Why Don’t Sheep Shrink When They Get Wet?

When I was 16 years old, a girl on my school bus mentioned she had just finished volunteering at the local veterinary practice. I grew up on a cattle farm in Beaverlodge, Alta., and I’d never been in a vet clinic — but spending time there sounded better than time in high school, so I signed up.

On my first day, the smell of dog pee and iodine permeated my sinuses. I was forever hooked on the profession.

I loved everything about it, most of all the chaos. Every day was a new adventure. I’d start in the morning and stay as late as I could. I was late for English, my third period class, every day that semester.

So I knew that I wanted to pursue veterinary medicine. This was northern Alberta in the early days of the internet, so the University of Alberta was the obvious answer. It had an agriculture program that was very highly recommended. Without much thought, I put in my application. I had no idea what to expect, not even what to take to class. Did I need a binder, a notebook?

My first year on campus, I lived at Lister Hall and got my ass handed to me academically. I had such a hard time adjusting from the rural lifestyle. I didn’t fail any classes, but I should have. I had a bad GPA, and I felt disheartened. I could see my dream of being a veterinarian slipping away.

In my second year, I formed better study habits and fell in with a group of pre-vet hopefuls. There were five of us. We’d study day in and day out in lecture theatres, empty labs, classrooms — anywhere we could sneak in, sometimes with help from security.

For a spell, we haunted an office under renovation. There was exposed wire, open drywall and, almost every day, an appearance from Frank Robinson, at the time a professor of Agricultural, Food and Nutritional Sciences, who would poke his head in the window. He was keeping an eye on us. We’d see him all hours of the day, every day of the week.

One day, he popped his head into the classroom and said to me, “Do you know what I like about you? You remind me of me when I was an undergrad.”

That was the start of my relationship with Frank. I got into his animal science class the year he was really re-examining how students learn best. I was in the inaugural session of “There’s a Heifer in Your Tank.” Frank paired students in the class with each other and assigned each pair a question. You had to use the school’s resources to answer the question scientifically, but instead of presenting to your class, you presented your findings to a lecture theatre filled with the public, faculty members and other students. Frank put together a massive event with hundreds of people.

The questions were things like “How many gummy bears can you get out of one cow?” Mine was “Why don’t sheep shrink when they get wet?”

My class partner and I spoke with professors of materials, home economics and animal science. We undertook literature reviews. We were thorough, but as we were putting together the presentation, I thought it was a bit dry. So instead of a typical presentation, we wrote a script, like a Saturday Night Live sketch. Lots of humour. We went to Value Village and found a pair of wool sweaters, and we washed them in hot water until they were shrunk. We looked ridiculous wearing them to our presentation, which was a shirt-and-tie event.

Frank loved it with his whole heart.

Our relationship developed from there, and I asked Frank to be my vet school reference. I applied after my second year of undergrad and didn’t get in. Third year, same thing.

I remember the last time Frank wrote me a letter, for my fourth-year application. He told me he might show me what he wrote one day, but he wouldn’t now. I still haven’t seen that letter, but it must have had some good stuff in it, because I finally got into the program.

Today, any request Frank has of me, I say yes. He says, “Jump!” and I ask, “How high?” I owe that man my career. I will never forget his belief in me.

Frank had this idea, years later, of an internship program. He’d place his students in the industry. He phoned me and asked if he could send three students to hang out in my clinic for three days. That was seven years ago. I’ve had dozens come through since.

The first student, Vladimir Tadic, ’19 BSc(Ag), was a Golden Bears soccer player, a first-generation Canadian with an interest in animal science because his family farmed. He came on rotation with me and that experience sparked this passion. He pivoted his career, focused on getting into vet school, and he’s now a vet in animal agriculture.

This is what’s special about mentorship. It has this multiplication effect. Not only have our U of A mentors touched thousands of lives directly, you have to think about how many mentees they turn into mentors. The impact one person can have by planting a single seed cannot be measured.