10/05/2026
I have a great love for veterinarians. I have had the pleasure, for the most part, of working with and for around 35 different doctors. And to a T, everyone of them, except one, truly cared deeply about animals and people. They are the hardest working, most under paid, under appreciated group of people I can think of. This day she describes in this post is no joke during the spring and fall and sometimes off and on during the "slow times" of the year. Be gracious and thankful when they come to your beck and call. Be thankful they have chose their career.
I want you to be a large-animal veterinarian for 24 hours.
Not watch one. Not ride along for the interesting calls and go home afterward. Not read James Herriot with a cup of coffee and think this sounds rather adventurous.
You’re the vet.
Ready?
Your phone rings before you planned on being awake. There’s a cow down. The farmer doesn’t know exactly how long she has been down because she was standing at the last check. You get dressed, grab something resembling breakfast, and drive out there. It’s dark. It’s raining. You crawl around behind a 1,500-pound animal trying to figure out what is wrong while simultaneously trying not to get kicked, crushed, or covered in something you would prefer not to identify before coffee. You make a treatment plan. You explain it to the farmer. You also explain the prognosis, because veterinary medicine isn’t just treating animals. Sometimes it is standing beside somebody who may have raised that cow from a calf and telling them what you realistically think is going to happen. Then you climb back into the truck, look at the time, realize the day has barely started, and your phone rings.
Calving problem.
So now your arm is inside a cow while you try to determine exactly which combination of legs, head, and general bovine geometry is happening in there. You eventually get everything lined up, get the calf out, and it’s alive. For a few minutes, this job is absolutely incredible. There is a living calf lying in the straw because you came. The cow is okay. The calf starts breathing. Somebody is smiling. You get that feeling that reminds you exactly why you chose this profession in the first place.
Remember that feeling.
You’re going to need it later.
Because now you’re behind schedule. There are herd checks waiting. Preg checks. Vaccinations. Sick cows. Lameness. Records. Samples. Prescriptions. Regulations. Documentation. There are people who made appointments and reasonably expect you to arrive sometime within the general vicinity of that appointment. Somewhere in the middle of all of this, somebody says, “Hey, while you’re here, can you look at this one really quick?” There is no such thing as “really quick,” but you look anyway. Then there is another one. And since you’re already here, could you maybe check this calf too? You do. You answer questions. You make recommendations. You write things down because if it isn't documented, it might as well not have happened. You finally get back into your truck.
Your phone rings again.
You were supposed to leave early today, by the way. Your kid has a school program tonight. You promised you’d be there. They’ve been practicing for weeks. You actually wrote it into your schedule. You deliberately tried not to book anything too late. You did everything people tell professionals to do when they talk about “work-life balance,” as though cattle have been informed about the calendar.
Keep going.
A farmer calls about an animal that has been sick for several days. They hoped she would improve. She didn’t. Now she is very sick, and somehow you are expected to fix in thirty minutes what disease has been doing for three days. You try. Sometimes you succeed. Sometimes you don’t. When you don’t, you may be the one who has to say the words nobody wants to hear, explain why the prognosis is poor, answer whether there is anything else that can possibly be tried, and help someone make a decision they really do not want to make. Then you walk back to your vehicle because another animal needs you. You don’t get an hour to emotionally process that one. You don’t get to sit somewhere quiet and collect yourself.
Your phone rings.
A calf is crashing.
You drive. You examine it. Calculate drugs. Place fluids. Explain what you’re seeing. Answer questions. Try everything reasonable. Maybe the calf lives. Maybe it doesn’t. Either way, there is another call waiting. At some point you realize you haven’t eaten since whatever you attempted to call breakfast. You find something in your vehicle. Congratulations. Lunch is now a granola bar of questionable age and coffee that achieved room temperature several counties ago. You eat approximately half of it while driving to the next farm and suddenly remember the school program.
Check the time.
You can still make it.
Barely.
Then your phone rings.
Cow having trouble calving.
You look at the clock. You look at the phone. You already know what answering it probably means.
You answer.
Because there is a living animal on the other end of that call and she doesn’t particularly care that your kid has been practicing for tonight for six weeks. You tell your family you’re going to be late. Maybe you can still catch the end. You get there and this one isn't easy. The calf is positioned wrong. The cow is exhausted. You work. You reposition. You pull. You make decisions quickly because now two lives depend on them, and you cannot hurry because somewhere else there is a child standing on a stage waiting for you.
Eventually the calf comes out.
Alive.
The cow is okay.
You look at the clock.
Congratulations.
You just missed your kid’s entire school program.
There will be pictures. Someone recorded part of it for you. Your spouse sends you a video. Your kid says, “It’s okay.”
Somehow that makes it worse.
Back in the truck.
And this is where somebody will inevitably start talking about how veterinarians just aren't as tough as they used to be. Something about the old veterinarians who worked all night and never complained. Something about the “good old days.” Usually James Herriot gets brought into the conversation somewhere, because people love that picture of veterinary medicine: country roads, little farms, interesting cases, muddy boots, pulling calves in old barns and driving through beautiful countryside to the next call.
And there is something beautiful about those stories.
But veterinary medicine today carries expectations and responsibilities that simply did not exist in the same way decades ago. There are more diagnostics. More medications. More regulations. More documentation. More liability. More scrutiny over antimicrobial use. More knowledge about animal welfare and pain management. More sophisticated farms and herd-health programs. More information available to clients, which is wonderful until someone has spent twenty minutes on Google and is now explaining why the treatment you recommended is wrong. There are emails. Text messages. Cell phones. Electronic records. Photographs sent at 10:56 p.m. with “What do you think this is?” attached. There is an expectation that because communication is instant, access to another human being should somehow also be instant.
And then there is social media.
Now a veterinarian can make a difficult medical decision involving an animal they actually examined, with a history they actually know, after years of education and experience, and somebody 1,500 miles away can watch twelve seconds of video with absolutely no medical history and announce to thousands of people that the veterinarian is incompetent, cruel, greedy, or all three.
But keep going.
Your 24 hours aren’t over.
Another emergency comes in. Then another phone call. Somewhere during all of this, somebody complains about the bill. That part matters too, because veterinarians hear some version of, “You only care about money,” while knowing exactly how much veterinary school costs, how much equipment costs, how much medications cost, how much it costs to keep a clinic staffed, stocked, insured, licensed, supplied, and functioning, and how many years it took to become the person standing there trying to save that animal. But you cannot explain the economics of veterinary medicine every time someone sees an invoice. So you explain the estimate. Again. You offer options when there are options. You explain what you believe is medically necessary. You explain what might work, what probably won't, what it costs, what the prognosis is, and what happens if they do nothing.
And sometimes, after all of that, someone tells you that if you actually cared about animals, you would do it for free.
Smile.
Be professional.
There is another appointment waiting.
It’s evening now. Technically, you were supposed to be home hours ago. You already missed the school program. Dinner is cold. Your family ate without you because they have learned not to wait. You finally finish what should be the last call and point the truck toward home. Maybe you can at least get there before everybody goes to bed. Maybe you can sit with your kid and watch the video of the program you were supposed to see in person.
Your phone rings.
You look at it.
You answer.
Because somebody has a cow in trouble.
This time you arrive and there isn’t a miracle waiting at the end. The animal is suffering. Treatment is unlikely to change the outcome. And now one of the most important parts of your job is also one of the hardest. You recommend euthanasia. You explain why. You answer the questions. You give the family time. Maybe they cry. Maybe you have known them for years. Maybe you remember treating this animal when she was younger. Maybe you remember delivering her. None of that changes what needs to happen now.
Then you do it.
You drive away knowing it was the humane decision and still wishing the day had ended differently.
You finally get home. Your family is asleep. There is a program from tonight sitting on the kitchen counter. Your kid’s name is printed on it. You look at the pictures. You watch the video someone recorded for you. You shower. You eat something that technically qualifies as dinner despite the fact that tomorrow is rapidly approaching.
You sit down.
Your phone rings.
Welcome to being on call.
And before somebody says veterinarians today simply “aren’t as tough as they used to be,” stop.
This is not a toughness problem.
The profession changed.
The science changed. The legal responsibilities changed. The educational debt changed. The expectations changed. The available treatments changed. The documentation changed. The regulatory environment changed. The public scrutiny changed. The relationship people have with animals changed. The speed at which an angry client can publicly attack a veterinarian changed. Communication changed. Technology changed. The standard of care changed. What veterinarians are expected to know changed. What they are expected to document changed. What clients expect them to be able to fix changed.
And perhaps one of the biggest differences is that modern veterinarians often carry enormous responsibility from both directions at once. They are expected to advocate for the animal while respecting the owner. They are expected to know the newest medicine while understanding the economics of agriculture. They are expected to offer every reasonable option while recognizing that money is real and livestock operations cannot pretend otherwise. They are expected to care deeply, but somehow not be affected when the animal dies. They are expected to be compassionate, but efficient. Thorough, but fast. Affordable, but equipped with modern medicine. Available whenever somebody else's emergency happens, but somehow still present for their own family.
And tomorrow morning?
Do it again.
None of this means veterinary medicine in the James Herriot days was easy. It absolutely was not. Those veterinarians worked brutally hard. They drove terrible roads in terrible weather. They worked with dangerous animals, had fewer diagnostics, fewer treatment options, less sophisticated equipment, and carried enormous responsibility. They deserve respect for what they did.
But respecting them does not require pretending the profession froze in time.
Take that old workload and now add modern educational debt, regulation, documentation, liability, technology, client expectations, modern standards of care, antimicrobial stewardship, electronic communication, social media, online reviews, instant access through cell phones, and an increasingly complicated medical and legal environment. Then add a spouse who occasionally would like to see you. Kids whose birthdays still happen whether you're on call or not. Christmas morning. Thanksgiving dinner. Anniversaries. School programs. Soccer games. Family vacations interrupted by phone calls. Dinner getting cold on the counter. Plans canceled because a cow decided 6:49 p.m. on Friday was the perfect time to turn her uterus inside out.
Those aren't complaints about the job.
They're part of the cost of doing it.
And no amount of toughness creates more hours in a day.
No amount of toughness lets you be standing in a barn saving a cow and sitting in the third row watching your kid's school program at the same time.
No amount of toughness makes euthanasia meaningless.
No amount of toughness makes losing a patient stop hurting if you actually care about the patients.
No amount of toughness makes being screamed at harmless.
No amount of toughness turns four hours of sleep into eight.
And no amount of toughness makes a human being stop being human.
So when you call your veterinarian, remember something. You may be talking to them during five minutes of their day. You have no idea what happened during the other 23 hours and 55 minutes. Maybe they just saved a calf. Maybe they just lost one. Maybe they haven’t eaten. Maybe they were awake half the night. Maybe someone screamed at them over a bill. Maybe they just performed a euthanasia for a family they have known for twenty years. Maybe they have blood on their coveralls from an animal they saved and mud on their boots from one they couldn't. Maybe there’s a little kid at home who spent tonight scanning the audience for a parent who desperately wanted to be sitting there.
And your veterinarian still answered the phone.
That isn't weakness.
It isn't evidence that veterinarians today aren't as tough as veterinarians used to be.
It is evidence that there are human beings underneath the coveralls and scrubs, doing an extraordinarily demanding job in a profession that has changed enormously while still being expected to carry every animal, every owner, every decision, every outcome, every emergency, and every piece of their own life they missed along the way as if none of it weighs anything.
It does.
Maybe the question was never why veterinarians today aren't as tough as veterinarians used to be.
Maybe the better question is why we ever decided that the people we ask to care this much should also have to be indestructible.
