Some Of My Friends Are
People: Proposal
Dr. Celeste Matthews
Jessica Taylor: Country Vet
Word Count: 73,176 words
Sell Sheet: Some Of My Friends Are
People
Some Of My Friends Are People is a fiction novel made up of a compilation
of stories about animals, about animal people, and the struggles of a young woman in a
male dominated career. The little stories are woven into a larger story about life and
love. The book is meant to entertain more than inspire.
Doctor of Veterinary Medicine
Bachelor of Science
2006 – current:
Instructor of Biology, Flint River Technical College, Thomaston, Georgia
2004 - 2006 Instructor of Biology, Columbus State University -
Columbus, Georgia.
2001 – current: Matthews
Veterinary Services, Talbotton, Georgia.
2003 - 2004
Banfield Corporation, Staff Veterinarian,
2002 - 2003: Taught High School Science,
1998 - 2000: Assistant Professor of Veterinary Science,
1994 - 1997: Veterinary
Associate, Hannah’s
1991 - 1993: Instructor of Biology,
1988 - 1991: Owner/Operator
of Matthews Veterinary Services,
1985 - 1987: Owner/Operator
of
1983 - 1984: Relief
Veterinarian in
Associations:
Georgia Veterinary Medical Association, member
Upson County Cattlemen’s Association, Lecture on beef cattle nutrition.
Middle Georgia Folk and Blues Society
Academic Honors
Phi Zeta Honor Society for Outstanding Academic Performance
University of
Graduated Cum Laude ; Who’s Who in Colleges and
Universities;
Publications
Matthews, C.M. 2006. Old Ruby. Veterinary Forum.
Matthews, C.M. 2005. Choosing Mr. Right. A Christian Perspective To Choosing A Husband. Series of Articles. The Tri-County Journal and
Some Of My Friends Are People is a story about the life of fictional character, Dr. Jessica Taylor. She was a new graduate from veterinary school living in an unlikely community in the country. The book is a compilation of cute little stories about animals and animal people woven into a bigger story about life and love.
The book is written for animal lovers. The book is written for people who like stories about women. This is an entertaining book. It will make people laugh. It will give the reader a happy feeling inside
This book is uniquely different from the other current veterinary story books because of several things. First, though based on real life situations, this is a fiction novel. James Herriot wrote about real life, though he has been quoted as saying that his books were 90% truth and 10% bald faced lies. Some Of My Friends Are People is however written in first person to make the novel more personable and readable. Another difference is that the other veterinary story books were written by and about men with a male perspective on things. James Herriot wrote wonderful stories, but he was male; therefore, his situations were different than a woman’s are. John McCormack and Robert Miller also write wonderful stories. However, they are not as sensitive to the feelings of the average women as this book is. For example, one author tells in bloody, vivid detail about a hunting trip and killing a deer. The other author has a story, told in gory detail, about euthanizing a perfectly healthy horse for the convenience of the owner.
The stories in this book are based on real events. The characters and life situations have been fictionalized to make a more interesting read.
Jessica begins to discover some of the disadvantages of her new country life.
Chapter
5: A Ride in the Country
Jessica enjoys riding her horse out the dirt roads near her home. She also gets her first look at an interesting stranger.
The real reason that anyone goes into veterinary medicine is to help animals and to help pet owners. Jessica’s little dog died due to lack of veterinary care when she was a little girl. She was determined to save this little boy’s pet.
Smiling Sam is a cat without a smile. He represents Jessica’s first attempt at reconstructive surgery. This effort is appreciated by his owner, but not by the clinic owner that she was working for.
Jessica has a pleasantly disturbing dream about the handsome stranger she saw in
chapter 5
Chapter 14: Mama’s
Medicine
Jessica makes friends with a beautiful little girl.
Chapter 20: Pigs
In The Parlor And Other Such Nonsense
Some cats are harder to handle than any horse or cow alive.
Chapter 30: Dreaming
The screaming woman woke me up from my exhausted sleep. A truck door slammed. There was a loud rapping on my door, and that horrible screaming. For a split second, I thought that I was having a nightmare, but the screams persisted, causing me to assume that the house was on fire or perhaps under siege from terrorists. I had only moved into the old house a few days before, and felt panicked at waking up so violently in a new place. This sudden awakening startled me so that I felt my heart pounding in my ears.
I opened the door to an attractive, young, blonde woman who yelled, "Are you that vet, Dr. Taylor? My dog done ate my goat's bung hole out! My dog done ate my goat's bung hole out!!! He ate it out!”
Her golden curls were disarrayed and blowing in the wind. She wore tattered blue jeans, a red flannel shirt, and work boots. In spite of her simple attire, she was a beautiful woman --- that is, until she talked, or rather screamed.
Her volume increased with each panic laden sentence. A look of horror and sheer terror covered her face. My first response was relief that the house was not on fire. After trying to calm the woman, I asked her to repeat her problem. She again screamed, "My dog done ate my goat's bung hole out!! You got to come quick or she'll die!"
I ran inside and grabbed her doctor bag with emergency supplies, and more importantly, my list of Southern colloquial terms for various anatomical parts of farm animals. A quick look under "B" let her realize that the part in question was the goat's backside.
This would be my first case as a veterinarian. Jessica Taylor, Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. Me. I couldn’t believe it had finally happened! A statement that I made to my friends in school flashed through my mind. “I wish that these teachers would stop cramming all this stuff about goats down our throats. If there is one species that I will never work on, it’s goats!”
According to textbook studies, even relatively minor tears to an animal's anus can be deadly, and unfortunately, I had absolutely no experience at anything having had only graduated from veterinary school the week before. The thought of handling a true emergency all on my own made her feel panic on almost the same level that the woman outside my house was feeling. I walked out the door and somehow managed to fake a confident smile and say, "You show me the way and I'll follow you in my truck."
After driving for a mile or so, the thought struck me that I still had no idea who this person was. The lady turned into a dirt driveway, and Jessica followed. The house was very old and had no paint on it. In the yard there were loose chickens and goats walking around. A big gray goose strutted curiously over and began to inspect my equipment. In spite of the signs of poverty, the yard was well kept. There were neat rows of flowers planted in front of the house. Around the side of the house there was a large vegetable garden, surrounded by an electric fence.
Next to the garden, a large, part-chow dog was tied to a tree. The blood covering his fur made it apparent that he was the culprit that bit the goat. I got my bag and followed the woman around to the back of the house. Behind the house there was a young man holding a blood covered little white goat. Beside him stood a boy that looked like he was about five years old. He was crying loudly. The man said, "Thank goodness you're here. She's dying Doc!"
Suddenly I began to feel myself really panic. Having graduated from veterinary school only a few days ago, I had never done any type of surgery without a teacher standing over me. Surgery on goats is risky at best. They often die from anesthetic reactions. And dog bite wounds usually get infected. The worse problem was the area of the injury. Anal injuries are often difficult, if not impossible, to repair. It was just a goat, but somehow it seemed like the most important creature in the world because her very life could be based on what I did in the next few minutes. I wanted to scream and run, but somehow managed to say in a cheerful, confident voice, "I'll need a clean bucket of warm water, some soap, and a roll of paper towels if you have them."
I wondered if these people could hear the pounding in my chest from my panic stricken heart. The pounding sound in my ears was deafening as my heart got louder and louder. I suddenly felt glad for my musical background. All those band and orchestra concerts in college had taught me to convincingly pretend that I was not terrified when suddenly on the spot in front of a potentially critical audience; however, I felt somewhat uncomfortable remembering that I fainted and hit the floor seconds after completing my first solo performance in music back in high school band.
Within minutes, the water, soap, and towels had all been produced. I asked the man to hold the goat's head so that she would not move. I cleaned the wounds and found that even though the goat was covered with blood, her injuries were not as serious as they originally looked. It took only a few stitches and an antibiotic injection. Within twenty minutes, it was all done.
The feeling of relief was
overwhelming. Maybe this veterinary business was going to work out great! My confidence
was soaring to an all-time high. The man shook my hand. He finally introduced himself as
What could I do? I shrugged her shoulders and got into my truck and drove off. There was surely no need to worry about the money part of the whole thing. I thought, “Wow, this is actually happening. I have finally graduated and am starting to practice veterinary medicine.”
While meandering slowly toward my new home, my thoughts wandered toward my old home in the suburbs of Chattanooga, Tennessee. My family always assumed that I would be a professional musician. I played oboe from the age of ten. My mother was a violinist for the Chattanooga Symphony Orchestra for most of my childhood. My family’s home was always a busy parade of musicians, artists, poets, philosophers, theologians, scientists, as well as many colorful people from various countries and cultures. By my senior year of high school, I was a member of the Chattanooga Youth Symphony and was often asked to play with the Chattanooga Symphony in summer concerts. At eighteen years old, I moved to Rome, Georgia, to go to college and was invited to be the principal oboist for the Rome Symphony Orchestra. My family and friends all expected that she would spend my life in a major city working as a professional musician. I was thinking about the excitement of the sound of the applause of the crowd, the feel of my long, black, silk gown, split dangerously high on the side, my four inch pumps, my long blonde hair flowing loose and shining in the stage lights, the parties; it all seemed like a faded dream. I looked down at my dirty boots and my blood splattered jeans and wondered how I could have moved so far from home.
I never did receive any cash as payment for my work that day. However, three days later, Mrs. Towns brought me a dozen fresh eggs, a basket full of fresh tomatoes, and a quart of goat's milk, which probably was contaminated with penicillin despite my warnings about medicines getting in the milk and was therefore not usable.
I imagined myself working on dogs and cats in a pristine small animal hospital in a major city, or maybe a cats-only clinic in a smaller town such as Rome, Georgia. When in school, I took all the large animal courses possible just to learn how to take care of my own horses; and besides, the teachers were really nice.
I never expected to find myself spending most of my time chasing around the countryside looking after sick horses and cows, as well as those smelly goats. I had never as much as touched a cow before I went to college, and I never dreamed I would be able to handle them. It was a pleasant surprise to learn it wasn’t really all that hard. Most farmers had equipment that did all the real work of holding a cow, and I soon decided it was probably no worse to treat a cow than to give injections to a 200-pound Rottweiler with the attitude of a chainsaw.
The new home actually was not new, but very old, as was the entire community. I had inherited the house as well as a large cattle farm from my great uncle shortly before I graduated. I could not believe the place when I saw it! It was a huge, white antebellum home that had been built in 1835. My Uncle George had bought the place during the great depression in a state of almost total ruin. It had been renovated in the thirties, but very little work had been done to it in recent times.
When Uncle George’s will was read, my friends and family all suggested that I sell the farm immediately so that I would have the money to build a nice veterinary practice. That actually was my first idea, but when I saw the place, I was overwhelmed by its beauty. The house was old but beautiful. The farm had pastures that my horses could graze in. There was so much room for my dogs to play. So against the advice of everybody I knew, I decided that I would at least try living in the old house. Uncle George had also left me enough money to survive on for a while, so even if working in the country didn’t pan out, I would be ok. I could just hear all my relatives saying how terrible it was for a young single girl to move to the country all alone.
My new home was only about ninety miles south of Atlanta, yet it seemed to have come straight out of another century. In stark contrast to the towering skyscrapers and eight lane highways of Atlanta, my new community was characterized by dirt roads and small farms. Junction consisted of several farms, a gas station which was out of business, a small Methodist church, and a closed store that was used by the locals as their voting precinct. The store was much like it must have been 50 years before. The only heat source was a potbellied, iron, wood-burning stove. There was no electricity in the store except for a single light bulb over the lone voting booth, and it was powered by a gas-operated generator.
I actually went to vote in my first country election shortly after I moved into the house. The light went out while I was in the booth because the generator ran out of gas. A skinny, teenage girl ran out and re-filled the gas tank, pulled the cord to start the generator, the light came on, and I was able to complete the voting process. What a change from the city!
Most of the people in Talbot County are poor. Seventy percent are black, over half are barely literate. Many people lived in small shacks called shotgun houses with no electricity or running water. Scattered out around the county were numerous large antebellum plantation homes. Some of these were owned by well-to-do doctors, lawyers, or timber growers who lived in Columbus, Georgia, about forty miles away, staying in their county homes only on the weekends. Farmers whose families have been in the area since the early 1800’s own some of the other old southern homes. And then there was me. A naïve, little city girl, with no idea of what I was getting into.
The old plantation home was in extreme need of a paint job, but its beauty was unmistakable. The house had an immense front porch decorated on each side with a large, octagonal room. It actually reminded me of a large plate, with giant salt and pepper shakers on each side of it. Just inside the front door was a huge hallway. It was at least forty feet long and twelve feet wide. All the rooms in the house were giant, each measuring at least seventeen by seventeen feet. The ceilings were over fourteen feet high.
The house was in need of repair with creaking doors and windows, loose wallpaper, as well as the old, flaking paint. It had taken me all day to pack up the last minute things and then to move from my place in Athens. It was late by the time my friend Dave who helped her move and I, got the horses safely situated in their new pasture, fed the dogs and the cats, and fixed a hook to hang the bird cage up so that the cat couldn’t get to him. I felt really alone when Dave drove away. Here I was, alone, in the middle of nowhere, with no job, no real plan, and no friends. Maybe everybody was right. Maybe this was a stupid idea.
But for now, I was too tired to care.
It was close to midnight by the time I got enough stuff unpacked to sleep in, and it only took a few minutes to fall asleep. I was awakened by a strange sound. It was the sound of dripping water, followed by a loud clap of thunder. Then I felt something wet on the middle of her forehead. I fumbled around and found a light switch. Much to my dismay, it was raining both inside and out. The roof had about a dozen leaks in it! I ran into the kitchen and found various pots and pans to put under the leaks. The only dry spot that looked like a nice place to sleep was the couch.
Luke and Beau wagged their tails and happily followed me to living room. They laid together on the floor right by the couch, and Roy climbed up on the couch right next to me. “Well, boys”, I said, “I am glad that I have you.”
Luke and Beau wagged their shaggy tails and Roy started to purr.
The next morning, I had to go to town to find out the name of somebody who could replace the dilapidated roof. I was able to get somebody out to do the roof right away, but the rest of the renovations were a little slower in coming. For all its grandeur, the old house was really in sad shape.
Right away, everyone in the community seemed to know who I was, Dr. Jessica Taylor, that "vet" that Uncle George thought so much of. I wondered if I would ever fit in to this strange new place.
Chapter 3
I was called to the Anderson home to visit a sick cat. One of the more prominent citizens in the area, Mrs. Anderson lived in a nice antebellum home that sat on a 400-acre farm. She was 95 years old, and had lived in this community all of her life.
I treated the cat for a small abscess on his left front leg, gave Mrs. Anderson instructions and medication for her cat, and gathered my equipment to leave. I was relieved because no mention was made about why Uncle George would leave me the farm or why a “little girl” like me would move all alone out in the country. Those questions had become all too common lately.
As I was about to walk out the door, Mrs. Anderson's niece, Emma Driver, pulled into the driveway. She caught me in the doorway and began to talk about horses, which happened to be one of my favorite topics of discussion, so I stayed around for a while to chat. It was nice to have somebody to talk to anyway.
Emma began to talk about "Aunt Katie", or Mrs. Anderson, and her old mule Ruby. She said that nobody knew anything about loving an animal compared to Aunt Katie. After much encouragement from her niece, Mrs. Anderson began to tell me how her old mule had been responsible for her marriage to her late husband.
Mrs. Anderson began in her weak, scratchy voice, "Well, you know I loved that old mule, Ruby. She had belonged to my second husband, Charlie. When he died, I decided to keep old Ruby as a pet. After about a year, a farmer up the road named Bud Anderson started bugging me about selling Ruby to him. He said that she was a work mule and could never be happy just sitting up and going to waste.”
Mrs. Anderson leaned back in her chair to make herself more comfortable, pushed her glasses up higher on her nose, and gave me a long stare. Her leathery, thin hands were shaky.
She continued, "Well, he pestered me until I finally agreed to sell old Ruby. He came over one Saturday and took old Ruby to his farm. It didn't take her long to decide that she liked sitting around and eating apples at my place better than she liked plowing. So, by Monday afternoon, she jumped the fence and came back home. Well, you see, Ruby wasn't the type of mule to give up easy. Every day for four weeks Mr. Bud would come and get her, and every day she would jump out and come home."
Mrs. Anderson paused to lean a bit further back in her chair and then continued. "Finally Mr. Bud came up with an idea. He said that he had a way for him to keep his mule and for Old Ruby to be happy, too. He said that we could get married, and he would move in with me. Then he would get his mule. Ruby would get her apples. And being as I weren't getting no younger and hadn't had any offers of marriage lately, I figured that this might be the only chance I would have to get married again. So I accepted his offer."
Her bright blue eyes twinkled and she grinned smugly. She stopped smiling, pausing as if deep in thought. Then she said, “We almost got divorced once though. Mr. Bud got mad at Ruby and beat her with a switch. I got so mad that I almost shot him. He agreed to let poor old Ruby retire if I just wouldn't shoot him or kick him out."
When she had finished her story, I laughed and said, "Mrs. Anderson, don't you think that there might have been a little more involved in your romance than the ownership of a mule?"
Without a moment's hesitation she answered, "Oh yes. You see, I had indoor plumbing."
A community in which indoor plumbing was an asset worthy of marriage? We said our goodbyes, and I left feeling hopeful that things were going to go well in this new place.
I had been worried about how a female veterinarian would be accepted as a large animal veterinarian in such an old fashion part of Georgia. Dave had warned me that it would take time to work my way into the hearts of the locals, especially since I was skinny and looked like a kid, but Dr. Presley, the only other veterinarian in the area was delighted to take the opportunity to cut back on his large animal work and send some of his patients my way. He was glad to see me concentrating more on large animals, because the small animal clinic that I would soon be moving in to was very close to his practice, and if we had different things to do, we would not really be competing.
One of his first referrals was Mr. Jack Ellis who wanted me to come see about a Black Angus bull. He had bought the bull about two months ago. According to Mr. Ellis, when the bull first arrived at the farm, he had been the picture of health. Now he had lost a lot of weight. And there was another strange thing that Mr. Ellis had said. He said that the bull looked tired out of his eyes. I had to laugh to myself about that one. I didn't think that you could tell if a bull was tired by looking in his eyes. It really sounded to me like an animal that was either wormy or that was not being fed enough.
When I arrived at the farm, I was greeted by an enthusiastic man that appeared to be about fifty years old. He wore clean, new jeans and a baseball cap with a tractor logo on it. He had a warm smile and an eager handshake.
He said, "Hi Doc! I'm glad that you could come. We haven't been able to get a vet out here since old Doc Leonard died. What I called you about was this little bull that I just bought. He just ain’t doing right."
I smiled to myself. There is a standard joke in veterinary medicine that ADR is a real, bonafide disease. ADR means “ain’t doing right.” I was going to see my first case of ADR.
Mr. Ellis showed me the paper work that came with the bull. He was a registered Black Angus that had just turned two years old last week. I was familiar with the breeder of this animal, and his reputation for only selling healthy stock was impeccable. I quickly concluded that whatever had gone wrong, Mr. Ellis was to blame. I had been told that he was fairly new at farming. I guessed that he didn’t really know how to take proper care of his animals. I really doubted that he was feeding the animal enough.
As we approached the pen, I was expecting to see a pitiful, half starved animal. Instead I saw a really nice looking, young, Black Angus bull. He was contentedly eating out of a full feed trough. I questioned Mr. Ellis about his feeding habits. He said that he turned the bull out to pasture every day. At night the animal was penned by himself with all the hay and concentrated feed that he could eat. He had de-wormed the animal three times since he bought him. I looked at the cows that the bull was pastured with. They were all exceptionally fat and healthy. I had to change my mind about thinking that this little bull was being starved to death.
Mr. Ellis easily caught the bull in a squeeze chute so that I could do a physical exam. I tested for worms. There were none. I looked at his teeth. They looked perfect. I listened to his heart and checked for signs of a displaced abomasum, which is a common illness in young cattle that get too much feed.
Cattle have odd digestive systems. They have four stomachs. The first, the rumen, is a large fermentation vat that processes hay or grass into a more digestible product. Typically, grown cattle may eat 25 pounds or more per day. The partially digested feed is then sent through the next stomachs, the reticulum and the omasum, so that water can be extracted. The last stomach, the abomasum, is much like the stomach of humans. The partially digested gruel is digested further here so that nutrients can be absorbed in the small intestines. This type of digestive system makes it possible for cattle, as well as sheep and goats, to use feed products that are totally unusable by other species.
Grain is not really a natural feed for cattle, and when they are fed huge amounts of corn or oats, the abomasum can fill with gas due to indigestion and float out of position, causing a partial obstruction of the digestive system. This can be a minor problem, or it can cause the death of the animal.
The condition is easily diagnosed. The veterinarian puts a stethoscope on the abdomen of the animal, and thumps it with their finger. If the abomasum is filled with gas, then a characteristic “ping” sound is heard.
I didn’t hear a ping. Everything was checking out great. The bull’s temperature was normal. According to the scales that Mr. Ellis had, the animal had lost 150 pounds in two months. I cautiously touched the little bull on the head and then rubbed his head and neck all over. Most bulls would become enraged at such an encroachment on their personal space, but he actually looked bored.
Other than the weight loss, the only things that I could see that seemed abnormal about this animal were that he was unusually gentle and easy to handle and though I hated to admit it, he really did look tired out of his eyes.
I asked Mr. Ellis to let me walk through his cow herd to see if I could see anything that might be causing a problem. I looked at all the animals and they really looked great. There were no toxic plants to be seen in the pasture. There was plenty of grass. The animals were provided with a good mineral supplement. There was plenty of fresh water always available to them because there was a beautiful stream running through the property.
I strained my brain trying to think of what could be wrong with this one animal when all the others looked so good. The only unusual thing that she noticed was that all of the animals were adults. This was the heart of calving season and there was not a baby on the place! Maybe some dreaded virus had killed them all.
I asked Mr. Ellis about it and he said, "No, there ain't any calves because my old bull died two years ago. I just now got around to buying a new one."
I asked how many cows he had. He said, "Ninety." I asked how many other bulls he had on the farm. He shrugged and said, "Oh, there ain't no other. This is the only one."
Now, according to all the textbooks, the normal number of cows that a two-year-old bull should be allowed to breed in a given season is about twenty. Mr. Ellis had put this bull in with ninety un-bred cows, alone. A full-grown bull could not be expected to have a chance at successfully breeding this many cows in a short amount of time. I was amazed that Mr. Ellis did not know this.
Without thinking, I said "Well no wonder he seems tired! He is tired!" I blushed a little with embarrassment after I said it.
I instructed Mr. Ellis to keep the bull separated from the cows until he felt better. He called me back a week later to say that the bull started feeling better, broke down the pen, and got back in with the cows.
I didn’t from Mr. Ellis in for long time. He called and left a message on my answering machine asking me to call him. He said that he had some questions about his bull. When I called him back he said, "That bull ain't doing too good again. He seems tired, and is losing weight again. It started when the cows started having babies. Do you think he could just be working too hard again?"
He replied, "Ninety."
My book will appeal to a wide range of people.
First it will have special appeal to animal lovers.
Most Americans and Europeans are animal lovers.
According to the Humane Society of The United States, there are 65 million pet dogs
and 77.6 million pet cats in the
The next group that my book will appeal to is women. This story talks about relationships with friends, and clients. It is encouraging because it shows a woman’s successes in the little problems of life. It also shows the very real struggle that modern working women have in male dominated fields.
I am semi-retired from veterinary medicine and I have ample time to travel and promote my book. In addition to my veterinary experiences, I also have teaching experience at both the university level and the high school level. I also have extensive musical performance experience that makes me very capable of public speaking. I am active in the Georgia Veterinary Medical Association as well as in the American Veterinary Medical Association, and I could promote my book at meetings and conferences.
Dr. John McCormack, who is a very influential writer of work that is similar to mine would possibly be willing to write a foreword for me. The late James Herriot wrote a foreward for him. He is well loved by animal lovers and veterinarians all over the world.
Matthews, C.M. 2006. Old Ruby. Veterinary Forum.