Jessica Vogelsang DVM

There’s always been a soft spot in my heart for cheesy action movies. Think: Robert Downey Junior in a metal suit, Bruce Willis in a skyscraper, or Arnold Schwarzenegger anywhere except a political office. I love bad dialogue, implausible situations, and good guys blowing things up.

I think anyone who has ever watched that kind of movie is familiar with this scene: Hero turns and walks away from some asset of the evil empire he or she has just conquered, and as the tank/airplane/helicopter/fortress explodes into oblivion in the background, our hero just keeps walking, with nary a backward glance.

If you’ve seen as many of these scenes as I have, at some point you’ve probably asked yourself, “Why don’t they look back? That’s a REALLY loud noise. And how often do you get to see an evil genius’s blimp explode, anyway?” Movie-lovers throw this question around on the Internet from time to time, actually, and I recently stumbled across a response I think nails it. The gist of it is this:

We don’t really want our heroes to look back at explosions. Striding confidently away without turning around is a sign of certainty, and that’s a trait we like in our heroes.

[tweetthis]Striding away without turning around is a sign of certainty, a trait we like in our heroes[/tweetthis]

Think about it for a moment. When our hero shoots a rocket at the alien’s spaceship and then turns and walks away as a big cloud of flames ignites, we know two things:

1. Our hero is absolutely sure that this was the right thing to do.
2. The job has been accomplished completely.

Our hero is not wondering, “What if there’s just a little explosion and I only knocked out the spacecraft air conditioning system?” No. They shoot the rocket and walk away because this is the right thing to do and it’s going to work.

We want heroes with that confidence and certainty, because we wish we had it ourselves. But we veterinarians don’t always have it — or at least, if we do, we don’t show it. Deep down, I think we know we have the knowledge and skills to save pets’ lives, to conquer the “bad guys” of disease and injury. But we don’t always show that confidence.

[tweetthis]We forget that we are here to save the day and that pet owners NEED us.[/tweetthis]

Think about this: How often do we make wishy-washy recommendations that don’t convey confidence in what we do?

We’ve got to stop saying things like, “Your pet has dental disease. We can treat it… or maybe wait and keep an eye on it?” Keep an eye on it? It’s a progressive disease and we know it. It’s not going to get better. We have the skills, training, and equipment to deal with this problem — so let’s tell the pet owner it’s time to get this scheduled and fix it. Let’s blow up that dental disease and then walk away without looking back!

Listen, I’m not saying we should fake any confidence we don’t actually have. It’s got to be real, and it’s got to come from a place of integrity. Don’t endorse products and services that you don’t truly believe in. Don’t look a pet owner in the eye and recommend a procedure you’re really not sure about. But do work to learn and master the treatments and protocols you can really stand behind, so that when a pet owner comes to you with a problem, you’re ready to solve it with confidence.

Then blow it up and save the day.

[tweetthis]Blow it up and save the day.[/tweetthis]

I live in a Star Wars Fandom household. I’m pretty sure the main reason my Gen-X, Comic-Con loving husband agreed to have kids was that so he would have an excuse to buy every Star Wars Lego in existence and drag his ancient Millennium Falcon action figure out of the garage. He tried, unsuccessfully, to get me to wear a Carrie Fisher costume to a party (nope). We met Mark Hamil once before he became relevant again and it was the highlight of our week.

I may not be as nuts about the Star Wars universe as he is, but I do like it. It speaks to me like it does to so many, about the universal themes of good and evil and the ordinary heroes that lie within us all. It is where I learned to be fearful of creepy dudes who lick their lips their too much. And the character who changes everything is not the hero we worship from afar but the wrinkly, wizened old dude who hangs out behind the dumpster and looks like he might smell weird.

So without further ado, in honor of this auspicious May the Fourth I’m happy to present the Top 5 Lessons Vet Teams Can Learn From Yoda:

So much of what we deal with, the anger and the nastiness from upset clients, has nothing to do with us, no matter how it may feel at the time. Fear- of illness, of guilt, of money issues, of losing their pet- it can make people insane, especially around the holidays.

But we are vet Jedi (Veti?), and we know that we need to respond to anger not with more anger, but by addressing the underlying fear. Think Luke versus Vader in that last confrontation. It takes a long time to perfect this one, but you always have to try.

What strikes fear into your heart more, a Golden with an ear infection or an angry cat with a corneal ulcer? Trick question. The answer, of course, is always a chihuahua with an abscessed tooth.

Appearances in general can be deceiving. Like the guy whose soles are falling off his feet and leaves his dog with you while he goes off to find the money for his pet’s x-rays and then, despite the predictions of the staff, comes back an hour later with the entire amount in cash. Or the tough guy who needs an extra half hour alone in the room with extra tissues after you euthanize his boxer. Never assume. Or if you must assume, assume only the best and let people prove you wrong.

Of all the crazy Veti powers we have, I think many of us would agree that being with our clients in the moments of a pet’s transition is among the most awe-inspiring and powerful. Pets do not fear death, and often, it seems, even welcome it. The way we help clients experience this and understand it sets the tone for how they view death not only with future pets, but for themselves. I’ve been preaching this one for a while as a hospice vet, but let me tell you, as the daughter of a woman who died in hospice- this stuff matters so, so much.

You can take a time of horror and dread and make it ten times more traumatic, or you can bring people an incredible level of peace. Choose well. It is a true honor and responsibility.

We are surrounded by self-proclaimed internet experts in every topic from nutrition (mostly nutrition) to behavior to immunology (ok, that one too.) I get it- the allure of an easy path to fame and fortune on the back of a few pithy tropes and some mumbo jumbo about GMOs and toxins has to be hard to resist, especially when it’s so damn lucrative to trade on people’s fears.

It’s easy to for someone to swoop in with a sexy black outfit and some heavy breathing and convince the world they’re more powerful than they really are, and when you’re the one in the drab brown cape practicing swordplay in a swamp for a decade or so it kind of sucks when you see the other guy getting all the credit while you take all the lumps. All I can say is, be patient, padawan. This stuff always falls apart in the end when it’s no longer in vogue and the world moves on to their next diffuse enemy and life-saving snake oil. You, on the other hand, will always have your integrity.

We have chosen a challenging path. It’s not glamorous, easy, or particularly lucrative. Depression, economic stressors, and burnout abound. Before the internet, most of us suffered alone and with no idea that our colleagues deal with all the same fears, worries, and doubts.

There are two things you need to take from that:

• If you are in a dark place, reach out. There will always be someone to grab onto your hand.
• If you are in the light, be that hand for others. Be available. Be patient. Be someone’s Yoda. Show kindness to your colleagues, you must.

May the force be with you.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of the DrAndyRoark.com editorial team.

My senior year of veterinary school, an oncology resident I respected a great deal sat us all down and told us his number one piece of advice: “No matter what you tell a client,” he said, “Make sure you say it with utter conviction- even if you’re not sure you’re right.” We all nodded, wide-eyed and desperate for anything to make us seem more knowledgable than we were.

It worked for certain people. You know the type. They already had authoritative personalities and could easily tell a client, “YES. This is 100% what you should do.” Clients, besotted with their certainty, complied. And when it failed utterly and completely to do as it should, they shrugged it off and went to the next thing.

That never worked for me.

[tweetthis]If I suggested something I had the merest hint of doubt about, they could read it in my face [/tweetthis]

If I suggested something I had the merest hint of doubt about, they could read it in my face, that moment of hesitation, the way my eyes darted to the side. And if it fell apart, even if that’s the way medicine works and sometimes doody happens, I would go home and rend my scrubs and beat myself up for being human. It felt wrong, and we all knew it. It didn’t make me stronger, it made me feel like even more of an imposter.

Owning Your Doubt

A few months after graduation, I found myself flying solo at a new corporate practice. I was terrified. Who would I ask about that pedicle that wouldn’t stop oozing, or that strange shadow in the vomiting dog’s duodenum? Staring in uncertainty, I felt the paternal ghost-hand of that resident resting on my shoulder as he whispered, “Just go with it. Own it.”

I ignored him, kind of.

I looked my clients in the eye, took a deep breath, and said with utter conviction, “I don’t know what that is. Could be this, or this. I’m going to call a director and get another opinion.”

Or, “I have never done one of these procedures before. I can take it on, or you can go to the referral center.”

I owned it. It wasn’t an embarrassing admission but a fact. I didn’t apologize for it, I wasn’t embarrassed by it, because we all knew I was new and my lack of experience was a temporary condition that righted itself very quickly. I was confident in who I was at that moment, and that conveyed itself in everything I did.

Sure, I lost out on some opportunities to ‘practice’, but my clients always knew where we stood, and I never had to beat myself up for subterfuge. In short, I traded the short term pretending to know more than I did for the long term trust.

[tweetthis]I traded the short term confidence for the long term trust.[/tweetthis]

A year later, a funny thing happened. We got a letter in the mail- out of all the 400 members of the corporate practice, my dinky little Newbie Clinic in the sticks had the highest score in the nation for customer loyalty.

My supervisors were confounded. No one could believe it. “But you’re not even a year out,” they said. “Are you some sort of surgical wizard? Are you a vet savant?”

Far from it. I was new, inexperienced, and still had oodles to learn. I got things wrong and made plenty of newbie mistakes. And I never apologized for my newness, just as I still never apologize for who I am today. It just is.

Never fake who you are. And never apologize for it, either. The confidence you must own is not in what you know, but who you are. And it works.

[tweetthis]Never fake who you are. And never apologize for it, either.[/tweetthis]

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of the DrAndyRoark.com editorial team.