ALICE GAVE BIRTH to a healthy baby boy, George. She had screamed in terror and pain at the second stage of birthing and felt humiliated by having Dr. Atkins see her so exposed, with total loss of decorum.
“I kept thinking of your Ma Wolf,” Alice said to Meg. “Wishing I could do it alone as she did. Human beings have it much worse.”
Meg smiled and felt tears well up at seeing Alice adeptly nursing her first baby. “You’re a good mother, my little sister.”
“Any woman can do this.” said Alice, stroking her baby’s head.
“You’re the exceptional one.” She looked up at Meg and held her hand out to her, trying to smile.
Meg was called into the principal’s office before her final exams. Fearing the worst, but not knowing what it might be, she entered the office and stood her ground with as much fortitude as she could muster. Both McEachran and Dr. Osler presided at the meeting. They stood side by side behind the desk, inviting her to take a chair, as a lady should, before they did.
“I prefer to stand, if I may, sirs.” Meg wanted to be treated like the male students.
“As you wish.” They sat down. Osler nodded to McEachran to begin.
“Your marks and your conduct have been outstanding,” said Principal McEachran. “Your conduct a little too outstanding.” He smiled wryly. “Your concern that animals be treated and laid out on tables, more like human patients …” He paused and turned to his colleague. “Dr. Osler, would you care to make your remarks at this point?”
Oh, oh, thought Meg. Here it comes. I’m about to be tossed out of here.
“Mrs. Oliphant,” said Dr. Osler, “I and other members of the Faculty of Medicine recommend that you continue your studies with us for two more years and become a doctor of medicine. You are clearly capable. Would you?”
Meg’s heart sank. She drew in her breath. “I thank you for the … compliment, Dr. Osler. I realize that being a doctor of medicine is … a high calling.” She refused to say a higher calling. “But I want to work with animals.”
Osler and McEachran exchanged glances as though they had anticipated this answer.
“You want to work with small animals,” said McEachran, his elbows on his desk, chin on his clasped hands, “specializing in pets? Such as your dog, which, I must say, is the size of a small horse. Is that what you want to do?”
“It is.”
“And you have practical plans for opening such a practice in the city of Halifax?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Seems a pity, doesn’t it, Dr. Osler,” McEachran turned to him, “that our college would stand in the way of such a pioneering venture?”
“It does.” Dr. Osler nodded.
“The Faculty of Comparative Medicine and Veterinary Science of McGill University,” said Principal McEachran, “is independent, yet subject to certain edicts of the Royal Veterinary College in Edinburgh, Scotland. They have never allowed a woman to sit the final exams. We have word that one Aline Cust, the first woman in the British Isles about to complete her studies in veterinary medicine, will not be granted her degree because of her sex. What do you think of that, Mrs. Oliphant?”
It made her angry. Am I being played with, she thought. Tested, or teased? She stood her ground. “The more relevant thing,” she said, “is what you, Principal McEachran and Dr. Osler, think of it.”
They smiled, broke into approving laughter. They had plans to turn the tide of veterinary history in Meg’s favour, with a clever invisible twist.
“We think we must find a way around unprogressive authority, enable it to do what it would wish to have done, had it the benefit of historical hindsight,” said McEachran. “We think, Mrs Oliphant, that you might be the first of many female veterinarians who will make their way into the twentieth century. And thus we must ask you another question. Your first name is Margaret, hence the initial ‘M,’ is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Thus so far, the name we must submit to the authorities, that you might be granted a degree, would read M. Oliphant. If your second name were to begin with an ‘R’ … and if there were perchance a third initial to throw in …”
“Randolph,” said Meg, beginning to smile. “I am legitimately called Mrs. Randolph Oliphant. And my other name is Anne.”
A “Mr. A. Oliphant” was recorded at the Royal Veterinary College in Scotland. The degree which the Principal of McGill’s veterinary college bestowed upon Meg in Montreal in 1893 read: Dr. M.A. Oliphant.
The launch of Meg’s new veterinary business required significant money and other help from Randolph. They converted a ground floor section of the broom factory building into Meg’s premises, with a reception area, an operating room, and space for six kennels.
Randolph and Poley accompanied Meg in the carriage when she drove around the streets of Halifax delivering her brochure, advertising:
Veterinary Services for Small Animals.
Wearing a trim navy blue skirt, white blouse and jacket, Meg knocked on doors and introduced herself. There were some joke and crank responses, men saying they knew a bitch they wanted to bring in for neutering or grooming. But Meg was greeted with more curiosity than anything else.
Her first customer was Jean Atkins, and then other well-off friends and acquaintances, with dogs or cats to be de-wormed or de-fleaed. The word spread that her premises were indeed like a clean hospital for pets, with an operating table, instruments, and medicines that worked. People began to think in terms of curing pets with ailments, instead of having them shot, drowned, or poisoned.
Meg had dreaded her first surgical procedure, working on her own without the backup of experienced teachers and the facilities she’d had at college. But then she had dreaded much more the first time she’d had to dig a knife into a live pig, strung up by the hooves at vet college. And she had managed to do that.
“Do what you must to cure the ailment. You’re not inflicting, you’re helping. Hesitation hurts. Be sharp, incisive.” Meg kept all the instructions and mottos from vet college running through her head to force herself to do what had to be done. And she practised until she could perform well, without undue qualms. She found it easier in her own premises, first putting a heavily chloroformed cloth over the animal’s muzzle, then laying it on the table, drawing the cutting lines, performing the incision, extracting, snipping, suturing, draining bile, and closing up, stitching with cat gut.
Randolph was her assistant until she found a reliable woman to hire and train. He kept a white lab coat in Meg’s office and donned it whenever summoned to help restrain an animal or to stand with instruments in hand while Meg performed surgery. Queasy though he was naturally, Randolph summoned his acting talent to appear confident, experienced, and adept. He made Meg laugh when he imitated those surgeon’s qualities in her. He comforted her when the patient died in spite of her efforts or when she had to administer a lethal dose of chloroform because there was no cure for the animal’s intense pain.
Meg worried about the future and profitability of her practice when it took so long to build up clientele in a society used to seeing dogs suffer or shot, beaten, have their tails and ears clipped. Then, in her second year of work, a book came out that seemed made for the promotion of her practice. It was the international best seller Beautiful Joe, a very didactic novel about a beaten, clipped, long suffering, and very courageous dog, whose story made people more aware of dogs’ needs and the proper care of them. The author was Margaret Marshall Saunders, a Nova Scotia woman who wrote about the plight of a dog she had actually met up with in Meaford, Ontario, but she set the story in Maine, USA, to interest the larger market.
“I met this Margaret,” said Meg, holding up the book at Sunday dinner where Alice and Jacques were gathered with her and Randolph. “She was taking some courses that winter in my last year at Dalhousie. She called herself Margaret then, was planning to become a teacher. But she’s turned into this famous Marshall Saunders instead. Glad she did! This book is going to do for dogs what Black Beauty did for horses and Uncle Tom’s Cabin did for slaves.”
“Set them free?” said Alice. “There are already too many dogs running wild in Halifax.”
Meg started to laugh then saw that Alice was in no mood to be joking. “The popularity of Beautiful Joe will be good for my dog doctoring business,” she explained. “In the book, Joe the dog, definitely a poor Joe, tells the story, speaks like a human being. It’s full of injuries, malnutrition, and diseases that cry out for the services of a good vet. And it begs for them to be treated more like human beings. All the readers should be beating a path to my door. And just think, the book has sold over a million copies.” Meg took more wine and raised her glass. “Here’s to Beautiful Joe!”
“Alice, my beautiful wife,” said Jacques, “why don’t you write a book? You like to write in your journal. Maybe you could do a book about cycling women?”
“When?” said Alice sarcastically. “Between babies? Though I do agree your business needs some kind of boost.”
“Your” business, Meg noted, and exchanged glances with Randolph. Alice, already in her second pregnancy, glowered at Jacques.
“Most businesses are having to tighten their belts,” said Randolph. “People are talking about worldwide recession. But it’s talk that creates it, particularly in the world of investments. And it’s careful optimism that gets us through it. Bicycles are an excellent investment.”
“In winter?” said Alice.
“The Sports Shop will pick up again in spring,” said Jacques.
“You were going to ask something,” said Alice firmly, staring at Jacques.
He cleared his throat. “I was wondering, if there’s any spare-time work at Sweepers.” He made himself face Randolph squarely. “Just through the winter, like. I was thinking of opening The Sports Shop afternoons and weekends only, until spring.”
“Certainly,” said Randolph and Meg almost in unison.
They were eager to help Jacques out of the discomfort he was being made to feel at their table and in his life. Randolph had, for economy’s sake, not replaced Jacques at Clean Sweepers. But they would be glad to re-hire him and make adjustments elsewhere.
“How come it works for you?” said Alice to Meg when they were in the kitchen. “That ‘method’ you described. But it doesn’t for me? You’ve had perfect luck with it for years. And look at me …”
“It doesn’t work for most people,” said Meg pensively. “Maybe Randolph and I are the unlucky ones. Maybe we won’t be able to have children when we really want them.”
“What would be wrong with that?” said Alice. “Honestly … who really likes changing and washing diapers? And I don’t know why you want to be looking after mangy dogs, either. Why don’t you just relax and enjoy being a rich man’s wife?”
Meg laughed. “Because I couldn’t? And Randolph isn’t all that rich?”
“Oh don’t give me that!”
Meg shrugged. There was no changing Alice’s thinking.
Business was going well enough for Meg to hire a full-time assistant, Ardiss Arpin. Ardiss, a tall, strikingly pretty young farm girl, was so thin Meg doubted her abilities when she came for an interview.
“Are you sure … ?” Meg began to question.
“I’m strong enough?” Ardiss rolled up her sleeves revealing muscular forearms and pointed to Poley who lay near the operating table. “Want me to get that bear up onto your table? What’s his name?”
“Poley.”
“Poley,” said Ardiss, patting him on the head. “Time to get up and … sit! Good boy! Now I’m going to help you put your front paws up on this table and then I’m going to hoist you up by your hindquarters. Ready? Let’s heave ho!”
Poley was up on the table and Ardiss was hired.
The following summer, when Poley was nearing ten years old, he accompanied Meg and Ardiss on their Saturday swim. He had become slow-moving and he was happiest in the water. As he lumbered up onto the beach behind Meg, he began to falter. She turned and caught him round the neck, falling with him on the pebbles. Ardiss helped to shift him into a more comfortable position with his head on Meg’s lap.
“Must have been his heart,” Meg tried to speak clinically when she saw he breathed no more. Then tears streamed down her face while Ardiss fetched the wagon to carry him home for burial.
My longtime, lumbering, absolutely faithful pal, Meg kept saying to herself as she stood over his grave in the ravine behind their house.
Randolph comforted her as best he could.
“I want to have a child,” Meg said as they lay in bed.
“I know, my darling.” Randolph said in the darkness. “Let’s try.”
Summers brought good business to The Sports Shop. The rest of the year it was open part time with Alice helping to run it while tending young George and toddling Victoria. A third baby was on the way for Alice and Jacques. Meg and Randolph had none.
“You can have this one,” said Alice, tapping her stomach.
“You don’t mean that.” Meg felt sick at heart to hear her even say it.
“She’s joking,” said Jacques, frowning. Meg looked at Alice who shrugged non-committally Meg was deeply disappointed each month that they didn’t conceive. Randolph attempted to revive her optimism but couldn’t conceal his own complexity of attitude.
“You should have children,” he said. “But I’m not the husband I wanted to be for you and what kind of a father would I make, if I could be one? Perhaps this is divine retribution, or at least a good thing.”
“Randolph, please, please don’t talk like that. You would be the kindest of fathers. And with your good looks and intelligence, you could produce …”
“Hush, hush.” He pulled the bed covers more tightly around her and held her body as close to his as he possibly could. “Enough about me.”
“Don’t be so mopey,” Alice rebuked Meg when she visited. “You don’t know how lucky you are.”
“Knock it off, Alice. Just knock it off. You’re the one who doesn’t realize how lucky you are, you and Jacques.”
“Jacques has turned into a drinker. Gets drunk every night. How lucky is that?”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Of course you do. You have a perfect husband and have no idea …”
It was too wearing being around Alice. Meg resolved to keep a distance. Jean, Ardiss, and the women who volunteered in rounding up stray animals and other charity work were the women she felt comfortable with. With their help she started a kind of Humane Society in Halifax, bringing in as many stray dogs and cats as she could accommodate, finding homes for them if she could, neutering them if she thought it right.
The silence and evasion that had come into her marriage gathered up Meg in invisible waves of loneliness and sometimes indefinable fear about what lay ahead. Her loneliness subsided when she was at work with her animals: greeting them, soothing them, easing their discomfort and pain, making them well, or just clean and groomed, getting to know their individual characters, which were generally a reflection of their owners’.
Maybe I’m another Piji, she half smiled to herself, and these must be my wolves.
But don’t you think for a moment, Ike’s spirit bounced up and down, wanting to yell in her ear, that I’m like Randolph! In all my centuries, I’ve never seen such un-wolf-like behaviour.
Meg did not question Randolph on his activities in Boston, except to ask what became of the widow and her son.
“She has married a normal man,” said Randolph. “She’d now like to erase the memory of her first husband. She asked me, as nicely as she could, to leave them alone now to make a new life. But her son, Jason, is suffering. He followed me out the door, telling me how he can’t get along in the new regime. He’s resentful of his stepfather because his mother is trying to foist him upon him, make him the replacement and superior role model for Jason. He doesn’t understand why his mother has become so watchful, harsh, and critical of his every gesture that reminds her of his father. She did let Jason know that his father committed suicide but won’t discuss why, just speaks of it as a ‘sin.’
“God only knows how he’d handle the truth if he were told it. In any case, my lips are sealed, by his mother. Last I heard, Jason was sent to boarding school.”