Even Cows Go To Heaven

      Some members of the club, female friends of Doc and Marj’s daughter, Linda, seriously considered becoming vegetarians... because of listening to the daily price and past life of the sandwich meat they were eating? Or perhaps the influence of the impending hippie revolution?

      Doc formed the Donut Club to encourage Linda’s friends to come at midday from the Owen Sound Collegiate and Vocational Institute, one block away, to chat and eat. Members brought their own lunches, and Doc provided a variety of donuts on days that he could be there. He encouraged each member to become a Dog & Cat Nurse to assist in various small operations, such as spaying. Those who successfully assisted during six operations, usually on Saturday mornings, and braved an optional country call to a calving were awarded an official Doc Knox Dog & Cat Nurse certificate. These were printed by Marj’s father, Bert ‘Mac’ MacFadden on the antique printing press at his shop on Frank Street in Wiarton.

      Doc’s operating room was an extension of the pet examination and main office area, furnished with an operating table and instrument trays. The recovery area, in the same room, consisted only of a small wooden cupboard with one caged side. Unfortunately some club members didn’t make it through even one operation, fainting at the first incision and sight of blood. Their collapsing on the floor caused quite a commotion in the very small operating area, so Doc banished these wobbly-kneed nurses to recovery duties, to care for animals coming out of anaesthetic.

      One fainter cared for a recovering, very large dog. This dog flopped around, shook the cage, and howled almost continuously. This girl gave up hope of ever becoming a nurse for dogs, cats or people. Another fainter gave up dog and cat nursing when she discovered a severed dog’s head in the clinic refrigerator. The head was awaiting shipment to the provincial lab in Guelph for rabies testing.

      The successful graduates, only one short year after receiving their certificates and working steadily at the clinic, went on strike. They wanted money instead of donuts as remuneration. Realizing that his days of an almost “free lunch” were over, Doc generously offered them two dollars per Saturday, a pay rate which was well-received by the nurses.

      One task of both apprentice and veteran “donut nurses” (Doc’s term) was answering the phone during lunch. Farmers always demanded that Doc make an immediate appearance at their farm, as if they were the only farmer in Grey or Bruce County. They perhaps thought that Doc could fly the black, red-winged Pontiac over hills, dales, and the rock-faced Niagara Escarpment to perform his magic. Doc said that learning to deter these clients would be good experience for the nurses, teaching them skills they could use in any future vocations. Marj insisted that they open with a clear, polite message, such as “I am sorry, Mr. Farmer, the doctor is not here at the moment. Please, may I take a message?” Some found it difficult to say this, especially when Doc was sitting right there at the table, munching away on roast beef sandwiches. Others were very good liars. “After all,” Marj rationalized, “they are only little white lies.”

      One noon hour when the phone rang, club members were amused to learn that Mr. Magoohan had a sow suffering from sunburn. Doc, however, was quite serious as he told them that pigs are, in fact, very susceptible to sunburn and that it can be highly dangerous for them. Pigs have little resistance to the sun in their natural, virtually hairless state, Doc explained. They are only protected if they are covered with “glorious mud”, he went on; otherwise they must stay out of the sun. Obviously, Magoohan’s pig had been out “back-bakin”. Doc pocketed a honey-dipped donut when Marj wasn’t looking, and went out on the call.

      When he reached Magoohan’s farm, he noticed the heat waves squiggling over the sun- drenched, wide-open fields.

      Mr. Magoohan ambled slowly toward Doc, speaking and thinking just as slowly.

      “Ah, Doc,” he said, “Ol’ Suzanna’s all burned up, she is. Sufferin’, over there in the shade by the piggery. Come and see now. Sufferin’ and squealin’ she is.”

      Doc looked at Ol’ Suzanna and was horrified at her condition. “What the devil happened to this pig? She’s got serious blistering. This isn’t ordinary sunburn. What the hell did you do with her?”

      Mr. Magoohan looked blankly at Doc. “Ah, Doc, dunno...I just wanna... git rid of them bugs.”

      “What do you mean, Magoo? What bugs?”

      “Well, the lice, you know, I think. Like I do with the young ’uns. Put some of the tractor oil on, I did. Rubbed it in real good. Let her go in the field. Sun should kill them bugs. Don’t want them lice to go into my nice clean barn, ya know.”

      Doc shook his head, glancing over at the dishevelled, dirty barn. Doc thought Magoo was too close to his pigs, probably treated them better than his children. But not this time.

      “You know, Magoo,” said Doc with a straight face, “you can’t give a pig a tune-up and oil change in this hot, sunny weather. Next time, let her run, but not in the sun. And change the oil every five thousand miles.”