To Younger Vets: Don’t mistake the growl for bitterness (#340)

A colleague recently challenged me, good-naturedly I think, that I was starting to sound like a grumpy old retired vet, always going on about how everything was better in my day.

It made me smile. And pause.

Because, yes, I do find myself looking back more often.

And I do have concerns about where veterinary medicine is heading.

But let’s be clear: nostalgia isn’t the same as obstruction.

Some things from the past really were better.

Not perfect, but worth remembering.

We trained in an era where mentorship wasn’t a line on a brochure. It was a lifeline.

Where clinical reasoning wasn’t overridden by algorithms.

Where ethics were non-negotiable, and cutting corners had consequences.

Where the bond between vet and patient, and vet and client, was the heart of the profession.

Of course, progress is inevitable. We’ve gained amazing tools, improved diagnostics, and a stronger voice in public health.

But amid all the innovation, are we also losing something essential?

In the race toward consolidation, production-line medicine, and AI-assisted everything, I worry we’re leaving behind the slower, richer lessons that shaped not just good veterinarians - but good people.

So yes, I might sound a little grumpy from time to time. But maybe that growl is less about resistance to change and more about loyalty to what shouldn’t be lost.

I don’t want to turn back the clock. I want to make sure we’re not discarding the compass as we move forward.

Call me old-fashioned or grumpy.

I’ll take that as a compliment.

Rick’s Commentary

You have heard it before. Maybe even from me: “Back in my day…”

It’s a phrase that can sound like a dismissal of the present. But I want to tell you what I really mean when I say it.

This isn’t a lecture.

It’s not a guilt trip.

It’s a love letter to a profession that has shaped both my life and my identity.

When I trained, we didn’t have MRI scanners or AI tools. We had stethoscopes, sharp instincts, and mentors who taught us not just what to do, but why to do it. We worked long hours for modest pay, fueled by a sense of purpose. Mistakes were terrifying, but they were also formative. We learned from each other, not from dashboards or metrics.

And while the tools have changed, the soul of the profession, compassion, curiosity, integrity, must remain unchanged.

You are facing challenges we never imagined: student debt that rivals mortgages, corporate consolidation that turns colleagues into competitors, and digital systems that sometimes prioritize volume over value.

I don’t envy you those things. But I do admire your resilience.

You’re walking into a profession in flux, and still showing up, ready to learn, ready to care.

If I sound grumpy sometimes, it’s not because I’m against change. It’s because I’m fiercely protective of what should never change:

The sacred trust between veterinarian and client, the quiet dignity of healing, and the ethical backbone of our calling.

So, take what’s useful from the past, and build what’s needed for the future.

Be proud, be kind, and stay curious.

And when an old vet growls from the sidelines, just know it’s probably because we care.

Perhaps too much to stay silent.

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