Slowly building his mobile practice, he has bought some equipment -- such as a portable ultrasound machine -- but still relies on a human scale, client in his arms, to weigh animals.
Tippy got her checkup on the tailgate of Slaughter's Land Rover. He drew blood to conduct a DNA test that will tell her owner, psychologist Valerie Lorenz, what breeds are in her dog. He found a lump on the dog that will need further investigation. He noted she had gained 0.2 pounds since her last checkup.
"That's better than me," Lorenz said.
"Better than me, too," Slaughter said.
Since his childhood -- most of it spent in San Diego, a lot of it in the city's zoo -- Slaughter has been enamored with animals.
When his parents moved to Maryland, Slaughter enrolled at UM, where, even in 1977, his plans to go to veterinary school struck some as odd.
"None of the professors had met an African-American who wanted to be a vet, and some even suggested I try something else," he said.
He transferred to Tuskegee University in Alabama his junior year and graduated from its veterinary school, then came to Baltimore to work on a doctorate in comparative pathology at the University of Maryland. He taught anatomy and biology there, but he was struggling to pay the bills.
Seeking some financial security, he stepped into the corporate world, working for Wachovia Bank, then Morgan Stanley.
By the late 1990s, he was handling millions of dollars of other people's money -- and making enough to pursue his hobby as a photographer.
In 1998, he accompanied a professional wildlife photographer on a safari to Kenya and Tanzania, the first of many journeys to East Africa that -- though his intention was to photograph animals -- led him to connect with his heritage, changing his life, "from the inside out."
Driving through horn-honking Baltimore traffic to his final appointment, Slaughter recounted one experience in Africa. His vanload of safari-goers was held up by a caved-in road. He stepped out of the car and joined the crowd that stood there.
"Nobody was angry, cursing or fussing about it. They made the most of it. They sat around and talked. Then a big truck full of rocks pulled up, and people just started casually passing them from person to person and tossing them into the hole until it was filled up. ... It was the kind of act of cooperation you will never see in North America," he said.
