter I met—Phoebe, my pet gerbil that drove my sister bonkers running on its squeaky wheel from dusk to dawn; how I insisted on nursing baby bunnies to health despite the warnings that they wouldn’t survive; how I endured four years of undergrad and another four years at the College of Veterinary Medicine at Colorado State University in Fort Collins.

I was one of 140 students, 85% of whom were women. The handful of boys in the class were snuff-chewing cowboys who wore belt buckles the size of dinner plates and displayed them at rodeos every free weekend. Rodeos! Now there’s a travesty to animal welfare.

While many of the women in my class fawned over the boys, I spent every free moment at the library, which earned me the prestige of being first in my class.

“Your last appointment is here,” said the receptionist. “Then, we’re all off for Thanksgiving.”

People…Why can’t I just work with animals? People are such a pain. They claim to want to give their pets the best care possible, but in the six months I’ve been in practice, twice I have already had to remind owners of their responsibility for their pets: Those owners considered euthanasia rather than pay for surgery that would easily correct their pet’s problem!

“The surgery is awfully expensive,” they argued. “I don’t know if I can afford it.”

Wah. Wah.

“Do you really love your pet?” I asked. Then I looked them in the eye. “As you make your decision,” I said slowly, “remember what is best for your pet…”

In both cases, they agreed to the surgery. After all, that’s what credit cards are for isn’t it?

Dr. Louise Schoenfeldt, a veterinarian who worked at an animal shelter where I volunteered as a high school student, wrote a letter of recommendation for my application to vet school. While we were standing together in the shelter’s kennel, she had once asked me, “Margo, why do you want to become a veterinarian?”

“Because I love animals,” I replied. “Why else would anyone want to become a vet?”

Dr. Schoenfeldt quietly explained that in order to be a successful veterinary practitioner you really need to love people. “After all, they’re the owners,” she said. “You have to empathize with them in order to empathize with their pets.”

“But I like animals better than people,” I admitted.

I filled a dish with kibbles and placed it in a kennel with a mixed-breed dog—something between a Boxer and a Bullmastiff. I named him Pirate because the black patch across one eye reminded me of Long John Silver. He wagged his tail at me, drooled at the sight of his food, and looked at me like he was smiling.

Dr. Schoenfeldt put her hand on my shoulder and said, “You’ll have to say goodbye to this one.”

“Why’s that?” I cried. “You don’t mean that he will be put down?”

“I’m afraid so. He’s scheduled to be euthanized tomorrow. Pirate was dropped off by his previous owner who simply said he couldn’t keep him anymore. He hasn’t been adopted yet, and we need the room because several more dogs are expected tomorrow.”

“How unfair,” I complained.

“It’s part of the job,” said my mentor.

As I watched Pirate gobble his last supper, I thought, I can’t let that happen.

My mentor turned to leave and offered me words of encouragement. “You have excellent grades and a passion for animals, Margo. I’m sure you can learn to like people. You will become an excellent veterinarian.”

A passion for pets. I thought of Phoebe, Pirate, and Lex, the dog that I loved, but who tore apart the relationship between me and my twin sister. I paid a heavy price for loving animals.

Reba is my twin, but you’d never know it by looking at us. I’m long and gangly with hair as drab as an overcast sky; she’s compact and athletic with red hair. I’m introverted and can’t stand to make small talk; she’s outgoing with a personality as flamboyant as her hair. Everyone loves her.

We grew up close. We shared the same crib, then the same bedroom, and a lot of the same clothes. We both loved spicey food and the same kind of music. But by the time we got into high school, we began to go our separate ways. By then, we had a room to ourselves, which was lucky. I was a neat freak and lined up my books in alphabetical order. Reba’s room was a mess with her clothes in piles and her books strewn about like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle.

Then came our final separation. We rarely spoke to one another for the first four years of college. I guess it’s mostly my fault. I feel disappointed, of course, but mostly I feel guilty.

Reba

It was our last practice before the Thanksgiving break. I stood below the uneven bars as one of my students prepared for a flyaway dismount.

“Okay! Keep your arms straight,” I shouted. “Look at the low bar. Swing to horizontal. Tap, swing, and flyaway. Great dismount!”

I was thrilled to get my dream job as gymnastics coach here at my alma mater, the University of Denver. I’d been doing cartwheels since I was three, handstands since I was five, and spent much of my childhood jumping on a trampoline. By seven, I was completing double flips. I was the captain of my high school gymnastic team and, as a senior, I was favored to win the state tournament.

I reached down to rub my leg and felt the small divot on my calf—the injury that kept me out of the tournament.

I had been offered a full gymnastic scholarship, but it was rescinded due to the injury. I was not a good student, but my grades were just good enough, and an essay on video-journalism prompted the college admissions department to accept me.

My poor grades reminded me of how different I was from my sister, Margo. Insufferable. That’s how I would describe her. She speed-read Moby Dick in a week and could recite every detail about the whaling industry in the 1800’s. Of course, Margo rooted for Moby Dick and had no sympathy for Captain Ahab. I remember her cheering at the end of the book when she found out that Moby Dick destroyed the Pequod and its crew.

As I waited for my next student to warm up, I thought of my time growing up on the outskirts of Boulder. We lived west of town in the foothills of the Rockies. I shared a room with my twin sister until we got into high school. I can still hear the squeak of Phoebe’s exercise wheel. That hamster could have been a metaphor for my sister’s life: Read a book. Take a test. If the score was not 100%, argue for every last point. “I need good grades to get into veterinary school,” she’d say as an excuse for her obsession. Get back on the wheel and keep spinning.

Phoebe wasn’t Margo’s only pet. She commandeered Lottie, the family dog, and insisted that she wanted a litter of pups. She got them, but it wasn’t the litter she had hoped for.

Lottie ran free in the woods behind our back yard and came home every night to eat and sleep in her doghouse. (According to Margo, it would have been cruel to lock her up and deprive Lottie of her natural instincts.) One time Lottie didn’t come home for several nights. A month later, her belly began to grow. Margo and Dad took her to the vet to see what the problem was. He palpated her abdomen and suggested an X-ray.

“Looks like Lottie is pregnant. I can see three pups.”

“I wonder who the father is?” I inquired with a smirk when they returned. “Probably some scamp from down the road. There goes your hope for a valuable litter, Margo.”

“I’ll find a home for the puppies,” she promised.

The fuzzy fur balls arrived without incident. They were gray with white legs, had erect ears and long noses. “Maybe the dad was a Husky,” suggested Margo. “Can I keep one and give the others away, Dad?”

“Okay,” he agreed, “but you’d better find a home for them while they’re still this cute.”

The puppies were born the year Margo and I entered our sophomore year of high school. Margo named the puppy she kept “Lex.” Dad put up a fence in the back yard so we could let the dogs out without fear of them running away again.

Lex stayed close to Margo as he grew up. She took him on walks, and kept him restrained on a short leash, having been advised that Huskies tended to wander if they were allowed to run without restraint.

As Lex got older, every time Margo left for school, the dog whined and cried. If Dad or Mom tried to reprimand it, the dog snarled at them. By our senior year, Lex slunk around the perimeter of the yard like he was a prisoner.

About the middle of our senior year, Dad and Margo took Lex to the vet clinic for his routine shots and to ask about his gradual change in behavior. The dog spun and snarled so much that Margo had to muzzle him just to get him out of the car. Once in the exam room, the veterinarian examined him and said, “I recently saw a couple other dogs that look a lot like Lex. Do you know Lex’s parents?”

“No. Not exactly,” said Margo. “Lottie was bred to a stranger by mistake. I think it was a Husky.”

“I can see why you might think that,” said the vet, “but his behavior is unusual for a Husky cross, and his nose is longer than usual. What happened to his littermates?”

“There were two of them,” said Margo. “I found a home for both of them.”

“I’ll bet those were the dogs I saw.” The vet paused and gave Margo a look of sympathy. “I think Lex may have been crossed with a wolf, not a domestic dog. They generally don’t make good pets. How old is Lex now?”

“He’s two and a half.”

The vet scratched his chin. “That sounds about right. Usually between two and three years of age a wolf/dog will begin to adopt his wild behavior. He can’t help it. It’s in his genes…his natural instinct.”

“What happened to the other wolf/dogs?” asked Margo.

“Their owners took them to a wolf rescue preserve.”

The next weekend, we took a field trip to the Wolf Rescue Preserve southwest of Colorado Springs.

My thoughts were interrupted by my next student. “Hey coach! Are you ready with the video camera? I’d like to finish up for the holiday break.”

Margo

Dad drove to the preserve. Reba was in the front seat, and I was in the back. Lex didn’t like to ride in the car, so we kept him by himself in the rear end of our Suburban. It was a long drive to a wild area south of Westcliffe and east of Gardner, Colorado. We wandered through a maze of valleys and meadows, bouncing over miles of washboard gravel roads. The place gave me an eerie feeling. It was like everything was a little off center.

As we pulled into the parking lot, a goofy-looking, wispy-whiskered guy caked in blood arrived driving a filthy four-wheeler. He reminded me of an Aztec priest who had just completed his latest virgin sacrifice. Those priests never bathed, and it looked like the four-wheeler driver hadn’t either. The dried blood caked his arms, T-shirt, and pants. It was so thick that his tattoos were barely visible.

He arrived to supervise a half-dozen volunteer students who were hunched over various parts of a bovine carcass—one concentrated on a pelvis, another knelt beside a front leg, a third worked on a length of vertebrae. All of them diligently dissected skin from muscle, and muscle from bone.

“Do you suppose that’s what Lex will be given to eat?” I exclaimed with a lump growing in my throat.

Dad reminded me, “Don’t worry. It’s what wolves eat in the wild.”

Reba scoffed, “Poor cow.”

We left Lex in the car sniffing and whining, and met our tour guide, a strapping young man who was as tidy as the four-wheeler driver was not. “Welcome to the Wolf Rescue Preserve,” he said. “The main goal of our rescue operation is to provide a place for wolves and wolf/dogs to live in an environment as close as possible to their natural surroundings.”

He led us to a path that ran along barriers that separated us from dilapidated diamond-wire fences. “We currently have twenty-eight animals in residence. Only three are full-fledged wolves. The others are mixed breeds.”

“How can you tell the difference?” I asked.

“We run DNA tests on a blood sample from every animal that is admitted to our rescue facility.”

“Have you gotten any new dogs recently?”

“About a month ago, we had two new arrivals. We just got the results back. They were about 40% wolf and 60% domestic.”

“If a domestic dog—say a German Shepherd—was bred to a wolf,” I said, “wouldn’t they have a 50-50 DNA mix?”

“A lot of wolves in nature already have some domestic dog in them, so it’s rare to have a wolf with 100% wild DNA.”

All of the dogs prowled the fence-lines, trotting from one end of their compound to the other. Then they turned around and ran the other direction, always looking nervous and hungry.

I noticed the dogs were kept as singles or in groups of twos or threes. “Why’s that?” I asked.

“We group them based on their ability to safely establish a pecking order—a social order that ranks each animal from most dominant (like the alpha-male) to the most submissive.”

Our guide pointed to a couple of wolf/dogs that were pacing next to the fence in the next compound. “Those are the newest arrivals.”

Reba said, “They look a lot like Lex.”

“Do you have a wolf/dog?” asked our guide.

I looked at Dad wondering if I should admit that Lex was in the car. He nodded.

“Yes,” I said. “Lex is in the car. We were thinking about turning him over to your rescue facility. His behavior has changed since he became two years old.”

“That’s not uncommon,” said our guide. “Most of our animals come from homes like yours. By the time the wolf/dogs are three, the call of the wild overpowers their domestic life, even when they get two meals a day and shelter from the elements.”

“They all look hungry,” I said. “Do you feed them parts from that dead cow?”

“Yes. Today is feeding day. A rancher donated a cull cow to us. That’s a cow that he no longer wanted as part of his herd. We euthanized the cow, butchered it, and will feed it to the wolves.”

“You don’t feed them every day?” I said. “That sounds cruel.”

“We try to mimic how the wolves eat in the wild. Bi-weekly feeding is pretty close to how they eat in their natural surroundings.”

My stomach was churning. I turned to Dad and whispered, “I don’t think I can leave Lex here. The animals here don’t look happy at all.”

“What will happen to Lex if we take him home?” I asked our guide.

He looked at me the same way our veterinarian did at our last exam—with as much pity as concern. “Although a few animals can adapt to domestic life, most of them will continue behavior that is not compatible as a family pet.”

“I think we should leave Lex here,” said Reba. “He’s beginning to scare me.”

I glared at her. “Lex is not your dog.”

I jumped in the back seat of the car and slammed the door.

It was a quiet ride home, but as we pulled into our driveway, Dad warned me, “If Lex shows any further signs of bad behavior that could hurt someone, we’ll have to deal with him immediately.”

I didn’t want to ask what he meant by “deal with him immediately,” but I had no choice but to agree with him.

“I understand,” I said.

Reba

Lex returned home with us and all was well for several months. Then it happened.

It was May of our senior year of high school. Margo was in her room studying for her final exams and I arrived home late after gymnastics practice. Lottie and Lex were left together in the backyard enclosure. The arrangement had been working well enough, but ever since we had returned from the Wolf Rescue Preserve, Lex gradually became more aggressive towards Lottie. When Margo filled the food dishes and placed them out for the dogs, Lex snarled at Lottie causing Lottie to cower in the corner until Lex ate his fill.

Lottie began losing weight. Although I wasn’t responsible for Lottie, I felt sorry for her and wanted to take her for a walk in the fresh spring air. I grabbed her leash from the hook next to the back door and stepped into the yard.

“Come, Lottie! Time for a walk. Come, girl.”

Lottie saw me waiting for her near the doorway but first glanced to see that Lex was on the far side of the enclosure. He was sniffing at a corner post, apparently preoccupied for the moment.

“Come on gal. It’s okay. Let’s go for a walk.”

Lottie started in my direction, but when Lex saw her move out of the corner of his eye, he raced across the yard in our direction.

“Lottie! Look out,” I screamed, but by the time Lottie was halfway to me, Lex had her by the throat.

“Margo! Come get your dog. He’s got Lottie!”

Without thinking, I ran into the fray and whipped the clasped end of the leash against Lex. “Get off her, you wild brute! Get off her!”

By this time, Dad and Margo appeared in the back yard.

“Lex!” shouted Margo. “Come. Stop it.”

Hearing Margo’s voice, Lex unclenched his jaw from Lottie and looked at me. His muzzle was full of blood, and his yellow eyes blazed with the viciousness of a predator.

I turned and ran. I had only taken two steps when I felt a searing pain in my right leg. I fell to the ground. Lex snarled and tore at my calf muscle.

“Lex, NO!” screamed Margo, who stood paralyzed at the doorway.

I looked over my shoulder. Lex stood with a chunk of my leg in his mouth, staring at Margo.

That’s when I heard the shot.

Lex dropped to the ground, Dad lowered his rifle, and I blacked out.

When I woke up in the hospital, they told me that my gastrocnemius muscle had been badly damaged, but that my Achilles tendon was intact. “You’re lucky,” said the doctor. “With time and physical therapy, you’ll be able to walk pretty well.”

“What about gymnastics?” I asked, already knowing the answer. The doctor shook his head.

Mom and Dad were at my bedside. Margo had not come to visit. Dad said she couldn’t face me after what had happened.

“How about Lottie. Is she all right?”

“I’m afraid she died on the way to the vet clinic,” said Dad.

“Poor Margo,” I said.

That was eight years ago.

I had completed the video of my last gymnastics student and was on my way to the locker room. I called to the student over my shoulder, “Nice job, Savanah. We’ll review the video next week when we return from the Thanksgiving break. Don’t eat too much.”

She smiled and gave me a thumbs up when a young man fell in stride next to me.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Vincent Matelli. I’m the coach of the men’s gymnastics team.”

“I noticed you working with the male gymnasts,” I said, “but you must be new. Welcome to the University of Denver. I don’t remember you here as a student.”

“I played football in high school, but everyone told me I was too small. I guess I finally had to agree with them and switched to gymnastics.”

I admired the handsome young man. He was neatly trimmed, freshly shaved, and had biceps that bulged from the sleeves of his T-shirt. His chest was like a wedge.

I smiled and said, “You look more like a gymnast than a football player.”

“Thanks,” said Vincent. “All the time I spent in the weight room served me just as well on the rings and high bar. After I left high school, I applied to the University of Nebraska and got in. It took a couple of years to make the gymnastics team—I didn’t have the experience that the other guys had—but I didn’t mind. I found that I couldn’t compete at the level of my teammates, but I enjoyed coaching more than competing. This job opened up and here I am.”

“We’ve got something in common,” I said. “I had hoped to become a competitive gymnast at the college level too, but I was injured late in my senior year of high school.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Vincent. “Are you disappointed that you couldn’t compete in college?”

“At first, I was really bummed, but despite my injury, I focused on getting into the gymnastics program here at the University. It took months of physical therapy, and I eventually made the college team. I never competed that well, but my injury turned my passion from competition to coaching.” I held up my camera. “I use my video-journalism experience to record my gymnastic students so they can perfect their performances.”

“May as well make the best of it,” said Vincent. “Too many circumstances are out of our control, but we can be happy as long as we find our passion.”

 “I suppose you’re right,” I said. “I have a sister who is passionate about animals. Nothing could stop her from becoming a veterinarian.”

“You know,” said Vincent, “I’m looking for a veterinarian. I just got a new German Shepherd. Want to see a picture?”

I looked carefully at the picture, raised my eyebrows, and paused for a moment.

“Well, you won’t find anyone more compassionate than my sister. Her name is Dr. Margarite Philips, but she goes by Margo. You ought to make an appointment with her at the Denver Pet Hospital.”

Margo

“Your next appointment is here,” the receptionist reminded me.

I peeked at the handsome young man in the waiting room. Goodness! What a specimen. Michaelangelo would have loved to sculpt him. My stomach turned to butterflies.

You can learn to love people. My mentor’s advice echoed in my mind. Maybe I should start with this guy.

A German Shepherd wearing a basket muzzle fidgeted next to the man. The dog, with its long nose and ears perked to attention, had a menacing look to him.

Calm yourself…You can do this. You’re experienced. You can handle a handsome man and manage an unpredictable pet. I took a deep breath and walked into the reception area.

“Hello. I’m Margo Philips.”

The young man stood and held out his right hand while holding his dog’s leash firmly in his left. “I know. Your sister recommended you. I’m Vincent Matelli.”

“Oh,” I stammered in surprise. “That was nice of her. How do you know Reba?”

“I met her recently. We are both gymnastics coaches at the University of Denver.”

My mixed emotions about Reba flooded over me. I was relieved that our relationship had improved over time, but I still felt guilty about the injury Lex had caused. Then I looked closely at Vincent’s dog. A shiver went down my spine. He looked a lot like Lex.

“And who do we have here?” I asked, trying to remain cheerful.

“This is Scout,” said Vincent as the dog pulled on the leash and hid behind his leg. “He’s a little sensitive about strangers.”

Usually, I hold out an open hand to introduce myself to a new patient, but Scout’s body language told me not to bother. I swallowed hard and invited them into the exam room.

“Is Scout a purebred?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Vincent. “I picked him up from a local shelter. I know he’s a little edgy here, but I’ve really gotten to like him. He’s great company after a long day at the gym.”

“I understand,” I said, “but I think it might be a good idea to do a blood test to check his genetic background. It would be unusual, but I’m concerned that Scout may have some wolf in his breeding.”

“Wolf! That sounds far-fetched,” said Vincent, “and the test sounds expensive. I don’t have a lot of extra cash to throw around.”

While I had my reservations about his dog, I hoped to get to know Vincent better.

“I tell you what. How about if I pay for the DNA test? I have a special interest in crossbred dogs. I’ll justify it as part of my personal continuing education expense.”

“What if Scout does have some wolf in his breeding?” said Vincent. “What does that mean?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I said. “I may be all wrong about my suspicions, but if I’m right, we have some complicated options to discuss. Why don’t we talk it over after I get the results—maybe over a cup of coffee?”

Vincent’s concerns evaporated. “I guess I can’t argue with that,” he said. “It might be a problem taking a blood sample, though.”

“I’ll call in Mandy, my technician, to help me.”

We were unable to safely lift Scout onto the exam table, so Mandy and I knelt beside him on the floor. She held Scout’s neck and head firmly while I performed a short examination and injected a couple of routine vaccinations under his skin.

“Now for the blood sample,” I said. “Vincent, can you help hold Scout while Mandy extends his foreleg?”

I found the vein and held up the test tube full of blood.

“I’ll give you a call when I get the test results.”

A week after Thanksgiving, I opened the envelope from the diagnostic laboratory. It was as I had feared: 45% wolf.

****

The aroma of coffee and the hiss of the steamer filled the air as I waited for Vincent inside the Starbucks Cafe. He arrived exactly on time.

“Thanks for coming,” I said. “My treat. What can I get for you?”

“I’ll splurge and have a Mocha Grande—but with skim milk, please. I’ll grab the table in the corner by the window.”

“Excellent.” I ordered Vincent’s drink, a large latte for myself, paid the bill, and set our beverages on the table.

Vincent said, “By the the sound of your voice on the phone, I expect you have bad news to share.”

I slid into the high-top chair and warmed my hands on the cup.

“It’s not what I had hoped for,” I said, “but it’s what I suspected. Scout is a wolf/dog. Not quite half of his DNA is from a wolf parent.”

“I don’t understand why that is such a problem,” said Vincent. “He behaves great around me. It’s only when I take him out with other people that he gets worked up.”

“Have you ever taken him to a dog park?” I asked.

“I tried once, but he doesn’t like other dogs either. I don’t think I’d dare to let him loose. I had to keep a firm grip on his leash, and the other dogs wouldn’t come near him.”

“Let me tell you why I am so concerned about you owning a dog that is part wolf,” I said patiently. “As soon as I saw Scout at the clinic, he reminded me of Lex, a dog I owned when I was in high school.”

I related the entire story of Lottie and Lex, how Lottie got bred by mistake to a wolf, and how Lex changed his disposition so dramatically over time.

“I loved Lex too much and refused to give him up in time,” I explained.

I paused, took a sip of my latte, and continued. “You probably noticed that Reba has a limp.”

“Yeah,” said Vincent. “She said an injury kept her from competing well in college, but she didn’t elaborate.”

My voice caught in my throat. “Lex bit her in the leg. The injury was bad enough to send her to the hospital. Reba was trying to take Lottie for a walk and Lex attacked her.”

I could feel my eyes tear up. “When we try to domesticate wolf/dogs, they tend to attach themselves to only one owner. Lex was attached to me, and Scout is attached to you.”

Vincent’s mocha had gone cold.

“Reba doesn’t seem to have carried a grudge,” observed Vincent. “She had nothing but good things to say about you.”

“That wasn’t always the case. As you might expect, she was pretty mad at me for what my dog had done to her. We barely spoke during the four years of undergrad. We went to different colleges and had different interests. By the time we graduated, Reba seemed to have come to terms with her injury, but I was still angry at myself.”

“That was a long time ago,” said Vincent.

“I know, but back then I made another big mistake. I worked at a local shelter—probably like the one where you found Scout.”

I shifted in my seat and stared out the window. A woman wearing a Bronco’s jersey walked by leading a standard poodle by a leash.

“I fell in love with a dog named Pirate while I worked there. He was the cutest thing. He had floppy ears and a patch over his right eye, which of course, is how he got his name. He had not been adopted because of his ‘checkered history,’ and when they ran out of room at the kennel, he was scheduled to be put down.”

“Knowing how attached I have become to Scout,” said Vincent, “that must have been difficult for you.”

I looked into my cup instead of at Vincent and continued.

“I snuck Pirate out after hours and found a home for him with a classmate who wanted a dog in the worst way. She took him home, but a week after he got there, he attacked her baby sister. The little girl was not hurt badly, but she’s still frightened of dogs.”

“Wasn’t it against the rules to find a home for it on your own?” asked Vincent. “I had to fill out reams of paperwork to adopt Scout.”

“Of course it was, but I was young and foolish…and was far more interested in my pets than people.”

“Did you get in trouble?”

“Oh yes. If it hadn’t been for Dr. Schoenfeldt, the veterinarian at the shelter going to bat for me, and claiming that I didn’t know any better, my parents may have been sued.”

I drank the last of my latte and said, “I thought the whole incident was behind me, but when I made my application to veterinary school, the family of the little girl wrote a letter accusing me of not having the judgement to become a veterinarian. I was heartbroken.”

“Surely the admissions committee would have overlooked a poor decision you made in high school.”

“The girl’s dad knew people on the admissions board. For good or for bad, it’s often about who you know.”

“Well, you’re a vet. How did you get in?”

“Reba came to my rescue. The daughter of the head of the admissions board was on the gymnastics team with Reba. When Reba heard about my problem, she finagled a meeting with him. She told him about my passion for animals, my academic achievements, and persuaded them that it would be a waste not to let me become a veterinarian.”

“That was a noble thing to do,” said Vincent. “It sounds like she forgave you for the injury she suffered.”

“Yes,” I said tentatively, “but I still don’t know if she trusts my judgement.” I thought for a moment and knit my brow. “Did Reba know what kind of dog you had?”

“Only that I got a new dog and that it was a German Shepherd. But I’ll admit she looked startled when I showed her a picture of Scout. That’s when she suggested that I make an appointment with you.”

“Hmm. That’s interesting,” I said.

“So, what do you suggest I do with Scout? I’d really like to keep him. Maybe if I have him neutered, he’ll settle down.”

I smiled with what I hoped was the same compassion my hometown veterinarian used when he told me about Lex’s genetic background. “I’m sorry Vincent, but I don’t think neutering will change his personality.”

I told him about our visit to the Wolf Rescue Preserve and that I didn’t think I could have left Lex there, but that that was an option for Scout.

Then, to my dismay, I found myself suggesting the option of euthanasia.

Given the choices I had offered Vincent, the color drained from his face.

Again, I said I was sorry. “I have been in your position, Vincent. I hope you have the courage to choose more wisely than I did.”

A week later, I received my first thankyou note from a client:

Dear Dr. Philips,
Thank you for your amazing compassion and sensitivity in helping me decide what to do about Scout. Perhaps you’d be willing to help me find another, more appropriate, pet. Coffee?
--Vincent Matelli

And then, a text from Reba:

I’m proud of you.
--Your loving sister, Reba