The Gift of Pets: Stories Only a Vet Could Tell Read Online Free PDF Page B

car will in short order become a Popsicle without the assistance of his neighbors. They are also acutely aware that their own car could break down.
    Minnesota Lutherans are honest, sturdy, guileless, and strangers to coarseness. This is not to say they are prudes. The earthy conversation in most milking parlors includes descriptions of bovine waste products that in any other setting would be considered swearing. But for farmers who spend their lives shoveling the stuff, it is more professional terminology than expletive. Most devout Minnesota Lutheran farmers would sooner slice off their own leg than unleash a barrage of ear-burning curses.
    Dr. Boyd was not a tall person, but he was large in every way. He was barrel-chested, with a prominent stomach. He had a huge head with a wild shock of prematurely graying hair set on top of his head like the flame of a torch, uncontrollable and waving indiscriminately; and similar to dealing with a flame, he made few attempts to constrain it. He had a large beard with streaks of gray in it that looked to be contaminating their surrounding neighbors. Even his glasses were large and dark, with huge lenses. These and his immense personality gave him an impressive presence.
    Dr. Boyd was not a farmer, and he did not share a burning religious fervency. But he was a Minnesota Lutheran veterinarian serving Lutheran Minnesota farmers. Any good Lutheran knows that justification is the work of a moment. But sanctification is the work of a lifetime, and this process in Dr. Boyd was not yet complete. Though he was a churchgoing man, I had seen on occasion his penchant for emotional explosions and colorful language when things fell apart unexpectedly. Heaven knows, I had once been the recipient of a verbal volcano when I had accidentally broken the glass barrel of a syringe he needed for his next farm call. Despite these idiosyncrasies, he was adored by the farmers in the community. I looked up to him immensely.
    I knew he knew this about me. And it was clear that he took his responsibilities as my mentor seriously, carefully instructing me in lessons of animal husbandry, veterinary career choices, and a life well lived. I accompanied Dr. Boyd often on his rounds in the truck, careening around the county at top speed down roads piled on each side with mountains of salt-slicked snow, like the dry ground in the Red Sea upon which the children of Israel crossed. Every large animal veterinarian I know drives the back roads like a drunken soldier on the last night of furlough. This is essential, it seems, as every farm call is considered by the farmer to be an emergency. Besides, more calls can be crammed into the span of time between sunrise and sunset when they are done at full throttle. Though I would be wise to follow Dr. Boyd’s example in navigating life, I would be a fool to navigate country roads as he did.
    I was not permitted to attend Dr. Boyd on his rounds until he had escorted me to the local dry-goods store and outfitted me with a pair of blue coveralls and rubber boots that fit over my shoes. The fact that the boots were rubber allowed me to scrub them carefully before leaving every farm. I doused them with a solution of warm water, which he dispensed from the tank in his Bowie veterinary box, mixed with the dark green and luminously scented disinfectant Roccal. So much a part of rural Minnesota veterinary practice was this ceremonious cleansing that every mixed-animal practice I had ever been in smelled strongly of Roccal, a pervasive medical smell with a lingering metallic odor. To my mind, it is still what the color green smells like.
    Whether this habit truly prevented the spread of contagious diseases between farms or was merely a way for Dr. Boyd to impress the farmers with his thoroughness and keep the interior of his truck clean, I really don’t know. But I can still picture him sitting on the tailgate of his truck, one leg thrown carelessly across his knee while sloshing the