My origin story

Origin stories were always my favourite, growing up; reading about Spider-Man smashing down Doctor Octopus once again wasn’t nearly as exciting as learning how Dr Otto Octavius got those metal arms fused to his body in the first instance.

Origin stories also offered tantalising hints about how magical powers might be unlocked – anything from gamma radiation to being catapulted into the sun could give you superhuman abilities rather than, say, thyroid cancer or vapourising you.

I’ve been wondering recently about the profession, and why we do it. As vets and nurses, we work long hours for less financial reward than we could get in other similarly skilled jobs. So why? There are as many reasons as there are vets and nurses, but there’s only really one story I know well enough to relate, and it’s mine.

So, in the spirit of celebrating the excitement I felt reading about Peter Parker gaining the proportional strength and speed of a spider, here’s my own origin story – at least, the beginning of it.

A desire to do good

It was always going to be something to do with animals; I knew that from the age where it was possible for me to know anything at all. Animals were easier than humans – more deserving, more predictable, more noble and just more interesting. Animals were always in the back of my mind whenever I thought about where my future might lead.

I also remember (and I have to remember because, honestly, I’m not sure I feel it any more) that deep inside I always had a desire to do something good, something to make the world a better place. It wasn’t a conscious desire, but it was something that always gnawed at me and distracted me from the things I’d much rather have been doing, which was playing games and reading comics.

I wonder if the feeling is common to children, but fades as we get older, or if that’s just me? I only have my experience, so it’s hard to say, although it saddens me now that the desire to do good has lessened, whereas I play as many games and read as many comics as I ever did.

Alien involvement

It was a holiday in Germany that finally revealed what I was going to attempt to do with the rest of my life. It didn’t involve being bitten by a radioactive spider (more’s the pity), but it did have spaceships in it – kind of.

My parents were both teachers and, as such, were both on holiday at the same time we were; consequently, our summer holidays were long affairs – three or occasionally four weeks of travelling around north-western Europe by car. They were full of adventures (the early morning trip to the ferry, desperately searching for “zimmer frei” (vacancy) signs as darkness approached in some random German town, driving up mountains at my insistence, so I could finally touch a cloud – disappointingly nothing like the cotton wool I was expecting).

However, they also involved a lot of time on the Autobahn, driving to our next destination and, for this reason, I always made sure I was stocked up with plenty of books for the journey.

The words that shaped me

One particular summer holiday, I must have been at an especially impressionable age (probably eight years old at the time). Anyway, two of the books I had brought along resonated with me on such a fundamental level that they shaped the entire rest of my life.

One of those books was Deathwing Over Veynaa by Douglas Hill, which told the story of Keill Randor, an indestructible alien mercenary from the planet Moros, who roamed the galaxy trying to find the evil galactic warlord responsible for the death of his people. It awoke in me a love of science fiction and adventure which, as you may have noticed, remains with me to this day.

The other book was Every Living Thing, and I probably don’t need to tell you who wrote that one. James Herriot’s stories of life as a Yorkshire vet were wonderfully written evocative slices of pre- and post-war life, and his writings, full of humour and pathos, described a career and lifestyle that even managed to move the heart of a geeky Manchester lad from the distant 1980s.

Following the path

By the end of that holiday, I knew exactly what I was going to do with the rest of my life. I had, finally, a path to follow…

Unfortunately, I soon discovered it’s actually incredibly difficult to become an indestructible alien mercenary, so I decided to try to become a vet instead.

I wonder how many of us are in the profession because of Herriot’s writing? It’s not the only reason for me, of course, and I admit slight embarrassment at such an obvious influence on my life, but the description of Alf Wight’s fictionalised career meshed so perfectly with the vague ideas of doing good and working with animals that I was sold immediately and completely.

The precise moment?

I don’t recall if I’d ever seriously contemplated becoming a vet before reading Herriot’s stories, but I do know that, afterwards, I never seriously contemplated anything else.

It wasn’t all plain sailing from there – much like the Titanic’s maiden voyage – but that’s the moment I can pinpoint where I made the decision that would have such an effect on my life; my origin story – or, at least, the origin of my origin.

How about you?