To Myself on My Graduation from Vet School....25 Years Later

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Dear New Dr. Steph, Ever the geeky fan of science fiction and fantasy, I am writing this in the hopes that some day time travel will become a reality, and a courier from the future will deliver this letter to you, the new vet, from the me you will become in 25 years. On a steamy June day in 1988, you and your classmates crowded into Ohio Stadium in Columbus, received your Doctor of Veterinary Medicine degrees and were turned loose on the unsuspecting animal world, armed with a good education, a lot of optimism, and a package or two of shoulder-length plastic palpation sleeves that had been rattling around in your locker since your large animal rotation. Life as you knew it would never be quite the same again. Your first emergency case was a bulldog who lost an argument with a car. You will never forget that panicky feeling: where to begin? But you'll also remember the patience of your first employer, Dr. Larry Smith of Salt Run Vet Clinic in Maineville, who calmed you down and taught you that it wasn't rocket science, exactly: relieve the pain, treat the symptoms. There will be good calls and moments of inspiration and, interspersed with routine countless vaccinations and dewormings, the occasional chance to literally yank someone's beloved companion out of the jaws of death. That's a very cool feeling. You'll love it. There will be cases that don't end so well. You will soon learn that you can't please everyone, you can't save every patient, and not everyone will even like you, no matter how hard you try. You won't always be right. You will see a pointer puppy with a severe heart murmur, and you will predict that her cardiac defect will kill her before she reaches adulthood. But you'll be wrong, because she'll live to be a lovely old dog before her heart finally gives out (thus you will learn that sometimes it's good to be wrong). You will also learn more practical matters: A rottweiler is capable of passing an entire king-sized bedsheet. A "broken bone sticking out" of a cat's leg may actually be a crouton stuck to its elbow (so mind you do a thorough physical exam before reaching any conclusions about your patients). Out of consideration for those who coexist with you, you will learn to to tightly close and label any samples of yellow liquid stored in your home refrigerator. The same goes for solids. You will count yourself lucky to have found a husband who doesn't complain about tubes of horse blood stashed between the taco sauce and the pickle relish. You will suddenly become the popular person at parties. Once partygoers discover you are a veterinarian, you will be besieged with people wanting to talk - about why dogs eat grass and throw up, the problems of great-aunt Beulah's cat Mr. Dribbles, and by the way, would you please take three unwanted kittens? (You will learn to say no...sometimes.) One day you will realize that the fifteen-year-old dog you are euthanizing is one you first saw as a puppy. You'll discover you've owned the practice longer than either of the two legendary DVM's who worked there before you, Merlin Oswalt and "Old Doc Peck." Someone will refer to you as "Ol' Doc Steph" and you'll realize you're one of the senior vets in the neighborhood. When the heck did that happen? You'll be shocked, but eventually you'll feel pretty good about it. Someone will give you a shady sales pitch and you will be able to peer over your reading glasses, say "do I look like I was born yesterday?" and mean it. Then, just when you're sitting back on your laurels - or some other spreading part of your anatomy - the next patient through the door will be a grumpy diabetic cat you can't regulate - let alone handle- a kitten failing to thrive, or some other puzzling case you absolutely have no idea how to sort out. And for a few moments - until you remember that article you read or that new book you just bought - you'll feel as confused and frustrated as you did the first day you went to work. But it will be ok. You'll be doing surgery with a laser and communicating with computers and sending photos to colleagues to ask for a second opinion with a gadget you carry in your back pocket. Xray images will be digital and bloodwork from a sick patient will be in your hands in a matter of minutes rather than days away. The phone, however, will still drive you crazy. You will adopt more pets than you need and mourn the loss of every one as its life ends. You always said if performing euthanasias got easy it would be time to quit. It never has. Most importantly, you will never cease to be amazed by the ability of an animal to heal, given half a chance; by the bond of love that can be shared between a pet and its owner, and by the grace and gracious attitude of folks who, even when grief stricken at the loss of a pet, find it in their hearts to comfort and thank you for your part in that creature's life. I hope you will never forget to be grateful for those things. One final thought: If by some chance this letter is mistakenly delivered 25 years into the future instead of to the past, and my 80 year old self is reading this, I have one message for you: for crying out loud, retire already!