A vet friend of mine called yesterday to bless me with a moment of career-loving madness. He was ten minutes into the recent film on Idi Amin and the doctor who elected to donate his services to an impoverished African village (The Last King of Scotland, in case you’re interested in a recommendable flick).

This vet specialist from New York had experienced an epiphany: the feelings that spawned the lead character’s impulsive foray into selfless medical service abroad were his selfsame reasons for endeavoring to enter vet medicine instead of human practice.

My city friend had been torn for a time as to what profession to enter. He’d taken considerable time off after accepting his liberal arts degree to consider his options carefully. Unlike most of us—who’d decided at an early age to embark on a vet-centric education—he’d not made up his mind, even after finishing college with a top-tier school’s blessing under his belt.

After a cross-continental trek to the Yucatan and back, he’d finally made up his mind: he’d apply to vet school for training as a vet oncologist. Human medicine had lost its allure, what with the managed care environment and seemingly commercial end-game. He wanted to help for the purpose of helping. He wanted to be useful without feeling used and without misusing others to facilitate his own personal goals, financial or otherwise.

What he explained was something of an epiphany for me, too. He pointed out the obvious: pets are not pleased to see you coming. They don’t want your help, much like the African babies in the movie didn’t want to be vaccinated or treated for malaria. They’d almost rather die than have you attend to their well-being or illness. Yet after being ministered to and well out of your sight, they’d live happy lives…once the memory of your care was far behind them.

It’s all too true. Pets aren’t usually happy to see us. They don’t relish our presence or our painful tactics. And we feel that innate reluctance, much as we hate to admit it. Not a day goes by—an hour, even—that we don’t say, “Now, why are you quivering like that?” Still, it’s not consciously depressing to us. We just want to help—in spite of our patients’ understandable reactions.

Pediatricians must get the same feeling, I’ll warrant. And some geriatricians, too, I suppose. Surely even all human docs—at one time or another. But it’s the will to cure, in spite of the relentless resistance we experience, that makes our role seem so inherently selfless at times.

Make no mistake, it’s hard to steel yourself against the constant onslaught of negative opinion—even if those sentiments emanate from non-humans. And I think vet specialists have it the worst. At least I have a personal relationship with my regular clients to revel in. Specialists have no such luxury; they live with the daily scrutiny of suspicious owners’ eyes, despite their best intentions and expert skills.

I’m proud to say my friend is a fellow vet professional. His insight into his own subconscious leanings on electing his profession makes me think twice about my own. And it’s always gratifying to know you’re not alone in how you feel—even when you don’t always have that enlightened moment at the ready to get you through your next hard day of stressed stares from shivering patients.