The Roads We Should Have Traveled

I crossed vet school off the career list in 5th grade. A friend of mine hurt her knee pretty badly on the gravel in the playground after school. When I saw it, the image is still pretty clear to this day, all bloody and full of ground in dirt and gravel my stomach did a little backflip, and that was the end of telling all my parents' friends I would be a vet when they patronizingly asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. No one ever told me, and I never once considered, that there are other ways to be involved with animals for a living without being a vet. I had other passions, and I decided to pursue those. Do I do any of them for a living now, either? That's a no. I work in property management. Do I want to work in property management? Did I ever? Also, a no. No one - and I mean no one - grows up thinking, "One day, I want to enforce deed restrictions for a living." Now, some of us have found it fulfilling. I found a family with the people I've worked with and whom I work with now, but the job itself? Honestly, shoveling elephant shit would be more rewarding.

So, a while back, after a pretty rough period, I thought about said elephant shit and decided, "Well, let's put my theory to the test and see what kinds of opportunities there are out there to do just that." And, as it happens, the Pittsburgh Zoo and Aquarium runs an International Conservation Center where they house and care for a number (five currently) African elephants not too far from here - close enough to drive in for games and, as luck would have it, they had openings. When I read about them, I thought my dream job was about to be mine. Until I read the requirements, a BS in Animal Husbandry was a requisite. Next, I looked to see if they had any openings at the local zoo, which was very, very close to my house. They did, but - you guessed it - if you want to get up and close with the animals and actually "handle" them (including shoveling their shit), you need that degree.

And that's when I knew. I fucked up. All my life, I've surrounded myself with animals. Domestic and wild. I had deer who responded to me when I called them by name. Total strangers came up to me and deposited animals in my care because my reputation was that I would do it and know what to do (erroneously, but that's how urban myths are made). It was right there screaming at me all these years: I was put here to care for animals. Their welfare, I do firmly believe, is our welfare. Sure I've always had rescue dogs and sure I volunteered at shelters, but I could have made this my calling. I could have kept the roof over our heads by doing something that helped the planet instead of telling people to mow their yards.

Could I do it now? I looked into it and did some fast math: it was a losing proposition. I would never earn enough in the limited years I could do such a physical job to make the expenditure worthwhile. The other day, I decided I didn't care; I was doing it anyway. I was going back to school to earn a completely different degree than anything I studied initially—a degree, I should add, that is heavy on chemistry—my Kryptonite.  And if I never really earned it back, oh well. I applied and got accepted to a middling school where I could get the entire degree online (Penn State, where I would love to go, is a lot harder to get into and requires the last year to be on campus.) My husband was on board until I told him the cost. Then, he not only got off the boat, he jumped overboard. Next, I researched grants and aid money for seniors. It's out there, but it all starts with the FAFSA. I started filling it out and realized that the tax return they wanted was a good year for us - I could only imagine being laughed out of the program asking for aid under the circumstances. Turns out my husband jumped off a sinking ship.

So here I sit, on the eve of Independence Day, wondering if I have wasted my life and if I will have the opportunity to somehow set karma right. And feeling pretty guilty about it. I know full well there are people in Ukraine and Gaza just fighting to survive another day, and I dare worry I made a good living doing the wrong thing?! And what does that say about all the good people I know who do what I do for a living? How dare I question it as a vocation. Yet, here I sit...

The moral of this story is that the bitch of getting older is that the old saying, "It's never too late," is a damn lie.  There are doors that are closing. I often wonder if this whole blog is a morality tale that I hope my grandchildren will find someday and heed as worldly advice. If so, here's some: know who you are and - more importantly - why you are, and then be true to it from the beginning.  But if you get lost in the chaos of just trying to live, then at some point, try to find a way to realize your true calling and don't give up on it.

I hope I find mine.