What Does It Take To Be A Veterinarian?

An inside look at the life of a vet, and why supporting your vet is the best thing you can do for your pet.

If I had a dollar for every time somebody told me that they once wanted to become a vet…

Let’s just say I wouldn’t have any outstanding student debt.

It seems like just about everybody wanted to become a vet when they grew up, but very few people have an understanding of what it’s like to be one. We’re a small profession. Outside of the interactions that people have with the vet they go to for services, most people don’t know a veterinarian personally.

As such, I find that very few people can relate to what I do for work, or fully understand my experience.

Here’s an inside look at what it really takes to be a veterinarian today:

It took me almost 10 years to become a veterinarian.

8 years of straight book study, followed by a 1 year clinical rotating internship. I was fortunate to be accepted into each of my programs consecutively, so I finished the requirements faster than most. At 25 years old, I was the youngest member of my graduating class. 

When I completed my clinical training, I had over $360,000 in student debt.

At that time, this debt was accruing interest at a rate of 5-7%. I was fortunate to receive a full scholarship to Cornell for my undergraduate studies, so this is the debt I had to take out to cover 4 years of professional study, alone.

By the time I hit the ground running as an autonomous veterinary professional, I was already burnt out.

I found comfort in knowing I wasn’t alone. After all, misery does love company. But still, I found that my colleagues around me were dropping at an alarming rate.

The attrition rate in veterinary medicine sits somewhere around 5%.

This means that there are more people leaving the profession than there are entering. And in a profession that’s already struggling to meet the current patient demand, that’s a jarring statistic. A portion of this attrition rate can be attributed to the efflux of the Baby Boomers, but that’s only part of the story.

The other major contributor to the loss of veterinary professionals is simply personal choice—or rather, the compassion fatigue and burnout that drives a vet to make that choice.

In a Facebook post on 11 May 2018, I wrote: Proudly introducing Dr. Samantha Marie Morici (while humbly recognizing I cannot afford the rights to this photo).

Earlier this year, in a paper published by the American Animal Hospital Association:

• 30% of surveyed vets said they planned on leaving their current position within the next year

• 15% said they planned to move out of clinical practice altogether within the next year

• And (of the above 15%) 9 out of 10 said that once they left, they wouldn’t go back

Sad and concerning statistics for a profession of people supposedly living out their childhood dreams.

But this isn’t what scares me most.

What’s more concerning, is not the rate at which vets choose to leave the profession, but the rate at which they choose to leave this world altogether.

Of the veterinarians who have died since 2010, 10% of them have died by suicide.

Of the vets who commit suicide, ~75% are small animal vets (like me)—those responsible for treating the dogs and cats that you call family.

As a female companion animal veterinarian with a high student debt load, I represent the group with (one of) the highest suicide rates in the country. On average, I am 3-4 times more likely than the average person to take my own life.

Read that again.

Now, maybe you’re thinking to yourself, “But you literally cuddle puppies for a living, how could life as a vet be so bad?”

I’m not saying it’s all bad.

But to help you better understand, let me run you through a typical day at the clinic:

7:45 AM: I arrive a few minutes before my first appointment so I have time to sip my coffee and review the schedule.

5 minutes later: Nurse runs to the back, our first appointment is here ahead of schedule. He can’t breathe. It’s a bulldog on a hot day, so I know what that means.

We rush him to the back and he’s gasping for air. I start directing my team:

Place an IV catheter, administer sedation, intubate!

The entrance to his airway is so swollen and deformed that we struggle to place a breathing tube. When we finally get one in, he crashes. We start performing CPR.

The client is screaming and crying that we have to save him.

After 20 minutes of CPR, we call it. Time of death: 8:20 AM.

I turn to console my client and give her a hug, but I’m not able to offer her the level of support I would like, because my assistant is waiting eagerly to speak with me.

“Your next client is here and she’s pissed. She says you’re disrespectful of her time and if you don’t see her right now she’s going to post it all over Yelp. Also, Dr. X is stuck in traffic and his appointment has also been waiting 20 minutes...”

No problem, I’ll see them both. Give me Mrs. Yelp Review and put the other one in Room 2. Thank them for their patience.

I take a deep breath to compose myself before I walk into the room.

It’s a new puppy—thank God. I quickly shift gears. I’m so sorry Mrs. Yelp Review, thank you for waiting, you have my full attention! Who is this sweet baby dog?!?!? Congratulations, he’s so beautiful! Where did you get him?!

From there, the day progresses:

In the next room, an Australian Labradoodle left to the parents following the death of a family member. Now extremely distressed, vomiting, and not eating. Owners also needed grief counseling.

Next:

Miniature Schnauzer listless and anorexic, requiring a range of tests and treatments, all declined by male owner because she’s “just a dog.” During the consultation, subtly informed of a domestic violence situation, had to alert authorities to get woman and dog out of the home.

Next:

Geriatric chihuahua referred for eye pressure measurement. Actually an unregulated diabetic needing both eyes surgically removed but too unstable for anesthesia. Young owner needed to be consoled through the unexpected euthanasia of a dog she’s had her entire life.

Next:

“Dr. Morici, we have some drop-offs here.”

Translation: My schedule was full, but these pets urgently needed care and none of the surrounding clinics had space either, so the owners dropped them off so we could see them whenever we had time between appointments. Ha, time. I jump to the back, assess that everyone is stable, jot down plans for pain meds and fluid therapy.

30 minutes behind schedule now, back to the front.

Next:

8 year old cat suddenly only eating his wet food. Diagnosed with heart disease and cancer in the abdomen. Multiple referrals needed. Older owner who couldn’t speak English and devastated by my findings, needing explanation of a complex case and consolation in my second language.

Next:

1 year old Border Collie brought in by pet sitter for suspected UTI, ultrasound revealed late-stage bladder cancer. Owner consoled remotely & advised to urgently return from holiday to say goodbye to his dog.

Next:

Cat unable to have a bowel movement, hospitalized and placed under anesthesia to have feces manually removed in-between appointments. Even though the client approved the treatment plan and associated costs, she now claims she can’t afford it. I give her a discount so she can at least afford the medications the pet needs to go home safely and comfortably, but it’s still not enough.

She begins to berate me—says I only care about money and I should be ashamed of myself.

I want to slap her, but I know she’s just lashing out and projecting her own shame, fear, and guilt. She loves her cat. So I validate her emotions and refer her to the front desk to work out a payment plan.

Back to drop-offs:

Diagnostics ordered and treatment plans completed. Call back diagnostic results, help my colleague with one of his patients, update the owners of all the pets in hospital, then I see a telemedicine appointment.

Next:

A patient that needs a blood transfusion. No blood in the freezer, blood bank can’t deliver for 2 hours, patient too unstable to transfer. I’m understaffed but I bite the bullet and send out my only assistant to pick up her dog for an urgent blood donation.

Sound like a rollercoaster? Well you’d better strap in, because it’s not even 11:00 AM.

This isn’t a bad day at a veterinary clinic. And it’s not a particularly stressful one either. This is just another day.

Being a veterinarian takes far more than just my medical training, and I spend most of my day in roles I was never trained to do.

I’m a psychotherapist, a financial advisor, a grief counselor, and a mediator. I’m a team leader and an educator, a mentor and a social worker. I’m the guardian of my community and the face of my profession.

Through years of therapy, I’ve finally granted myself the grace of imperfection, but not all pet parents have done me the same.

They expect a higher quality of medical care for their pets than they do for themselves. They expect me to respond immediately and to be available to them at all hours. They expect me to make miracles happen with virtually no budget.

And if I fall short of their expectations, they might threaten to sue.

So honestly—it comes as no surprise to me that the suicide rate is so high. I can understand how my colleagues might come home at the end of a long and difficult day and enter a dark headspace—cuffed by their student debt, with no choice but to repeat an unending cycle of compassion fatigue and burnout for the next 30 years. No escape in sight.

There’s a lot that needs to change in education and veterinary medicine, and I'm hopeful that it will.

But industry-wide change is slow, and vets can’t do it alone. We rely on the understanding, compassion, respect, and shared humanity of pet parents. We need you to do your part.

Caring for your vet looks like:

• Not shaming, blaming, or threatening your vet

• Showing up to your appointments on time, and kindly accepting a reschedule for a different day when you don’t

• Taking responsibility for your pet’s care and complying with your vet’s recommendations

• Managing your emotions

• Taking financial responsibility for your pet’s healthcare by getting insurance or starting an emergency care savings fund

• Being patient

• Keeping up with preventative care and annual exams

• Expressing gratitude, compassion, and understanding for your vet

• Educating other pet owners on what you’ve learned about the veterinary experience

• Leaving positive reviews and avoiding cyberbullying

• Recognizing their humanity

If every pet parent just did the above, the impact on the mental health of veterinarians would be profound.

More of my colleagues would remain in the profession. Pets everywhere would receive better care. And I know how much you care for your pet.

I do, too.

That’s why I became a vet in the first place.

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Sending love and light to all (and to all vets more than ever), ♡

Dr. Sami