From the time I was old enough to help on our Indiana farm, I knew what my father expected of me. Three generations of men in my family were doctors. I heard stories of the lives my grandfather had saved and I heard similar tales about my father. As Dad grew ever more godlike my mind, so did the force of the expectation that I would follow in the family tradition.
But as college neared, I began to feel that becoming a doctor was not what I really wanted to do. I didn't dare tell him about my uncertainty. With the weight heavy on my mind the summer before college, I was given a challenge that I hoped would be a distraction.
Dad kept several bird dogs which I trained on our farm. As usual, Dad turned Jerry over to me. "See what you can do with him," he said.
I didn't anticipate problems. Jerry was a willing dog of about ten months. The first part of his training was easy. He mastered the basics: sit, stay, down, walk. His only problem was "come". I'd call" Jerry! Here!". He would turn and look at me, then go on about his business. In the following days, I noticed he would just take off through the grass, fast as a wild thing. Despite my intense desire to train him well, I began to feel a strange sense of joy when he ran.
"Why won't he do what I want him to?" I asked myself. I had never failed with a dog before, but I was surely failing now. When September came, I finally had to tell Dad that this bird dog wouldn't hunt. The thought that I had failed us both made me guilty.
"Son, I know this dog doesn't do what he should," he said, "but what he does do is something he likes." He continued to look at me firmly. For a moment I felt he could see into my very heart.
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| "Dad, I don't think I can do medicine," I took a solid breath. He gave me a tight hug, said good night and left me. |
