I graduated from veterinary school exactly twenty-five years ago today. I've seen a lot of changes. The most profound change has been the influx of women into the profession. Right now the student population at veterinary colleges nationwide is 80% female. My class (Texas A&M - 1983) was exactly 50:50. This is a pretty remarkable turn of events considering there were hardly any women veterinarians at all before 1970. The women in my class (and those I've known since graduation) were all completely capable of doing anything I could do. There were a few hard-core feminists when we started, but by the time we graduated I think they realized that nobody cared about their gender. They earned (or failed to earn) respect from their peers based on their abilities. This was as it should be. It will be interesting to see what develops over the next thirty years as we old geezers retire and are replaced by young women. I wonder if there is a similar trend in the UK and Europe (Red or Asterisk, if you read this maybe you could check that out for me.)
I've been in Ballinger for almost twenty years after spending my first five years of practice in Fort Worth. Things have changed a lot here as well. People care more about their pets for one thing. The older rural population had a utilitarian view of animals. Each and every creature served a purpose and was valued accordingly. If an animal failed to fulfill its function (ie. a Border Collie that wouldn't herd sheep) or if it developed an illness that cost more to cure than it was worth, it was put down without a second thought, usually with a bullet to the head (euthanasia performed by a vet cost money). These people weren't cruel. They didn't let their animals suffer. They just saw everything as having a strictly economic value. I quickly decided that it wasn't my place to judge them, but I did try my best to enlighten them, usually with mixed results. Happily that view is becoming a thing of the past. A lot of those folks have passed away and their children tend to see their pets as members of the family. They are embarrassed when they spend money on them, but they do it anyway.
There has been a profound change in agriculture since I came here. When I first arrived on the scene cattle and sheep were abundant. I saw them daily and in substantial numbers. Now the commercial sheep business in this part of the state is all but dead (there are a lot more goats, though) and I might see one cow a week. There were 12 to 15 small dairies (less than 100 cows) when I came here. Now there is one. There are, however,several enormous dairies with 1000 or more cows, but these enterprises use out of town consultants for their veterinary needs. The men and women that farm and ranch are getting old and their children aren't interested in taking their places. A lot of land has been placed in CRP (a government program that pays landowners to idle their land) or sold to city people for recreational use. The illegal immigrants that used to do all the dirty work are now working on construction crews in big cities. Most of the infrastructure (barns, working pens, fences...) is crumbling. When my time here is over I really don't think I will be replaced. The days of the small town vet are almost over.
I'm glad I chose this profession. I wanted to be able to help sick animals. I wanted to earn a decent living. I didn't want every day to be the same. I wanted to be challenged mentally and physically. I wanted to make a difference in my community. It hasn't always been easy. I've made plenty of stupid mistakes. I've lost my temper. I've had some spectacular failures. I haven't been much of a businessman. I've had to weather some serious storms - a ten year drought, a rabies epidemic, plagues of grasshoppers and army worms, the arrival of Africanized Bees, Fire Ants and West Nile Virus. I once did a C-section on a cow in weather so cold that the metal instruments froze to my fingers they way your tongue sticks to a Popsicle. I've done a C-section on a daschund by flashlight during a massive hailstorm. I've palpated (stuck my arm up their rectum to feel for a calf) 350 cows in four hours. I've had to tell people I love dearly that their beloved pet was dying. All in all it has been very humbling, and very rewarding. I have indeed been blessed.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
Responsibility Is Not A Bad Thing
My daughter Martha's latest post got me to thinking about men and responsibility. My dad was born in 1928. His family lived in Topeka, but in the summers he was sent to work on his grandparents farm. When he was nine years old he was driving a horse & mule powered binder while his uncles stacked the sheaves. Any money he made was given to his parents. Later on he got a paper route and again, any money he made went to help feed his four brothers and two sisters. His story was not unusual; in fact it was typical for young men of that generation to pitch in and help their families survive. Frankly, that was the way things were for every generation back to Adam. Boys coulnd't stay boys for long. They were men (or at least worked like men) by the time they were sixteen. Responsibility came to them naturally. They were raised with it. It was as natural as eating or breathing. Something has changed.
After World War II there was a tremendous economic boom, and with it came a profound change in how children, especially boys, were raised. An enormous number of men served in the armed forces and then went to college on the GI Bill. My dad was one of them. He was the first person in the history of his family to ever get to go to college. In the 1950's a college degree was worth a lot of money. My dad, unlike his dad, was able to raise a family in relative comfort on his salary alone. Mom stayed home with the kids, like most other moms in those days. Labor laws kept me from working at a serious job until I was sixteen, and even then, any money I made I got to keep for myself. My family simply did not need me. I had chores, of course, but they were piddly things like mowing the yeard and cleaning the garage. If I hadn't done them someone else would have. Talk about a dramatic shift. Middle Class America is huge, and it's young men aren't genuinely needed by anyone, at least not until they are old enough to start their own families. For most young men the first real responsibility they get is handed to them in the person of their firstborn child. Fifty years ago it was unusual for a man to abandon his family. These days it happens all the time.
And then there's the culture. Father's on TV are always portrayed as complete buffoons. Who wants to be Al Bundy or Homer Simpson? Responsibility is always viewed as some sort of personal disaster. Oh my God! A wife! A mortgage! A job! A kid! It's no wonder so many young men refuse to grow up.
Mind you, I'm not really trying to pin the blame on anyone here. I think this thing has been an unexpected development in American society. We really don't have a good way to grow young boys into men anymore. I don't really know what the solution is, either. I wish I did. There are a couple of things that I think will help. First and foremost, boys need role models, and men who aren't afraid of responsibility need to step up and meet the challenge. I've tried to do my part. I've been a mentor at the local junior high for three years. I like to think I've done a little good, but time will tell.
After World War II there was a tremendous economic boom, and with it came a profound change in how children, especially boys, were raised. An enormous number of men served in the armed forces and then went to college on the GI Bill. My dad was one of them. He was the first person in the history of his family to ever get to go to college. In the 1950's a college degree was worth a lot of money. My dad, unlike his dad, was able to raise a family in relative comfort on his salary alone. Mom stayed home with the kids, like most other moms in those days. Labor laws kept me from working at a serious job until I was sixteen, and even then, any money I made I got to keep for myself. My family simply did not need me. I had chores, of course, but they were piddly things like mowing the yeard and cleaning the garage. If I hadn't done them someone else would have. Talk about a dramatic shift. Middle Class America is huge, and it's young men aren't genuinely needed by anyone, at least not until they are old enough to start their own families. For most young men the first real responsibility they get is handed to them in the person of their firstborn child. Fifty years ago it was unusual for a man to abandon his family. These days it happens all the time.
And then there's the culture. Father's on TV are always portrayed as complete buffoons. Who wants to be Al Bundy or Homer Simpson? Responsibility is always viewed as some sort of personal disaster. Oh my God! A wife! A mortgage! A job! A kid! It's no wonder so many young men refuse to grow up.
Mind you, I'm not really trying to pin the blame on anyone here. I think this thing has been an unexpected development in American society. We really don't have a good way to grow young boys into men anymore. I don't really know what the solution is, either. I wish I did. There are a couple of things that I think will help. First and foremost, boys need role models, and men who aren't afraid of responsibility need to step up and meet the challenge. I've tried to do my part. I've been a mentor at the local junior high for three years. I like to think I've done a little good, but time will tell.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
West Texas is not for everyone. I'll be the first person to admit it. My family moved to Midland (300 miles from Fort Worth and 300 miles from El Paso) in 1960. My folks were raised in Eastern Kansas, a land of hills, trees, lakes, rivers and beautiful farms. Midland has none of those. I was five or six years old when the five of us loaded up the Rambler and made the long drive from Overland Park, Kansas. I distinctly remembered my mom crying in the front seat when it finally dawned on her that the parched, ugly landscape we were driving through was going to be her home for the foreseeable future. We had arrived at the bleak, flat, treeless plain that is the Llano Estacado (Staked Plains - so named because the Native Americans used stakes to guide them to the infrequent watering holes). To give you an idea how flat the country is, you can see the tall buildings of downtown from 30 miles in any direction. I'm not exaggerating. Midland is perched near the edge of the great Chihuahuan Desert and averages about fourteen inches of rain in a year (most of which falls in 2 or 3 days). My senior year in high school I think we got two. The wind always blows. Dust storms were common when I was a kid, but better farming practices in the Texas Panhandle have helped tremendously. I remember times when we could look out the window and not be able to see the houses across the street. One particular storm piled tumbleweeds nearly to the top of our roof. Mom didn't know what we were going to do, but a few days later another big wind blew them all away. It can get brutally hot. It is not unusual to see temperatures over 110 degrees in the summer. You can fry an egg on the sidewalk (I've done it) and walking barefoot on the street or sidewalk will give you serious blisters on the bottom of your feet. On the other hand it can get pretty cold in the winter. The old joke is that there ain't nothin' between Midland and the North Pole but barbed wire fence.
Looking back, I think Mom went a little crazy during the first couple of years. Dad was only home on the weekends and I (the oldest) was still too young for her to talk to. One Christmas she started making things out of tumbleweeds. She spray-painted them white and wired them together to make a "snowman". We also had a tumbleweed "chandelier" in our living room. Then there was the snake. One morning I walked into the living room and saw what I at first thought was my belt laying on the floor. Mom is Pennsylvania Dutch, and therefore a complete neat freak, so I immediately went to pick it up. It moved. Then it made a weird, buzzing sound. My sister and I started yelling "SNAKE! SNAKE!" Mom thought we were watching a snake on the television. Finally, when we wouldn't stop yelling, she came in the room to see what the fuss was about. The next few minutes were kind of a blur. I remember a lot of screaming. I remember getting dragged outside and watching a neighbor man go into our house with a hoe. A little while later we went back in and the snake was gone, but there was a bloody spot on the carpet. Mom tried and tried to get that spot out, but it was still there when we moved.
I've always said that the best thing about being from Midland is that you can go anywhere in the world and be impressed by the scenery. If there are hills or trees, or especially any kind of surface water then we think it's beautiful. If you ever travel with someone from West Texas watch what they do whenever they cross a bridge. If there is water, even a muddy ditch, I guarantee you they will turn their head and check it out. They may drive across that bridge ten times a day and they will do it every single time.
The real beauty in West Texas is in the vast swath of ever-changing sky. You can see the tops of towering thunderstorms two hundred miles away. Unless the sky is overcast you will always have a magnificent sunrise and sunset. Another odd trait we West Texans share is that we get a little claustrophobic after a few days in mountains or forests. We really like to see the distant horizon.
It has been 48 years since Mom first laid eyes on Midland, Texas. She and Dad still live there, happily. They have surrounded themselves with dear friends, some of whom go clear back to 1960. My dad's retired now, and plays golf several times a week. They have been married for fifty-three years, some of which were pretty lean. I'm glad they chose to stay, though. Midland was a pretty good place to grow up.
Looking back, I think Mom went a little crazy during the first couple of years. Dad was only home on the weekends and I (the oldest) was still too young for her to talk to. One Christmas she started making things out of tumbleweeds. She spray-painted them white and wired them together to make a "snowman". We also had a tumbleweed "chandelier" in our living room. Then there was the snake. One morning I walked into the living room and saw what I at first thought was my belt laying on the floor. Mom is Pennsylvania Dutch, and therefore a complete neat freak, so I immediately went to pick it up. It moved. Then it made a weird, buzzing sound. My sister and I started yelling "SNAKE! SNAKE!" Mom thought we were watching a snake on the television. Finally, when we wouldn't stop yelling, she came in the room to see what the fuss was about. The next few minutes were kind of a blur. I remember a lot of screaming. I remember getting dragged outside and watching a neighbor man go into our house with a hoe. A little while later we went back in and the snake was gone, but there was a bloody spot on the carpet. Mom tried and tried to get that spot out, but it was still there when we moved.
I've always said that the best thing about being from Midland is that you can go anywhere in the world and be impressed by the scenery. If there are hills or trees, or especially any kind of surface water then we think it's beautiful. If you ever travel with someone from West Texas watch what they do whenever they cross a bridge. If there is water, even a muddy ditch, I guarantee you they will turn their head and check it out. They may drive across that bridge ten times a day and they will do it every single time.
The real beauty in West Texas is in the vast swath of ever-changing sky. You can see the tops of towering thunderstorms two hundred miles away. Unless the sky is overcast you will always have a magnificent sunrise and sunset. Another odd trait we West Texans share is that we get a little claustrophobic after a few days in mountains or forests. We really like to see the distant horizon.
It has been 48 years since Mom first laid eyes on Midland, Texas. She and Dad still live there, happily. They have surrounded themselves with dear friends, some of whom go clear back to 1960. My dad's retired now, and plays golf several times a week. They have been married for fifty-three years, some of which were pretty lean. I'm glad they chose to stay, though. Midland was a pretty good place to grow up.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Have you heard about the dyslexic agnostic?
I come from a family of comedians. If you were ever lucky enough to be at a Belden Family gathering I guarantee you would laugh. You would laugh a lot. I am certain that I have recieved my fair share of the family gift, but my children, especially my daughters, would probably beg to differ. I have tortured them for many years by telling their friends the same lame jokes they've heard a million times. I believe it is a father's solemn duty to embarass his children whenever possible. Martha's sister (I'll call her #3) is particularly vocal in her disapproval of my sense of humor. One of my finest moments came a couple of years ago. One of #3's best friends, Savanna (who thinks I'm hilarious, by the way), was at our house. The three of us were walking out the front door and she made a comment about my intelligence. "You know," I said, draping my arm around her shoulders, "I'm so bright my mother calls me 'sun'." The look of utter disgust on #3's face as Savanna collapsed in fits of laughter will always be one of my fondest memories.
Now that I'm older I've learned to think before I speak, but alas it has not always been so. Early in my veterinary career a very serious-looking young couple brought in a sick Bassett Hound. Now Bassetts are amongst the funniest of dogs to begin with. Just looking at one, even a sick one, makes me smile. This particular hound had a liver ailment of some sort, and after my initial examination I told the owners that he would need to be hospitalized for some tests. I was in the middle of explaining my plan of action when the young woman suddenly blurted out, "You won't give him any blood." I was confused, as I hadn't even mentioned a transfusion. "I'm sorry, ma'am," I spluttered, "I don't understand." The man took over at that point. "We're Jehovah's Witnesses," he explained, "and we don't believe in blood transfusions." My first thought was that if the dog could talk he would probably say, "Screw that, doc, do whatever it takes!" My comedy gene suddenly kicked in. I couldn't stop myself. I took a long, hard look at that hilariously sad Bassett face and then looked up at his owners and said, "Why, he looks like a Baptist to me!" I thought it was one of the funniest things I've ever said. My timing was perfect. Unfortunately my sense of pride at my clever riposte was dashed by the look of abject horror on my clients' faces. For a second I thought they were going to snatch up the poor beast and storm out of the clinic. I spent the next ten minutes apologizing and assuring them that their dog did not need and would not recieve a blood transfusion. I recall that the dog recovered from his illness, but I never saw those folks again. I still think it was funny.
Someday I will tell you all about Hugh the Blacksmith and the Trids (That odd sound you hear is Martha's groan of dismay when she reads this). I also have a nice collection of bartender jokes, such as: A horse walked into a bar and the bartender said, "Why the long face?" By the way, the dyslexic agnostic lies awake at night wondering if there really is a Dog...
Now that I'm older I've learned to think before I speak, but alas it has not always been so. Early in my veterinary career a very serious-looking young couple brought in a sick Bassett Hound. Now Bassetts are amongst the funniest of dogs to begin with. Just looking at one, even a sick one, makes me smile. This particular hound had a liver ailment of some sort, and after my initial examination I told the owners that he would need to be hospitalized for some tests. I was in the middle of explaining my plan of action when the young woman suddenly blurted out, "You won't give him any blood." I was confused, as I hadn't even mentioned a transfusion. "I'm sorry, ma'am," I spluttered, "I don't understand." The man took over at that point. "We're Jehovah's Witnesses," he explained, "and we don't believe in blood transfusions." My first thought was that if the dog could talk he would probably say, "Screw that, doc, do whatever it takes!" My comedy gene suddenly kicked in. I couldn't stop myself. I took a long, hard look at that hilariously sad Bassett face and then looked up at his owners and said, "Why, he looks like a Baptist to me!" I thought it was one of the funniest things I've ever said. My timing was perfect. Unfortunately my sense of pride at my clever riposte was dashed by the look of abject horror on my clients' faces. For a second I thought they were going to snatch up the poor beast and storm out of the clinic. I spent the next ten minutes apologizing and assuring them that their dog did not need and would not recieve a blood transfusion. I recall that the dog recovered from his illness, but I never saw those folks again. I still think it was funny.
Someday I will tell you all about Hugh the Blacksmith and the Trids (That odd sound you hear is Martha's groan of dismay when she reads this). I also have a nice collection of bartender jokes, such as: A horse walked into a bar and the bartender said, "Why the long face?" By the way, the dyslexic agnostic lies awake at night wondering if there really is a Dog...
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
My First Post
My name is Matt Belden and this is my first post. You can see by the name of my blog that I have a daughter named Martha. She is a long - time blogger and her blog is called Notionsonbeing. She was an English major in college and is a brilliant and talented writer. I am neither but I will try to at least be coherent. Martha has a bit of a following and some of you may read this. I will try to make it worth your while.
If you read my profile you will see that I am a small-town veterinarian. I am proud of my profession and am deeply grateful for the opportunity to practice it. James Herriot's stories (All Creatures Great and Small) had a profound influence on me and I feel truly blessed to have been able to have a similar life. I hope to share some of my adventures here.
Those of you who have read my comments on Martha's blog know that I am pretty conservative and also pretty religious. I realize that neither of these things are very popular on the internet these days but there it is. I am what I am (Popeye). I have fairly strong opinions but I'll try not to beat anyone over the head with them. I genuinely despise what passes for political debate these days, namely childish name calling. It seems that if someone disagrees with you these days you just have to slap a name on them (Nazi, Fascist, Racist) and then you don't have to listen to them anymore. Or you can simply shout them down so that no one can hear them.
As for my faith, I am a practicing Catholic. My faith is very important to me, but I'm not interested in forcing it on anyone else. If you ask me about it I will tell you but otherwise I'll assume you don't want to hear about it. I will go so far to say that if you are not a believer then it doesn't really matter what you do or don't do. If there is no God, then nothing is forbidden.
I'd like to say that I don't hate anyone, but that would be a lie. I hate bullies. I hate the idea of the strong picking on the weak. I don't much care for politicians either, whatever their affiliation. I try to respect everyone's religious beliefs (or unbelief, for that matter), but I'm having a difficult time with Islam these days. I'd be a lot happier if more of them would speak up about the radicalism that is beginning to dominate their culture.
Well, that's all for now. I hope to have more soon.
If you read my profile you will see that I am a small-town veterinarian. I am proud of my profession and am deeply grateful for the opportunity to practice it. James Herriot's stories (All Creatures Great and Small) had a profound influence on me and I feel truly blessed to have been able to have a similar life. I hope to share some of my adventures here.
Those of you who have read my comments on Martha's blog know that I am pretty conservative and also pretty religious. I realize that neither of these things are very popular on the internet these days but there it is. I am what I am (Popeye). I have fairly strong opinions but I'll try not to beat anyone over the head with them. I genuinely despise what passes for political debate these days, namely childish name calling. It seems that if someone disagrees with you these days you just have to slap a name on them (Nazi, Fascist, Racist) and then you don't have to listen to them anymore. Or you can simply shout them down so that no one can hear them.
As for my faith, I am a practicing Catholic. My faith is very important to me, but I'm not interested in forcing it on anyone else. If you ask me about it I will tell you but otherwise I'll assume you don't want to hear about it. I will go so far to say that if you are not a believer then it doesn't really matter what you do or don't do. If there is no God, then nothing is forbidden.
I'd like to say that I don't hate anyone, but that would be a lie. I hate bullies. I hate the idea of the strong picking on the weak. I don't much care for politicians either, whatever their affiliation. I try to respect everyone's religious beliefs (or unbelief, for that matter), but I'm having a difficult time with Islam these days. I'd be a lot happier if more of them would speak up about the radicalism that is beginning to dominate their culture.
Well, that's all for now. I hope to have more soon.
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