From the CVO: I’m off the clock

The lemonade glass was sweating in my hand, and the burgers were nearly done when it happened. A person I knew from childhood backed me against the cooler at a barbecue and started in: Her dog’s breath was terrible, so her vet had quoted her the cost of a dental visit, and could I believe what they wanted to charge? Was that normal? Why are we so expensive and overpriced? Why can’t I just clean her dog’s teeth at her house? Did her dog really need bloodwork first? And what did I think about that lump on his side, and was grain-free actually bad, and on it went.

For an hour, I stood there for an hour, nodding, holding a hot dog I never got to eat, doing a free consult next to a citronella candle. And I zoned out.

If you’re a veterinarian, you already know this scenario, because you’ve lived your own version of it. The wedding reception. The person next to you on the plane. The kids’ soccer game. The group chat at 11 PM with a photo of something I’d rather not diagnose between bites.

I want to say something I’ve never quite let myself say out loud: It’s OK to put the hot dog down and set a boundary.

Here’s why it’s so hard for us. We didn’t fall into this work; we clawed our way into it. We love animals, we love the people who love them, and somewhere along the line that love got quietly rewritten into an obligation to be available always, everywhere, for free. Everybody has a pet, everybody adores their pet, and everybody has an opinion about what we charge.

The part that actually stings was listening to what my friend was really saying that night. She was scared. Scared of a number, scared she couldn’t do right by a dog she loves, and in me, she’d found a veterinarian she could vent to with no bill at the end. The barbecue conversation was never about her dog’s tarter: It was about money, fear, convenience, and a profession the public increasingly sees through the lens of an invoice.

That’s a real and tender thing. The cost of care is genuinely keeping people up at night. I have enormous compassion for that. But I have to be honest about something: I can’t fix it standing next to the potato salad, and every time I try, I make it a little worse. I never want to get between my colleague and their client, who happens to be standing next to me while I’m enjoying my Capri Sun.

When I give the free hallway read, I reinforce the very idea that’s hurting us, that what we know is worth nothing, on tap, no appointment required. I’m also quietly robbing my friend of the help she actually needs: her own veterinarian, her dog’s record, an exam, and a real plan with real options. My guess over a paper plate isn’t generosity: It’s the worst version of medicine, served with a side of coleslaw.

So how do we set the boundary without turning into the cold, aloof doctor nobody wants to sit next to? The same way we do everything well—with warmth.

I’ve started saying, honestly and kindly, “Oh, that sounds so frustrating. The best person for this is your own vet. I’d hate to guess wrong without seeing him.” When someone pushes, a little humor goes a long way. I have a strict no-rectums-at-the-grill policy, and I’m happy to enforce it. When the conversation turns to cost, I’ve learned not to defend the whole profession’s pricing over a plate of baked beans. I acknowledge the feeling (“I know, it adds up, and that’s stressful”), steer them back to their clinic for payment options and a real conversation about what’s necessary, and then I change the subject to anything else on Earth. The weather. TV shows. The burgers. Their kid’s travel-soccer schedule.

None of this is unkind. It’s the opposite. Protecting your evening is how you protect your career. Showing people that veterinarians are people who clock out, who eat the hot dog while it’s still warm, may be one of the healthiest things we can do for a profession that loses too many of its own to exhaustion.

I keep thinking about why this matters now. We talk constantly about burnout, about boundaries with clients inside the building, about the pace that never lets up. But we rarely name the quieter erosion, ie, the way the job follows us out the door, into the weekend, into the very places that are supposed to refill us. In the soccer stands. On vacation. At your own doctor’s visit. You can’t pour from an empty bowl, and you certainly can’t refill it if every cookout is just an unbilled second shift.

So I’ll keep going to the barbecues. I love that people trust us enough to ask; that trust is a gift, and I never want to lose it. But I’ve made my peace with a sentence I wish someone had handed me 15 years ago: “Let’s not talk shop tonight. Text your vet on Monday, and come grab a burger with me.”

Loving this work and protecting your life away from it were never conflicting concepts. They’re the only way to do this for 30 years, instead of far less. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my hot dog’s getting cold.