Large Animal Vet Holds Her Own
As Laird Laurence and his generation of vets start to retire, it’s not clear who will replace them. New vets like Pilmer, willing and eager to take on the challenges of treating large animals, are increasingly rare. A new recruit, she’s already a dying breed.
Unfortunately for vet schools, it’s hard to find Pilmers. It takes such a specific personality to want hard, outdoor work in rural areas and not be too focused on making a high salary. Hoping to relieve at least the financial obstacles, the American Veterinary Medicine Association’s strategy to attract more people to the industry focuses on the cost of education. It’s hard to imagine, however, that the new USDA loan repayment program alone will be enough to revive the industry.
Back with Pilmer in Fredericksburg, the vet shortage is an unimaginable abstraction. Her enthusiasm for her work, despite all of the obstacles, is renewed with each newborn calf and each rancher’s firm handshake. And a year in, one of Pilmer’s small-town dreams of making friends with her clients is coming true. “Now, when I go to the grocery store or a restaurant in town, people come up to me and say, “Hi Doc.”
For now, Pilmer is living the life she imagined. Some day she’d like to buy her own practice, and if there is a boyfriend who can keep up with her, that would be nice too. Her one criterion is he not be afraid to work.
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Around 7 on an early spring evening, Pilmer was still at work. Back to her position behind the squeeze chute, she pulled a calf from an inky black heifer with troubled labor. Mama wasn’t acting like a mama — typical for first-timers — so Pilmer had Maddie lick the calf down to clear its nostrils before she placed it in a wheelbarrow to roll under her mother’s nose. The cow barely nodded her head down to the sticky midnight-black creature below, seeming more concerned about the confines of the chute than her maternal duties.
Finally, Pilmer carted the calf into a pen and had everyone stand back as she released the heifer, corralling her into the pen to join her baby. As the calf struggled to control her wobbly legs into a balanced stance, mama picked at the hay on the ground, indifferent.
By 8 p.m. the dusk turned the Hill Country landscape to deep shades of purple and maroon. A few pink clouds settled on the horizon above the freshly planted corn across the street from the Hill Country Veterinary Clinic in the calm after a rainy, chaotic day. Leaning against the bars of the pen, green overalls covered with blood, mucus, fur and cow dung, Pilmer watched the calf rooting unsuccessfully for the cow’s teats and quietly coaxed her on. It had been a long day on little sleep and too many calls, but Pilmer couldn’t walk away.
The reluctant cow and her determined calf were now barely visible. But if you looked closely, you could see a shock of blond hair pulled up in a bun, leaned in close, watching and waiting. “Come on, bubba,” Pilmer said to the calf, or maybe to herself, “keep on going.”