I never meant to watch All Creatures Great and Small.
Last fall, Iowa PBS reached out to the College of Veterinary Medicine at Iowa State looking for someone to speak after the Season 6 premiere at their headquarters in Des Moines. They wanted a veterinarian to reflect on James Herriot’s world and connect it to modern practice. I volunteered—not because I’d been watching the show, but because James Herriot meant something to me. The books were part of why I became a veterinarian in the first place.
Then I realized: I probably should actually watch the show before standing up to talk about it.
So I did what any reasonable person preparing for a speaking engagement would do. I binge-watched five straight seasons in a matter of weeks.
And somewhere between Darrowby and Des Moines, something unexpected happened. For the first time in nine years, I genuinely missed clinical practice.
The Homework That Became Personal
I thought I’d watch some charming British television, appreciate the nostalgia, prepare some remarks about how veterinary medicine has changed since the 1930s, and give a nice talk to a room full of PBS donors. What actually happened was something entirely different.
I watched James Herriot navigate the farms and families of the Yorkshire Dales, and I saw myself. Not the current version—the veterinary hospital administrator sitting in an office in Iowa. The version who spent fifteen years doing mixed animal practice in southern West Virginia, southern Ohio, and eastern Kentucky.
The guy in the truck at dawn with a veterinary student riding shotgun. The one who knew his clients by name, knew their families, knew which animals were named and which ones were numbered. The one who did surgery in barns with portable equipment and questionable lighting. The one who came home exhausted and covered in things better left unmentioned, but deeply satisfied.
I hadn’t thought about that version of myself in years. Not really. Not in the way where it sits in your chest and makes you ache. But watching the show, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
The Work I Loved
Those fifteen years in Appalachia were some of the best of my life. I really felt like I made a difference to everybody—not in some abstract way, but in ways I could see and feel every single day.
A dairy cow going down meant I was helping a family protect their livelihood. A horse with colic meant I was there for someone’s beloved companion. A dog hit by a car meant I was giving a family their best friend back. The work mattered in the most direct, immediate way possible.
I loved the surgery. I loved the problem-solving when the textbook answer wasn’t available or affordable. I loved the students who rode along and learned that real-world medicine requires equal parts knowledge, creativity, and heart.
But mostly, I loved the people. Rural folks have a way of trusting you that feels sacred. They’d call you out in the worst weather, apologize for bothering you, then hand you a jar of homemade jam on your way out. They’d ask your opinion on things that had nothing to do with veterinary medicine because you were their veterinarian, part of their community.
Even now, years after I left practice, clients still reach out to me on Facebook or through other channels to tell me how much they appreciated the work I did for them. Those messages hit different than any professional accomplishment I’ve had since.
Because they remind me: that work mattered. Not just to me. To them
The Talk
Standing in front of that packed theater in Des Moines, I looked out at a room full of PBS supporters—people who loved the show, who had their own veterinarians and their own stories. The only other veterinarian in the house was my dean.
I talked about the parallels between Herriot’s world and modern practice. The trust between veterinarian and client. The way animals connect us to people in profound ways. The satisfaction of showing up when it counts.
And I talked about what those fifteen years in Appalachia meant to me. The relationships. The trust. The feeling of being needed in a way that was immediate and real.
After I finished, people came up wanting to share stories about their own veterinarians. The one who came out in a blizzard. The one who cried with them when they said goodbye to their dog. The one who remembered their cat’s name five years later.
One woman grabbed my hand and said, “Our vet retired last year. We haven’t found anyone like him since. Watching the show makes me miss him.”
I understood exactly what she meant.
Why I’m Missing It Now
I left clinical practice nine years ago to go into academia. It was the right choice—I wanted to make a different kind of impact. I loved teaching, loved working with students, loved helping build the veterinary technology profession.
I don’t regret that choice. The work I’m doing now matters in important ways.
But watching that show—doing my “homework” for a speaking engagement—made me realize something: I miss the work. The real thing.
I miss being needed in that direct, immediate way. I miss the satisfaction of fixing something with your hands. I miss the trust of people who couldn’t have managed without you. I miss coming home exhausted but knowing you made a difference that day.
And I miss the version of myself who did that work.
What James Herriot Understood
The show captures something I’ve always known: Veterinary practice—real veterinary practice, the kind where you know your clients and they know you—isn’t just a job. It’s a relationship.
James Herriot understood that from the beginning. He stayed in Thirsk for nearly fifty years—practicing full-time until his sixties, then continuing part-time until he was seventy-three. He delivered calves in snowstorms. He fixed broken bones in drafty barns. He euthanized beloved pets while their owners wept. And he never left. He stayed because the work mattered in a way nothing else could.
Watching the show reminded me why I became a veterinarian in the first place. It wasn’t for the science, though the science matters. It wasn’t for the business, though the business matters too. It was for the work itself. The animals. The people. The satisfaction of showing up when it counts.
The Person I Was
I’m nine years removed from clinical practice now, doing work that matters in different ways. Most days, that feels right.
But sometimes—like when you binge-watch five seasons of a show about a rural veterinarian—you remember. You remember what it felt like to be needed. You remember the satisfaction of work that was hard and messy and exhausting and absolutely, undeniably meaningful.
You remember the version of yourself who did that work, and you realize: that guy is still part of who you are. Maybe the part you’re most proud of.
Those fifteen years in Appalachia shaped everything that came after. They taught me what it means to serve people, to earn trust, to show up when it matters. They gave me some of the best memories of my life.
And lately, thanks to a British television show about a 1930s Yorkshire vet, I’ve been missing them something fierce.
Maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s good to remember the work we loved, even when we’ve moved on to other things. Maybe it’s important to honor the version of ourselves who did that work and to acknowledge what it meant.
Because it did mean something. It meant everything.