Back when I was in high school, I planned to be a veterinarian. In fact, I talked about it so much that my schoolmates nicknamed me "Doc."

But my planning didn't prompt me to make the kind of high school grades I needed to qualify for the pre-veterinary program at the University of Missouri, so I eventually scuttled the idea of becoming a cow doctor.

My role model back then was our local veterinarian, Doc Ross. Doc Ross toured the countryside in a panel truck that was sort of an animal M.A.S.H. unit and included everything from calf-pulling chains to a .38 caliber revolver. Strictly speaking, the revolver was not part of Doc's animal health equipment, but you never knew when a vicious dog or a rabid skunk might need shooting.

Thinking back, being a veterinarian in our neck of the woods during the Thirties and Forties was probably not the most glamorous--or lucrative--career imaginable. For one thing, most places in our area had animal-handling facilities that ranged from crude to none. A veterinarian had to treat critters wedged behind a gate, or rope and hog-tie the patient. Also, farmers usually didn't have much money and some of them--like my father--were reluctant to part with what little cash they did have. As a result, calling the veterinarian was a last-resort decision.

"That old cow is pretty sick, but I think I'll watch her another day. If she's no better in the morning, I'm going to call Doc Ross."

This sort of thing impacted the vet's success rate in a negative way, since he wasn't called in until the animal was at death's door. Also, it didn't boost the good doctor's reputation a lot.

"I spent all that money on the veterinarian and that old cow died anyway."

Still, Doc Ross was one of my boyhood heroes--I wanted to be just like him. I wanted to minister to patients that didn't complain or talk back. But mostly, I admired Doc's brusque, no-nonsense way of cutting to the chase.

For instance, our neighbor had bought a high-priced herd bull, and in a few weeks, the bull developed problems getting around. Our neighbor checked the super sire for foot rot, hardware in the hoof, stone bruise, etc. But there was no evidence of any of these maladies. So he called Doc Ross.

"He has problems walking sometimes, Doc," the neighbor said. "At times he limps pretty badly, other times he walks normally. What do you think we can do?"

"I know what I'd do if he was mine," Doc said. "The next time he walks normally, I'd sell him."