Today on my Facebook feed, an article posted by the AVMA (American Veterinary Medical Association) caught my attention. The article was titled 'Veterinary Students More Depressed Than The Rest'. Here is the link to it: Vet Students More Depressed.
I actually laughed out loud when I saw the title of the article. While unfortunate, I am not surprised. The article found that veterinary students are more depressed than medical students, undergraduate students, and graduate students. Of all the students, we are the most depressed! Go us!
The study, performed by Kansas State, found that 32 percent of first year vet students are depressed, compared to 23 percent of first year medical students. The numbers increased in second and third years, and then decreased in fourth year. The article offers some possible explanations for why us vet kids are so much sadder than every other type of student. They say things like 'vets deal with euthanasia on a daily basis, which human physicians do not deal with', and 'vet students need to learn many species and not just one'. While the second option makes sense, and is an argument we frequently use to prove that vet school is indeed harder than med school, the euthanasia explanation doesn't apply to students. As a practicing vet, yes, but as a student, no. We are sitting in class all day, every day. Even in the fourth year, when we will actually be in clinics and will actually be facing these issues, depression rates go down.
So why are we so depressed? Let me offer several explanations. First off, the work load is horrifying. In our first year, after the initial adjustment period, we had an exam every single Monday for the entirety of the first semester. Not only is the stress of major exams enough, these were Monday exams, so those weekends that would normally offer sweet respite from the stress of class were absolutely crammed full of studying. There was never a break.
From personal experience, and from seeing others go through it, another major issue many of us faced was relationships we had brought to school with us. To make it even harder, mine was long distance, and there was a major disconnect between us regarding how much I actually had to study and how much he thought was enough. This relationship ended with perfect timing the week before finals of my first semester of second year, notably the most horrifying semester of veterinary school potentially ever (apparently this upcoming semester may rival it, but we will see). Similar circumstances befell many of my friends. Even if the relationship weather the vet school storm, it is incredibly hard to balance school with life, and often times the non-student partner just doesn't understand.
What else makes vet students depressed? Fear of the future? Our incredibly massive debt that is hanging over our heads every day? Especially at this wonderful time of year when we receive our financial aid packages and we get a stinging reminder about just how much money we will owe; my personal package for this year totals about 57 thousand dollars. When most of us graduate, we will be facing nearly a quarter of a million dollars in debt. I have absolutely no concrete concept of how much money this really is, but in my mind I will be paying back loans until I am dead (and when this happens, I so nicely won't have to pay them back any more! How generous! No paying back my debt from the grave.) Thinking about having to repay this much money is enough to make anyone depressed.
Then they have people come for lunch talks, and tell us how we don't make nearly as much money as human physicians, how our debt load is so much greater, how we are screwed in 'a tough economy'. Great, guys, great. You know your students are depressed, you maybe want to try to cheer us up a little??
Yes, veterinary school is tough. I'm actually surprised I haven't had more teary stress-induced breakdowns than I have. But for those of us who really want to do this, we love it. We love to learn, we love to solve puzzles and work up cases. We love animals, and their humans (sometimes), and we love to help them. We trudge through this grueling assault because we know it will be worth it in the end. To help ease the burden, we long-suffering students need to learn to lean on each other, to be open and helpful to our colleagues, open up to our families and ask for their help, and lean on our significant others who support, encourage, and gasp, understand what we are going through.
Nobody said it was easy, but we chose our path, and it will ultimately be worth it. We just need to make it that far :-)
Friday, July 29, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
Attack in the Exam Room
I almost got myself attacked in the behavior exam room today. Luckily, it was an 'almost'. Stupidly, it was definitely my fault.
It was our last appointment of the day, and we were seeing a dog with a history of aggression. It seemed like a pretty typical aggression case, as far as they go. After seeing a few weeks of cases, I had been lulled into a false sense of security that our exam room provides. The dogs are out of their element, not on their home turf, and the dogs with aggressive pasts tend to keep to themselves, or eye us warily from across the room. I've been in the habit of mirroring Dr. Dodman's behavior, more or less ignoring the dogs, not talking to them or looking them in the eye, and usually not petting them in any manner (unless its a friendly dog with no aggression in its history). This keeps the dogs more or less at ease, and keeps us humans safe.
We started off the appointment learning that this particular dog became aggressive in certain threatening situations, such as a person approaching the dog's food, making direct eye contact for too long, and petting over the top of the head. These behaviors were mostly directed to strangers, though the dog would occasionally lift a lip to its owners. The dog was also aggressive to other dogs when on leash, and was fond of humping other dogs at the park.
The appointment went on as usual. We came to the discussion of using the Gentle Leader to control the dog when he saw another dog on walks, and we fitted one of ours on him to make sure it had been fitted and was being used properly. Dr. Dodman tasked me with making sure the dog, who I will call Ringo, didn't keep trying to rub the head halter off his face while he showed the owners a short video of the Gentle Leader in action. He handed me the leash, and whenever Ringo tried to rub the halter off I would tell him 'stop it' and apply gentle tension to the lead. When he stopped, I release tension from the lead and tell him 'good boy'. All fine. Ringo had showed no signs of aggression thus far.
We determine that we should check Ringo's thyroid hormone levels to see if that could be contributing to his aggression. My fellow intern crosses the room to go see if the technicians are free, and Ringo follows her across the room and begins to growl. She stands still, looks away from him, and his owners are able to interrupt his mood. We place a muzzle on him, for the safety of the technicians, and I take him across the hall to get his blood drawn. We decide on a jugular blood draw, and the technician and I have Ringo sit, and while I hold his head up, petting him and talking to him nicely, the tech does a perfect stick. I notice Ringo's pupils are almost fully dilated, which I attribute to the stress of the blood draw. He was a perfect patient, so whining, no growling, no struggling. I take his muzzle off and bring him back to the exam room, still wearing his Gentle Leader.
Ringo is very happy to greet his owners after this unpleasant event, and starts rubbing his face on the floor in attempt to remove the head halter. Since I had been tasked with this earlier, I called him over to me and picked up the leash, ready apply tension when needed. I tell him to 'sit', and he sits perfectly next to me. Thinking about how good he was for the blood draw, and remembering the Gentle Leader video (and Dr. Dodman) stating how firm petting over the head and neck can calm the dog down, I start petting his head. I look down at him and marvel that his pupils are still so big, attributing that to the stress of the blood draw, and then immediately notice his lip is curled menacingly. His pupils are so dilated because he hates what I am doing, and is about to tell me so with his teeth. In that "Oh S@#!" moment, I remember what I had forgotten from earlier. This dog does not like being pet on the head by strangers, and will attempt to bite.
I don't remember exactly what the dog or I did next, but in my next conscious memory I'm holding the leash vertically above the dog, holding his head straight in the air. I eventually manage to stand up out of my chair, and begin to move toward his owner to hand off the leash. He isn't giving up. There is growling and head shaking, and my heart is pounding. I give his leash to his female owner, and he's still not done proving to me that I had offended him greatly. He's still growling, and I'm pretty sure I let out an embarrassing little shriek when he lunges at me on my way back to my chair. I sit back down, and he settles down at his owner's feet, and I notice his pupils have returned to their normal size. Yikes.
How does the peanut gallery react to this little incident? Ringo's owner looks at me and says 'I'm so sorry!', to which I respond, 'No, it's ok, that was my fault'. Dodman asks what happened. My fellow intern says 'petting over the top of the head'. I nod in horror at my obvious mistake. Dodman looks at me and says 'I'm sorry that happened to you, but now we have seen for ourselves that you guys have a problem that definitely needs to be managed'. This wasn't just one snarl and warning snap, this was a prolonged attempt to attack a human that had committed a grievous infarction against a confused dog. I sit back in my chair and try to play it cool, but my heart is still racing and I notice as I play with my nails my hands are shaking slightly. I hope my face isn't bright red, as it has a tendency to be when I'm feeling stressed. Phew.
The rest of the consult goes uneventfully, and I walk the clients back out to the waiting room, pretending like I hadn't just encouraged their dog to attack me. I walk back into the exam room, and Dodman is standing there chatting with my two fellow students, and tells me 'We were just talking about your close encounter. Of the third kind'.
'It was totally my fault' I say and try to explain it away, feeling slightly dumb and embarrassed. Dr. Dodman doesn't imply that I did anything wrong, and just comments that I should have stood up immediately to take control of the dog. I explained to him that my mind had gone blank and it was a reflex to do what I did. He says that was the right thing to do, just stand up next time. If my brain had been communicating with my legs, I would have done just that. I'm mentally kicking myself. A lot of things had led up to this incident. I was the bad guy that pulled on his leash, I was the bad guy that took him to a scary room to get stabbed by a needle by a stranger. I had a bunch of strikes against me to begin with. Whoops.
The only thing that got hurt in this encounter was my pride. I kept telling myself that I knew better (which I did) and I shouldn't have caused that reaction from this dog. I'm always my own harshest critic, and obviously pride myself on my knowledge of animal behavior. I felt like I had let myself down. Clearly, I made a simple mistake, and after a day full of appointments and boat loads of information, a critical piece of information had slipped my brain. But nobody got hurt, nobody got mad, and I most certainly won't make that mistake again. I know that dogs don't like being pet over the head by people they are unfamiliar with, I consciously avoid doing it, and will never do it again (especially in the behavior consulting room). I've never been holding the leash of a dog that has tried to go after me, and have learned how to react in this situation.
All in all, that ended up being our most exciting moment of the day, and like I said before, the only thing that got injured was my pride. Now I just need to swallow this pride and add this to the filing folder of important life lessons.
I owe you one, Ringo.
It was our last appointment of the day, and we were seeing a dog with a history of aggression. It seemed like a pretty typical aggression case, as far as they go. After seeing a few weeks of cases, I had been lulled into a false sense of security that our exam room provides. The dogs are out of their element, not on their home turf, and the dogs with aggressive pasts tend to keep to themselves, or eye us warily from across the room. I've been in the habit of mirroring Dr. Dodman's behavior, more or less ignoring the dogs, not talking to them or looking them in the eye, and usually not petting them in any manner (unless its a friendly dog with no aggression in its history). This keeps the dogs more or less at ease, and keeps us humans safe.
We started off the appointment learning that this particular dog became aggressive in certain threatening situations, such as a person approaching the dog's food, making direct eye contact for too long, and petting over the top of the head. These behaviors were mostly directed to strangers, though the dog would occasionally lift a lip to its owners. The dog was also aggressive to other dogs when on leash, and was fond of humping other dogs at the park.
The appointment went on as usual. We came to the discussion of using the Gentle Leader to control the dog when he saw another dog on walks, and we fitted one of ours on him to make sure it had been fitted and was being used properly. Dr. Dodman tasked me with making sure the dog, who I will call Ringo, didn't keep trying to rub the head halter off his face while he showed the owners a short video of the Gentle Leader in action. He handed me the leash, and whenever Ringo tried to rub the halter off I would tell him 'stop it' and apply gentle tension to the lead. When he stopped, I release tension from the lead and tell him 'good boy'. All fine. Ringo had showed no signs of aggression thus far.
We determine that we should check Ringo's thyroid hormone levels to see if that could be contributing to his aggression. My fellow intern crosses the room to go see if the technicians are free, and Ringo follows her across the room and begins to growl. She stands still, looks away from him, and his owners are able to interrupt his mood. We place a muzzle on him, for the safety of the technicians, and I take him across the hall to get his blood drawn. We decide on a jugular blood draw, and the technician and I have Ringo sit, and while I hold his head up, petting him and talking to him nicely, the tech does a perfect stick. I notice Ringo's pupils are almost fully dilated, which I attribute to the stress of the blood draw. He was a perfect patient, so whining, no growling, no struggling. I take his muzzle off and bring him back to the exam room, still wearing his Gentle Leader.
Ringo is very happy to greet his owners after this unpleasant event, and starts rubbing his face on the floor in attempt to remove the head halter. Since I had been tasked with this earlier, I called him over to me and picked up the leash, ready apply tension when needed. I tell him to 'sit', and he sits perfectly next to me. Thinking about how good he was for the blood draw, and remembering the Gentle Leader video (and Dr. Dodman) stating how firm petting over the head and neck can calm the dog down, I start petting his head. I look down at him and marvel that his pupils are still so big, attributing that to the stress of the blood draw, and then immediately notice his lip is curled menacingly. His pupils are so dilated because he hates what I am doing, and is about to tell me so with his teeth. In that "Oh S@#!" moment, I remember what I had forgotten from earlier. This dog does not like being pet on the head by strangers, and will attempt to bite.
I don't remember exactly what the dog or I did next, but in my next conscious memory I'm holding the leash vertically above the dog, holding his head straight in the air. I eventually manage to stand up out of my chair, and begin to move toward his owner to hand off the leash. He isn't giving up. There is growling and head shaking, and my heart is pounding. I give his leash to his female owner, and he's still not done proving to me that I had offended him greatly. He's still growling, and I'm pretty sure I let out an embarrassing little shriek when he lunges at me on my way back to my chair. I sit back down, and he settles down at his owner's feet, and I notice his pupils have returned to their normal size. Yikes.
How does the peanut gallery react to this little incident? Ringo's owner looks at me and says 'I'm so sorry!', to which I respond, 'No, it's ok, that was my fault'. Dodman asks what happened. My fellow intern says 'petting over the top of the head'. I nod in horror at my obvious mistake. Dodman looks at me and says 'I'm sorry that happened to you, but now we have seen for ourselves that you guys have a problem that definitely needs to be managed'. This wasn't just one snarl and warning snap, this was a prolonged attempt to attack a human that had committed a grievous infarction against a confused dog. I sit back in my chair and try to play it cool, but my heart is still racing and I notice as I play with my nails my hands are shaking slightly. I hope my face isn't bright red, as it has a tendency to be when I'm feeling stressed. Phew.
The rest of the consult goes uneventfully, and I walk the clients back out to the waiting room, pretending like I hadn't just encouraged their dog to attack me. I walk back into the exam room, and Dodman is standing there chatting with my two fellow students, and tells me 'We were just talking about your close encounter. Of the third kind'.
'It was totally my fault' I say and try to explain it away, feeling slightly dumb and embarrassed. Dr. Dodman doesn't imply that I did anything wrong, and just comments that I should have stood up immediately to take control of the dog. I explained to him that my mind had gone blank and it was a reflex to do what I did. He says that was the right thing to do, just stand up next time. If my brain had been communicating with my legs, I would have done just that. I'm mentally kicking myself. A lot of things had led up to this incident. I was the bad guy that pulled on his leash, I was the bad guy that took him to a scary room to get stabbed by a needle by a stranger. I had a bunch of strikes against me to begin with. Whoops.
The only thing that got hurt in this encounter was my pride. I kept telling myself that I knew better (which I did) and I shouldn't have caused that reaction from this dog. I'm always my own harshest critic, and obviously pride myself on my knowledge of animal behavior. I felt like I had let myself down. Clearly, I made a simple mistake, and after a day full of appointments and boat loads of information, a critical piece of information had slipped my brain. But nobody got hurt, nobody got mad, and I most certainly won't make that mistake again. I know that dogs don't like being pet over the head by people they are unfamiliar with, I consciously avoid doing it, and will never do it again (especially in the behavior consulting room). I've never been holding the leash of a dog that has tried to go after me, and have learned how to react in this situation.
All in all, that ended up being our most exciting moment of the day, and like I said before, the only thing that got injured was my pride. Now I just need to swallow this pride and add this to the filing folder of important life lessons.
I owe you one, Ringo.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Animal Testing
Caught ya with that title, didn't I? You were probably expecting some thought-provoking, passionate argument about animal testing. Nope, not today. This is much less serious and much more fun! In the last week or so, I've been performing a little 'animal testing' on my dog, Myles.
During many of our appointments at the Behavior Clinic, Dr. Dodman spends a lot of time instructing owners as to how they can enrich the home environment for their dogs. Suggestions like food puzzles, music, leaving the TV on, and having a window for them to look out are common place. He also suggests olfactory stimulation, which can be very exciting for our furry friends who live in a world of smells we cannot even imagine. Owners are always intrigued when he gets to this part of the appointment. He tells them to take normally boring, neutral toys (such as rope bones and fake sheep skins) and add an interesting scent to them.
Now, what the heck kind of smell could I put on one of these things that my dog will like? Owners often have a quizzical look on their faces at this point. We all know dogs love to smell things we more squeamish humans deem 'disgusting'. Surely you don't want me to rub the scent of road kill on a rope bone for my dog? While they would certainly love that, Dodman suggests more human-tolerable options. Take a dab of vanilla extract, he says, or extract of anise, and rub it on a rope bone. Weird, huh? Through most of these appointments I'm sure I have the exact same puzzled expression on my face. No way dogs like the smell of vanilla. We humans usually think this smells fantastic, and things that we like to smell are generally things that dogs find aversive.
Curious one day after yet another appointment in which we discussed olfactory stimulation, I decided to test it out on my own dog (poor dogs belonging to vet students always get volunteered for poking and prodding in the name of education!). I took one of the one dollar rope toys we have from Target, took my vanilla extract, got a tiny dab of vanilla on my finger (remember, their sense of smell is SO much more powerful than ours, don't want to overwhelm them!), and rubbed it on the rope. I brought it over to him and held it out in front of his face. He sniffed. I put the rope down on his bed and walked away, waiting to see if he would do anything with it. I turn around a few minutes later and he's sniffing the rope intently. He picks it up, tosses it to himself, throws it around, and starts gnawing on the end of the rope. Wow, I'm thinking. He actually likes it. Who knew? Dr. Dodman, obviously. I would like to try anise, but as this is something that I think smells terrible, I don't have it hanging around my house. Other, more obvious suggestions for stinky stimulation include things like scent lures for hunting dogs. I did some internet searching for available scents, and found some things like 'waterfowl', 'pheasant', and some mammalian game. I'd be interested in trying these out on different dogs, and seeing which types of dogs prefer which types of scents. There are some we might easily predict, like Retrievers and waterfowl scents, or terriers and the scent of some rodent, but it would be fun to try out a bunch of different smells and see who prefers what.
I want to hear from you guys reading this too. Try a little experiment on your dog! Buy a couple rope bones for a dollar each at Target or Walmart (they may be that cheap at the pet stores too), get a couple different scents, and test your dog out to see which one he likes the best. Try weird things too! Get creative, and comment about it here. Dogs don't typically like smells we consider 'clean', like citrus scents, so just keep that in mind, though you can try it out to see for yourself!
Get creative and have fun with your dogs, in the name of science!
Here are a few things I came across online... next time I'm near a Bass Pro Shop I'm going to take a look around, but here are some ideas to get started!
A few bird scents
Who knew they made a squirrel extract?
Raccoon??
There are some crazy things out there...
During many of our appointments at the Behavior Clinic, Dr. Dodman spends a lot of time instructing owners as to how they can enrich the home environment for their dogs. Suggestions like food puzzles, music, leaving the TV on, and having a window for them to look out are common place. He also suggests olfactory stimulation, which can be very exciting for our furry friends who live in a world of smells we cannot even imagine. Owners are always intrigued when he gets to this part of the appointment. He tells them to take normally boring, neutral toys (such as rope bones and fake sheep skins) and add an interesting scent to them.
Now, what the heck kind of smell could I put on one of these things that my dog will like? Owners often have a quizzical look on their faces at this point. We all know dogs love to smell things we more squeamish humans deem 'disgusting'. Surely you don't want me to rub the scent of road kill on a rope bone for my dog? While they would certainly love that, Dodman suggests more human-tolerable options. Take a dab of vanilla extract, he says, or extract of anise, and rub it on a rope bone. Weird, huh? Through most of these appointments I'm sure I have the exact same puzzled expression on my face. No way dogs like the smell of vanilla. We humans usually think this smells fantastic, and things that we like to smell are generally things that dogs find aversive.
Curious one day after yet another appointment in which we discussed olfactory stimulation, I decided to test it out on my own dog (poor dogs belonging to vet students always get volunteered for poking and prodding in the name of education!). I took one of the one dollar rope toys we have from Target, took my vanilla extract, got a tiny dab of vanilla on my finger (remember, their sense of smell is SO much more powerful than ours, don't want to overwhelm them!), and rubbed it on the rope. I brought it over to him and held it out in front of his face. He sniffed. I put the rope down on his bed and walked away, waiting to see if he would do anything with it. I turn around a few minutes later and he's sniffing the rope intently. He picks it up, tosses it to himself, throws it around, and starts gnawing on the end of the rope. Wow, I'm thinking. He actually likes it. Who knew? Dr. Dodman, obviously. I would like to try anise, but as this is something that I think smells terrible, I don't have it hanging around my house. Other, more obvious suggestions for stinky stimulation include things like scent lures for hunting dogs. I did some internet searching for available scents, and found some things like 'waterfowl', 'pheasant', and some mammalian game. I'd be interested in trying these out on different dogs, and seeing which types of dogs prefer which types of scents. There are some we might easily predict, like Retrievers and waterfowl scents, or terriers and the scent of some rodent, but it would be fun to try out a bunch of different smells and see who prefers what.
I want to hear from you guys reading this too. Try a little experiment on your dog! Buy a couple rope bones for a dollar each at Target or Walmart (they may be that cheap at the pet stores too), get a couple different scents, and test your dog out to see which one he likes the best. Try weird things too! Get creative, and comment about it here. Dogs don't typically like smells we consider 'clean', like citrus scents, so just keep that in mind, though you can try it out to see for yourself!
Get creative and have fun with your dogs, in the name of science!
Here are a few things I came across online... next time I'm near a Bass Pro Shop I'm going to take a look around, but here are some ideas to get started!
A few bird scents
Who knew they made a squirrel extract?
Raccoon??
There are some crazy things out there...
Thursday, July 7, 2011
C = DVM. What is that even supposed to mean?
Some of you may be wondering what the heck the title of this blog is all about. C = DVM is a phrase commonly thrown around at school, typically following a particularly gruesome test or during a hectic week when someone simply can't make as much time to study as they would like. This little quip is based on the fact that you can finish veterinary school with a C average and still get your DVM degree. I'm not quite sure what the exact academic rules are, but I believe you are allowed to get one D in a course, but if you get two you need to retake one of them. If you get a failing grade in a class, you need to retake that class. But all C's? Smooth sailing, it looks like.
So why do we say this to each other so often? To ease the pain of a very trying, rigorous, slap you in the face educational experience? To give us comfort during hard times? Hand in hand with 'C = DVM' comes some variation of the following phrase, 'Oh, C students always make the best clinicians anyway. A students make poor clinicians and end up in research or something like that'.
I began to think about why people say this, and whether there is any truth behind it. The belief seems to be that students who get A's are too nerdy and studious to be able to successfully interact with pet owners, and that C students are somehow suave and charismatic, able to woo clients with their charm even if the medicine isn't 100% solid. Obviously there are no hard and fast rules; I definitely know students who get A's and have no social skills, and I know students who get C's and have no social skills. There are people I look at and think there is no way they are going to make it as a clinician, and others that are so great at talking to people but I wonder how they are passing their classes.
That being said, I don't really know how most of my classmates do on tests, quizzes, homework, etc. It's not something we really talk about. I barely talk about grades even with my closest friends. Yes, grades matter, but the truth is grades don't always reflect a student's grasp of the material. Medicine is all about problem solving. You take pieces of a puzzle, you put them together, and you treat that puzzle (which can be a new puzzle in and of itself). Students that are great at remembering facts and then regurgitating them are not always good at synthesizing them. That is the art behind the science.
We are eagerly (and terrifyingly) counting down the days until our class enters clinics, where is will quickly become obvious who is good at synthesizing and who is not. I've gotten a taste of that problem solving, what I like to call 'real medicine', over the last year, through a case-based selective on Neurology every Tuesday, and then this summer in the Behavior Clinic. Just today at the Behavior Clinic I suggested a treatment for a dog who's issues I thought were being compounded by her anxiety, and my idea ultimately ended up being the treatment we settled on. I gave a little fist pump when Dr. Dodman said 'Looks like your treatment wins!'.
This is what I really love; seeing a problem, putting together the pieces, and solving it. I can't wait until our class enters clinics in the coming spring, and I am crossing my fingers that this clinical experience truly helps us develop our critical thinking skills.
C = DVM? Perhaps, but somewhere in that equation should be hard work, dedication, and a passion for learning (oh and for animals too!). C = DVM....I don't like it. How about Me = DVM? That encompasses a whole lot more than just my grades...that includes everything about me that makes me unique, and gives me my own special take on veterinary medicine. Yes, Me = DVM. Let's go with that.
So why do we say this to each other so often? To ease the pain of a very trying, rigorous, slap you in the face educational experience? To give us comfort during hard times? Hand in hand with 'C = DVM' comes some variation of the following phrase, 'Oh, C students always make the best clinicians anyway. A students make poor clinicians and end up in research or something like that'.
I began to think about why people say this, and whether there is any truth behind it. The belief seems to be that students who get A's are too nerdy and studious to be able to successfully interact with pet owners, and that C students are somehow suave and charismatic, able to woo clients with their charm even if the medicine isn't 100% solid. Obviously there are no hard and fast rules; I definitely know students who get A's and have no social skills, and I know students who get C's and have no social skills. There are people I look at and think there is no way they are going to make it as a clinician, and others that are so great at talking to people but I wonder how they are passing their classes.
That being said, I don't really know how most of my classmates do on tests, quizzes, homework, etc. It's not something we really talk about. I barely talk about grades even with my closest friends. Yes, grades matter, but the truth is grades don't always reflect a student's grasp of the material. Medicine is all about problem solving. You take pieces of a puzzle, you put them together, and you treat that puzzle (which can be a new puzzle in and of itself). Students that are great at remembering facts and then regurgitating them are not always good at synthesizing them. That is the art behind the science.
We are eagerly (and terrifyingly) counting down the days until our class enters clinics, where is will quickly become obvious who is good at synthesizing and who is not. I've gotten a taste of that problem solving, what I like to call 'real medicine', over the last year, through a case-based selective on Neurology every Tuesday, and then this summer in the Behavior Clinic. Just today at the Behavior Clinic I suggested a treatment for a dog who's issues I thought were being compounded by her anxiety, and my idea ultimately ended up being the treatment we settled on. I gave a little fist pump when Dr. Dodman said 'Looks like your treatment wins!'.
This is what I really love; seeing a problem, putting together the pieces, and solving it. I can't wait until our class enters clinics in the coming spring, and I am crossing my fingers that this clinical experience truly helps us develop our critical thinking skills.
C = DVM? Perhaps, but somewhere in that equation should be hard work, dedication, and a passion for learning (oh and for animals too!). C = DVM....I don't like it. How about Me = DVM? That encompasses a whole lot more than just my grades...that includes everything about me that makes me unique, and gives me my own special take on veterinary medicine. Yes, Me = DVM. Let's go with that.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
The Real Dog Whisperer
This summer, instead of working a 'real job', I'm spending a few days every other week with Dr. Nicholas Dodman at Tufts' Behavior Clinic. With the interest I've developed in behavior over the last year, and my desire to goof around as much as possible this summer, Dr. Dodman's schedule of seeing appointments Monday, Tuesday and Thursday of every other week is perfect. I'm learning a ton, and I have plenty of down time (which was a necessity for my last summer free from school).
I've spent two weeks at the Behavior Clinic so far. It is usually me and a gaggle of other students, usually a senior student, sometimes a selective student, and a summer intern from UMass undergrad. Everyone is wearing white coats, and this can sometimes be an intimidating audience for clients. Little do they realize that the only one who really knows what they are talking about is the doctor. Each of us has a different point of view to offer, and the doctor is kind enough to ask us for our opinions during client visits.
My first day in was slightly nerve-wracking. I had been told to report to the 'behavior room', which is exam room 4 in the Foster Hospital for Small Animals at 9:30 am. I get to the room, peer in the window, and don't see anyone I recognize. Two students in white coats, and two clients with a large Golden Retriever. Not seeing anyone I know, I stand in the hallway, perplexed. Am I in the right place? At the right time? Who can I contact? Just as I am about to abort the mission, Dr. Dodman rounds the corner. I sigh in relief. 'Dr. Dodman! I was looking for you! I'm the student who's going to be coming in... I saw people in there and I didn't recognize them...so I didn't want to barge in...' He says, 'Yes, they're called clients, that's the reason we're here. Now put on your lab coat, lose the bag, look professional and let's go in!' It wasn't mean, it was fact. Those are clients. Put your coat on. Put your purse away. We are professionals.
Ohhh boy, off to a great start. I'm worried I've just blown my first impression for someone that I practically idolize. This guy is the real deal . He's famous. He's an author. He's on Animal Planet. He has groupies. Don't screw this up!
I'm pretty quiet through our first two appointments, just taking everything in and making mental notes (as I had forgotten an actual notebook). Dodman addresses me and the other students while he's talking to the clients, including us in the conversation. We run late that morning, leaving us only about 20 minutes for lunch. Of course I have to run home to let the dog out, which will make me late for our first afternoon appointment. Great, I'm thinking, that's another strike against me.
I'm about ten minutes late for the next appointment, which is made increasingly awkward by our need for an extra chair, as Dr. Ogata, former behavior resident, is also sitting in on the appointment. They gesture to me as I open the door, and I scoot out in search of a chair. I look in the surrounding exam rooms, and the first brilliant idea that comes to my mind is to knock on the door of an exam room containing a uniformed police officer and a muzzled, huge German Shepherd. He is alone in the room. I knock, he unlocks the door (the door was locked? Good call, Lindsay) and I ask for a chair, apologetically. He seems slightly amused. I take the chair, and slink back into the consulting room. Awesome. And this case appears to be an especially difficult one; a recheck for an aggressive dog who hasn't been making a lot of improvement despite a lot of retraining and pharmaceutical intervention. The couple had a young baby, and were frustrated with the lack of progress. Understandably. Dodman smoothly comes up with a game plan for them, and sends them out hopeful.
Through that first week, I like to watch how he interacts with the clients. He puts them at ease; he makes jokes, tells stories, shares his own life experiences. He doesn't put blame on them for their pet's behavior, he doesn't reprimand, and he doesn't overwhelm. They have an enormous amount of respect for him. I hope to someday mirror his ability to interact with worried pet owners.
My third week in, at the end of an appointment, I'm getting together a package of handouts and business cards for the client to take home. Dodman asks what I've got, I tell him, and he turns to the clients and says, 'She's really got it together, doesn't she? On top of it!'.
Looks like I didn't blow my first impression after all.
More stories from the consulting room to come...
I've spent two weeks at the Behavior Clinic so far. It is usually me and a gaggle of other students, usually a senior student, sometimes a selective student, and a summer intern from UMass undergrad. Everyone is wearing white coats, and this can sometimes be an intimidating audience for clients. Little do they realize that the only one who really knows what they are talking about is the doctor. Each of us has a different point of view to offer, and the doctor is kind enough to ask us for our opinions during client visits.
My first day in was slightly nerve-wracking. I had been told to report to the 'behavior room', which is exam room 4 in the Foster Hospital for Small Animals at 9:30 am. I get to the room, peer in the window, and don't see anyone I recognize. Two students in white coats, and two clients with a large Golden Retriever. Not seeing anyone I know, I stand in the hallway, perplexed. Am I in the right place? At the right time? Who can I contact? Just as I am about to abort the mission, Dr. Dodman rounds the corner. I sigh in relief. 'Dr. Dodman! I was looking for you! I'm the student who's going to be coming in... I saw people in there and I didn't recognize them...so I didn't want to barge in...' He says, 'Yes, they're called clients, that's the reason we're here. Now put on your lab coat, lose the bag, look professional and let's go in!' It wasn't mean, it was fact. Those are clients. Put your coat on. Put your purse away. We are professionals.
Ohhh boy, off to a great start. I'm worried I've just blown my first impression for someone that I practically idolize. This guy is the real deal . He's famous. He's an author. He's on Animal Planet. He has groupies. Don't screw this up!
I'm pretty quiet through our first two appointments, just taking everything in and making mental notes (as I had forgotten an actual notebook). Dodman addresses me and the other students while he's talking to the clients, including us in the conversation. We run late that morning, leaving us only about 20 minutes for lunch. Of course I have to run home to let the dog out, which will make me late for our first afternoon appointment. Great, I'm thinking, that's another strike against me.
I'm about ten minutes late for the next appointment, which is made increasingly awkward by our need for an extra chair, as Dr. Ogata, former behavior resident, is also sitting in on the appointment. They gesture to me as I open the door, and I scoot out in search of a chair. I look in the surrounding exam rooms, and the first brilliant idea that comes to my mind is to knock on the door of an exam room containing a uniformed police officer and a muzzled, huge German Shepherd. He is alone in the room. I knock, he unlocks the door (the door was locked? Good call, Lindsay) and I ask for a chair, apologetically. He seems slightly amused. I take the chair, and slink back into the consulting room. Awesome. And this case appears to be an especially difficult one; a recheck for an aggressive dog who hasn't been making a lot of improvement despite a lot of retraining and pharmaceutical intervention. The couple had a young baby, and were frustrated with the lack of progress. Understandably. Dodman smoothly comes up with a game plan for them, and sends them out hopeful.
Through that first week, I like to watch how he interacts with the clients. He puts them at ease; he makes jokes, tells stories, shares his own life experiences. He doesn't put blame on them for their pet's behavior, he doesn't reprimand, and he doesn't overwhelm. They have an enormous amount of respect for him. I hope to someday mirror his ability to interact with worried pet owners.
My third week in, at the end of an appointment, I'm getting together a package of handouts and business cards for the client to take home. Dodman asks what I've got, I tell him, and he turns to the clients and says, 'She's really got it together, doesn't she? On top of it!'.
Looks like I didn't blow my first impression after all.
More stories from the consulting room to come...
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
To Misplace A Dog
Yesterday we lost Angus, my best friend's big doofy Golden Retriever, for about 20 minutes. It felt like hours.
His owner, who I shall call Kmoore, remained extremely calm and collected while we searched for him, shaking a bowl of kibble and calling his name. Four of us and two dogs had just gotten back from a fantastic low tide walk down the beach and out to a little island and were feeling a beautiful day/good friends/summer vacation buzz. That buzz died pretty quickly when Kmoore turns to me and asks, 'Is Angus in the house?' I look around at the three other wagging tails and laugh nervously when I realize the furriest of the tails is indeed missing. With four dogs running around in a small space it's pretty easy to overlook one of them. She and I had both thought that Angus had been the first to enter the house. I guess not.
The four of us immediately began the search, with the other two girls at the cabin joining in. When it became apparent that he wasn't in the immediate vicinity, my heart sank. I checked the beach, I checked the island (where Angus had been especially enamored with a big dead fish), I checked the awkward outbuilding near the cabin. No luck. We split up, and I see Kmoore jog up the street with a very worried look on her face. The minutes tick by, and when I hear the others still calling for him from a distance, my heart sinks even further.
Where we were was pretty isolated, and no one in the neighborhood had seen him, which was odd. After another lap around the beach, I conclude that he has to be somewhere really stupid, where he either can't get out or can't hear us, and he can't be far.
Turns out he was in exactly such a place. Angus had wandered into landlord's house that was adjacent to our little cabin. He had been intrigued by the path up to that house all day, and must have dashed up to the house as we made our way back to the cabin. The door must have been left ajar, and Angus's curious nose had led him astray. One of the girls finally walked over to check the house on the off chance he was there, and she found the screen door open but the front door closed. Despite this, she let herself in, called for him, and around the corner trots Angus (eventually), absolutely covered in fleas from the infestation in this house, and totally unperturbed that he had caused us so much anxiety. Now he gets to sit outside, tied to a tree, to wait for his 'mommy' to come back.
Angus's little misadventure drove home for me just how attached we become to these fuzzy creatures, and how much we depend on their continued presence. More than we'd like to admit to ourselves sometimes, I think. They make us so vulnerable. One minute they're there, the next minute they're not and you feel your world and your happy weekend crashing down around you. Walking around with Myles during our search for Angus, I just stop and turn to him, look at him standing on the beach, looking back at me, and ask him worriedly, 'Where's Angus?' He looks at me and gives a little whine, knowing that something is wrong, but not knowing what. In the car ride on the way home I turn to my boyfriend and say 'If that was Myles, I would have been absolutely losing my mind'. I applaud Kmoore for keeping it so together while we were looking for her missing dog. I don't think I could have been that contained. Maybe she is just stronger than I am, because I know she is just as attached to her dog as I am to mine.
And of course when you find the dog, very much as you would with a child, you feel a wave of relief along with a surge of anger at them for running off, and you talk to them as if they can understand what you are feeling. Angus sat outside for a few minutes, tethered to a tree, and his relieved owner looks out the screen door and says to him, 'Yeah Angus, you feel sad huh? Well that's how I felt.' And she turns to me, joking, 'I don't think he's getting the message, do you?' Nope. He's not getting it, and of course she knows that. As much as we humanize our dogs, they don't understand how much their unexplained absence tears us in half.
From the moment we realized he was missing, terribly thoughts starting swirling through my head. He's hit by a car, laying on the side of the road; he fell off that slippery rock by the beach and hit his head; he swam out too far and couldn't make it back. I don't think it's just me that has these thoughts, but man, are they terrible. And I realize, oh God, Myles didn't even have his collar on because it was so wet from swimming. He had no ID if it had been him that wandered off. I envy those that can stay outwardly chipper and optimistic and stomp down the panic and keep it in a deep, inaccessible place.
When we had Angus back, everyone played it cool, acting like we hadn't just had a brush with a major crisis. Angus was back, that was all that mattered. All was right again. Hugs all around for the humans, and when I got back home that night, I hugged my dog extra hard, and remembered how fleeting and precious our time with our dogs really is.
His owner, who I shall call Kmoore, remained extremely calm and collected while we searched for him, shaking a bowl of kibble and calling his name. Four of us and two dogs had just gotten back from a fantastic low tide walk down the beach and out to a little island and were feeling a beautiful day/good friends/summer vacation buzz. That buzz died pretty quickly when Kmoore turns to me and asks, 'Is Angus in the house?' I look around at the three other wagging tails and laugh nervously when I realize the furriest of the tails is indeed missing. With four dogs running around in a small space it's pretty easy to overlook one of them. She and I had both thought that Angus had been the first to enter the house. I guess not.
The four of us immediately began the search, with the other two girls at the cabin joining in. When it became apparent that he wasn't in the immediate vicinity, my heart sank. I checked the beach, I checked the island (where Angus had been especially enamored with a big dead fish), I checked the awkward outbuilding near the cabin. No luck. We split up, and I see Kmoore jog up the street with a very worried look on her face. The minutes tick by, and when I hear the others still calling for him from a distance, my heart sinks even further.
 |
| Goose gone swimming, right before we lost him. |
Turns out he was in exactly such a place. Angus had wandered into landlord's house that was adjacent to our little cabin. He had been intrigued by the path up to that house all day, and must have dashed up to the house as we made our way back to the cabin. The door must have been left ajar, and Angus's curious nose had led him astray. One of the girls finally walked over to check the house on the off chance he was there, and she found the screen door open but the front door closed. Despite this, she let herself in, called for him, and around the corner trots Angus (eventually), absolutely covered in fleas from the infestation in this house, and totally unperturbed that he had caused us so much anxiety. Now he gets to sit outside, tied to a tree, to wait for his 'mommy' to come back.
Angus's little misadventure drove home for me just how attached we become to these fuzzy creatures, and how much we depend on their continued presence. More than we'd like to admit to ourselves sometimes, I think. They make us so vulnerable. One minute they're there, the next minute they're not and you feel your world and your happy weekend crashing down around you. Walking around with Myles during our search for Angus, I just stop and turn to him, look at him standing on the beach, looking back at me, and ask him worriedly, 'Where's Angus?' He looks at me and gives a little whine, knowing that something is wrong, but not knowing what. In the car ride on the way home I turn to my boyfriend and say 'If that was Myles, I would have been absolutely losing my mind'. I applaud Kmoore for keeping it so together while we were looking for her missing dog. I don't think I could have been that contained. Maybe she is just stronger than I am, because I know she is just as attached to her dog as I am to mine.
And of course when you find the dog, very much as you would with a child, you feel a wave of relief along with a surge of anger at them for running off, and you talk to them as if they can understand what you are feeling. Angus sat outside for a few minutes, tethered to a tree, and his relieved owner looks out the screen door and says to him, 'Yeah Angus, you feel sad huh? Well that's how I felt.' And she turns to me, joking, 'I don't think he's getting the message, do you?' Nope. He's not getting it, and of course she knows that. As much as we humanize our dogs, they don't understand how much their unexplained absence tears us in half.
From the moment we realized he was missing, terribly thoughts starting swirling through my head. He's hit by a car, laying on the side of the road; he fell off that slippery rock by the beach and hit his head; he swam out too far and couldn't make it back. I don't think it's just me that has these thoughts, but man, are they terrible. And I realize, oh God, Myles didn't even have his collar on because it was so wet from swimming. He had no ID if it had been him that wandered off. I envy those that can stay outwardly chipper and optimistic and stomp down the panic and keep it in a deep, inaccessible place.
 |
| We like happy endings. |
I have 'first post' writer's block...
First post on a blog about veterinary school... where to begin?
With two years at Tufts' Cummings School of Veterinary Medicine under my belt, so many stories come to mind I don't know what to share first. The funny? The disgusting? The horrifying? The enlightening? Perhaps a story that happened outside of school?
Maybe for this post I'll stick to what prompted me to create this little 'blog' in the first place. I've always loved to write, for my own enjoyment, and it's been a while since I've had the time. Or energy.
It's the beginning of July of my last summer vacation (ever) and am having so much fun not working and not studying that I'm having heart palpitations thinking about school starting up again in August. But this year, my third year, we will actually be learning how to be doctors. After two years of intense background knowledge, our third year will be crammed with medicine and surgery courses, our first surgical procedures, and more examinations than we can handle. It will be terrifying but fantastic at the same time. We complain about it, but we love it at the same time (at least I do!). That is all well and good, and we can talk more about that once school starts again (which will definitely be way too soon). In the mean time, you get to hear about my summer vacation and my dog. Hopefully it proves interesting, and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I have retained my writing skills somewhere deep in my reptile brain.
Wish me luck!
With two years at Tufts' Cummings School of Veterinary Medicine under my belt, so many stories come to mind I don't know what to share first. The funny? The disgusting? The horrifying? The enlightening? Perhaps a story that happened outside of school?
Maybe for this post I'll stick to what prompted me to create this little 'blog' in the first place. I've always loved to write, for my own enjoyment, and it's been a while since I've had the time. Or energy.
It's the beginning of July of my last summer vacation (ever) and am having so much fun not working and not studying that I'm having heart palpitations thinking about school starting up again in August. But this year, my third year, we will actually be learning how to be doctors. After two years of intense background knowledge, our third year will be crammed with medicine and surgery courses, our first surgical procedures, and more examinations than we can handle. It will be terrifying but fantastic at the same time. We complain about it, but we love it at the same time (at least I do!). That is all well and good, and we can talk more about that once school starts again (which will definitely be way too soon). In the mean time, you get to hear about my summer vacation and my dog. Hopefully it proves interesting, and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I have retained my writing skills somewhere deep in my reptile brain.
Wish me luck!
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