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Ramblings of A Country Vet |
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Ramblings of A Country Vet |
One of the many pleasures of being a veterinarian is observing the way people and animals interact with one another. Sometimes, I think that the bond between us and our pets is stronger than that between us and our fellow man.
From what I’ve observed over the years, most people seem more willing to pet a strange cat than they would be to say hello to a stranger. But, as it is with all that is good and sacred in this world, there’s always gonna be some slimy or despicable person out there ready to exploit it.
Recently, I flew out to the West Coast to attend a continuing education symposium in order to refresh my knowledge and update my skills in the world of veterinary surgery. The conference was in San Francisco.
San Francisco: the Golden city by the bay, Babylon of the Pacific, Jack Kerouac’s “end o’ the land,” and my second most favorite city in the world! I love San Francisco.
Way back in the olden days, during my wanton youth, I was stationed on an aircraft carrier that was home-ported across the bay in Alameda. Whenever we were in port (which, sadly, wasn’t all that often) a few of my shipmates and I would always try to head into the city.
We’d get off the bus at the ancient Transbay terminal, walk a couple of blocks down to Mission Street— which in those days was a far cry from the upscale, yuppie neighborhood it is today—and get a wino to buy us a couple of pints of Jack Daniels. These pints of whiskey were strictly for therapeutic use; for those who’ve never been there, it’s cold in San Francisco.
(Despite the fact we were all Vietnam War veterans, we couldn’t—legally, that is—buy any alcohol because we were only eighteen or nineteen years old. I guess the dingbats who wrote the law thought it might kill us.)
Then we’d walk over to the Powell Street cable car and head up over the hill to Fisherman’s Wharf, where we would hang out, ogle the tourists, and try (not always successfully) to woo one of the many early 70's hippy girls. As the evening approached, we’d walk up Columbus Avenue—we’d bypass the girlie shows on North Beach; we were too young for that stuff also—to Chinatown.
Here, we would stop at Yee Jungs Restaurant (which is no longer there), where you could get a huge plate of pork lo mein and a pot of scalding hot tea for a dollar and a quarter. Afterwards, if we had enough money, we’d go into one of the Chinese bars (many are still there) for a couple of cold ones for the road. (At the time, the Chinese tavern owners were a little bit more enlightened with regards to the evils of alcohol.)
And then we’d head back to the ship.
I can hear it now. “So, Doc, what does this have to do with cats?” Well, during the conference’s Sunday afternoon lunch break, I set out to explore some of the great bookstores located downtown. As I was walking up from the Market Street trolley on Geary Street toward Union Square, I passed, and was solicited by, no less than thirty homeless(?) people.
Of this group, one man in particular caught my eye. This guy had a cardboard sign that read, “Vietnam veteran. Homeless and hungry.” I stopped and, ignoring the fact that he looked to be only about twenty years old (which means, of course, that he probably wasn’t even born when the war was finally over), dug out some change and dropped it into his cup.
“Thanks, man,” he said.
Somewhat perturbed by his blatant attempt to abuse and misuse the group of Americans who actually suffered through this terrible war, I thought for a second about confronting this little weasel on the issue of his veteran status, but then decided otherwise; I saw no point in it. So, I asked him instead if he wanted the ham and cheese sandwich I’d just bought at the corner Subway shop.
He said, “No thanks, man, I just ate.”
I walked on by.
The next day as I was heading back to my hotel, I saw this guy again, working the area where you catch the cable cars on Powell Street. This time, however, he was surrounded by a crowd of people, mostly women (please, dear female readers, don’t be mad at me; I’m just tellin’ it like I saw it), and doing quite a turn of business. His cardboard sign now read, “Me and my cat are homeless and hungry.”
Because I’m always interested in human/animal interactions, I decided to watch for awhile. When it finally slowed down some, I went over, petted the cat on its head, and reached into my pocket for some change. After dropping it into his cup, he said, “Hey, man, weren’t you the dude I saw yesterday?”
I said, “Yup, that was me.”
He didn’t seem the least concerned that I was aware of the con job he was pulling on these poor, gullible, unsuspecting people. And since he didn’t seem to mind, I asked him why he didn’t have the cat yesterday when all the tourists were about.
He said, “I couldn’t man, my old lady had the cat yesterday up to the wharf [Fisherman’s Wharf] ’cause she always does real good up there on the weekends.” When I asked where she was working today, he said, “Man, she only pans [panhandles] on weekends. She gotta go to classes during the week.” (He told me later that she’s a sociology major attending the University of California at Berkeley.)
Again, because I’m interested in this stuff—I did my best to hide my revulsion of him taking advantage of people’s kindness and generous emotions—I then asked him how much money he made on a good day with the cat story versus the Vietnam veteran story.
He said that it didn’t even come close. “Hell, man, the cat scam [he didn’t use the word scam] makes me ten times the money.”
As I was leaving, I asked him if he wanted the Babe Ruth candy bar I had.
He said, “No thanks, man, I’m not hungry.”
Copyright © 2004 by Richard Orzeck, DVM
The information in this article is based upon the author’s personal experience and his best interpretation of veterinary data at the time of writing. It is not intended to render veterinary advice or service. Specific needs and questions concerning your pet’s health should always be addressed by his or her best friend, your local veterinarian.