WATROUS, Sask. – Reece slowly sinks onto the stainless steel tabletop at the Watrous Animal Hospital.
The droopy eyed female Boxer is about to be neutered, a procedure Dr. Ben Kessler performed more times than he can remember during 40 years at his clinic.
In January, Kessler handed over the reins, the needles and the squeeze chutes to incoming veterinarian, Dr. Allison Bartel.
Now retired, Kessler still offers veterinary advice in both large and small animals, this day confirming medication dosages with Bartel.
Kessler grew up at Fife Lake, Sask., alongside eight siblings, riding the range, pitching hay and tending to farm chores involving a host of animals from cattle to chickens to cats.
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It was that experience and a love of the outdoors that figured in his decision to enter the college of veterinary medicine in Guelph, Ont.
He settled into a practice in 1966 in Watrous, where he and his wife, Linda, raised two daughters. Kessler, the only veterinarian in town, served eight rural municipalities as part of a service district.
“It helped producers to call for service without paying a whole bundle,” he said, citing the $5 fee charged regardless of distance travelled.
“I would leave with a car load and make 15 to 20 calls before reloading,” said Kessler, who logged about 15,000 kilometres in April calving season alone.
The service districts were disbanded in the mid-1980s and veterinary service shifted to more in-clinic procedures, but the heavy workload and long hours persisted.
Little Manitou Lake cow-calf producer Ivan Allin recalled bringing in a cow having trouble calving late one Friday night and finding two or three trailers lined up at the garage door.
“At two in the morning, I came home with a live cow and a live calf,” he said.
He praised Kessler’s dedication and ability to keep abreast of the latest research.
“Ben was always very up to date on changes that way,” he said.
Like a CSI detective, Kessler took great satisfaction in investigating and diagnosing a medical problem.
“It was always interesting to figure out the puzzle,” he said.
Farms changed significantly during Kessler’s watch, from small to large and mixed to specialized.
“There’s not enough money in individual animals anymore; margins are so small that you have to raise many animals,” Kessler said, noting how some treatments don’t justify the cost of veterinary service.
He cited the case of a sick cow with a dead unborn calf that the farmer was forced to haul back home to put down, because the cost of treating it was high and the likelihood of saving it low.
“Cows have become relatively worthless,” he said.
Handling facilities were poor or non-existent, all of which resulted in strains and spills for the country doctor whose slightly stooped posture attests to the physical demands of a large animal practice.
Jumping over fences to do pregnancy checks and performing 150 caesarian sections every spring were among Kessler’s routine and sometimes dangerous tasks.
“Cows with calves are more dangerous and generally protective of their calves. Some even without calves are just plain mean.”
Kessler recalled castrating an 800 pound bull that was not properly restrained that sent him hurtling down the alley way.
He landed on his feet after spinning like a top and mangling his glasses but smiled as he remembered the farmer’s words that “we still don’t know how hard we have to hit him to get him down.”
It was the toll the lifestyle extracted through painful knees and chronic back problems that helped him make his retirement decision.
“I didn’t want to get to the point where I couldn’t do something,” said Kessler. “I was ready to quit.”
Other changes he witnessed during his career included a shift to female graduates and more companion animal specialties rather than large animal practices. Improved handling facilities have helped with that change.
“Years ago you had to be a big strong man,” he said. “With facilities today, anybody can do it.”
The Kessler family lived in town but, with hired help, ran a grain and mixed livestock farm that included cattle, bison and as many as 500 goats. The farm is for sale along with his first clinic building on First Avenue.
Kessler felt the farm was one way he could keep on top of what his clients were facing.
“I always think it’s a good idea to put yourself in their shoes,” he said.
His full life left little time for volunteer work. Kessler joined the Watrous Kinsmen Club but was called away from every meeting he ever attended.
He hired a graduate student to allow time for vacations with his family during summer and school breaks.
His daughter, Andrea, joined him on farm calls from infancy, when he would lay her in the barn while he worked. She grew up watching him perform countless surgeries. Her mother handled the clinic bookkeeping.
She recalled him slipping away from the clinic just in time to sing happy birthday and take photographs at parties.
Andrea, who now works as an assistant for the town’s new veterinarian, said her father instilled in her a strong work ethic.
“He always said it doesn’t matter what you do, just be happy and be good at it,” she said.
