BigStock Over the past year, I’ve been trying to find a veterinarian willing to come to treat my goats. I’ve called several and left messages. Repeatedly. I’ve texted and emailed. Crickets. This is something I read a lot about on goat forums, but figured it happened simply because pet goat owners weren’t willing to pay much. Clearly, that’s not the case, seeing as I’ve explicitly offered a $250 extra “drive fee” to the veterinarians in question. None of whom ever called me back. Two goats living on an acre in suburban Miami don’t seem to be the kind of patients anyone wants. All of this whingeing comes by way of explaining why I started to make my career move early. Not that I ever set out to be a goat vet or to practice any kind of large animal medicine. I did, however, have a long-held interest in herd health economics (especially way back in vet school), and I’ve always wanted to turn my tiny homestead dairy into a legitimate “micro” operation. For the longest time, I’ve wanted to do this but never thought I’d get the chance. Now that I’ve sold my practice and finally paid off my student loans, I figure, why not secure some USDA funding and take on more debt? “Why not?” is a very good question I have lots of answers to. Because when you’ve only raised half a dozen healthy goats that happen to have kidded perfectly and lived on a lush property with very few environmental pressures (except for one sand impaction) … you really don’t know very much. What’s worse, I’m a big believer in the common evil that afflicts newbies of all kinds: You don’t know what you just don’t know. As Mark Twain apparently said, “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.” In other words, I probably have just enough experience to crush my next veterinary venture—and not in a good way. My only saving grace is I’m scared enough to understand the risks (especially after watching one semi-local herd get decimated by hurricanes and parasites). Which is why I’ve been studying up, doing farm call ride-alongs, and seeking good counsel from people who know way more than I do about goat medicine. As with running a practice, it’s not just about the medicine, though. I’ve also had to study up on property easements, USDA loans, solar energy funding, Virginia permits for food sales, regenerative farming principles, tax incentives, organic farming regs, pasture seeding options, forestry management, silvopasture, tractor models, and the list goes on. All of this and I’ve barely scratched the surface on the actual goat-ness of it all. Now, in case anyone thought I would think it prudent to start a goat dairy in Miami, where I currently live, you’d be wrong. This is not a farm-to-table kind of place where I’d be able to turn a profit selling specialty goat milk products. What’s more, all my buckling meat would end up going halal or to Jamaican restaurants through questionable processors for pennies on the dollar. No way. Plus, the cost of land and the risks of bad weather (not to mention the lack of vet care) make this place very caprine unfriendly. Not surprisingly, I’ve elected to buy some farmland out of state, very far from the hurricanes I’m desperately averse to (live through one bad one and you’ll know why). Instead, I bought a spot with about 50 acres of pasture and over 100 acres of forest, only 15 minutes from Charlottesville, Va. Now the math works. With access to a thriving farmer’s market circuit and a farm-to-table restaurant culture just begging for organic dairy products and goat meat, this is where I should be. But it’s a huge change. As anyone who’s ever decided on a major intra-professional career move more than 10 years into their tenure as a veterinarian knows, this is never undertaken lightly. Learning the ins and outs of a new species is daunting. The way I see it, though, is twofold: one, I’ll still practice small animal relief work one or two days a week (while the dairy is still small); two, I’ll have time to learn on the job while continuing my ride-alongs with the small ruminant repro people in the area. In fact, this won’t be half as bad as being thrown into the fire the way our recent grads are. Plus, if I could do it back then, I can certainly do it now. Well … except I’m way older, and my computer is no longer quite as fresh as it once was (which is the only nice way of putting it). A career move that effectively forces you to start over may sound like a stupid thing to do when you’re over 50, but here’s the thing: I’m annoyed by the small animal veterinary industry dynamics (and after 31 years, I’m kind of bored, too, if I’m being honest.). I’m not sick of my career, just of my little slot in the industry machinery. Goats are awesome, and I want to learn a new veterinary skill set. Entrepreneurship is still thrilling to me, and I’m excited about starting another veterinary-oriented venture, albeit one inherently less profitable (I have no illusions). I still want to live (more or less) in the style to which I’ve become accustomed (especially if it means swapping out my Tesla for a Lightning), so I want my acres to pay for themselves. Regenerative farming is the future, and I want to be a part of it. I don’t want to be that person who sells their practice (or otherwise retires) and effectively dies of not having enough stuff to get out of bed for. Here’s another way to think about it: If learning a new language is supposed to be good for the aging brain, then making a downward career move into another sector you know nothing about is probably kind of comparable. Hopefully, this means I’ll be dying in my boots and coveralls, which is something I absolutely aspire to. I’m fairly sure I’m not alone in my aspirations and willingness to switch horses mid-stream, as it were, but I don’t often hear about it. Is it possible we don’t tell one another about our lateral moves or (in my case) downward trajectories? Maybe we don’t do it often enough. Sure, most of us have too many student loans to consider it, but wouldn’t it be better to wait longer to pay off our loans and live less stressful lives? I’ve been thinking a lot about this recently. Why did it take me so long to move on when it was obvious I was getting burned out practicing small animal medicine? Why didn’t I make this move five years ago, when I probably should have? The truth is, when we’re in the thick of it, toiling deep in the trenches as we typically are, the fog of war has a way of overwhelming everything in our path. It’s hard to see our lives clearly. So, here’s where I’ll offer some final advice on the subject: Find a way to get out of your world for a couple of weeks. (It might sound impossible, but I promise you it’s not.) Take the time to assess your career so you can make smarter, saner decisions. Think about it this way: If you’re feeling really burned out at work, it might just be the thing that saves your career … or even your life.
