If you are like most farriers after a hard day's work, you might be winding down at a restaurant, a birthday party. your teen-age girls’ softball game or attending a school meeting. And that’s when someone walks up and asks you for free foot-care or veterinary advice.

You hate to be rude, but he or she needs to understand that your 10-hour day is complete and that you don’t want to have a 12-minute or longer conversation about their problem horse, farrier and veterinary prices or listen to them bash others in the equine industry. Or get your opinion on whether their horse needs an aluminum heart bar on that bothersome right front leg as suggested by their shoer.

Unfortunately, most farriers have plenty of experience dealing with these time-consuming situations. And as you know, there is no easy way to handle these unpleasant situations. You  don’t want to offend prospective clients or those in the equine community who might bad-mouth you to others.

Head Out of Town

A few years ago I asked an equine veterinarian who practices in a large equine area how often he eats at one of the state’s most famous restaurants located in the town where he lives. It’s a great place where I’ve personally enjoyed the food and atmosphere .

His answer surprised me: “I never eat there!”

His reasoning: “Sure it is a great place for my wife and I to enjoy great food, but if we go there I can expect to spend an hour or more talking about problem horses with others in the equine community who happen to be dining there that night. It’s simply better for the two of us to drive 15-20 miles away for a meal and not be disturbed.”

How to Handle

A recent article in DVM 360 magazine discusses this uncomfortable situation as seen by veterinarians. Written by veterinarian Adam Christman, the magazine’s chief veterinary officer, the article points out it’s a problem whether vets are dealing with horses, cows, hogs, dogs, cats, birds and other animals.

I’d be interested in learning how you deal with these after-hour concerns. Pease send your thoughts to me at lessitef@lessitermedia.com and I’ll share them with other farriers.

In the meantime, here is the article Christman wrote in the August/September 2026 DVM 360 issue.

"I'm Off the Clock"

Boundaries, barbecues, and being a veterinarian in public. 

By Adam Christman, RVM, Chief Veterinary Officer, DVM 360 Magazine

The lemonade glass was sweating in my hand, and the burgers were nearly done when it happened. A person I knew from childhood backed me against the cooler at a barbecue and started in.

Her dog’s breath was terrible, so her vet had quoted her the cost of a dental visit, and could I believe what they wanted to charge? Was that normal? Why are we so expensive and overpriced? Why can’t I just clean her dog’s teeth at her house? Did her dog really need blood work first? And what did I think about that lump on his side, and was grain-free food actually bad. And on it went.

I stood there for an hour, nodding, holding a hot dog I never got to eat, doing a free consult next to a citronella candle. And I zoned out.

If you’re a veterinarian, you already know this scenario, because you’ve lived your own version of it. The wedding reception. The person next to you on the plane. The kids’ soccer game. The group chat at 11 p.m. with a photo of something I’d rather not diagnose between bites.

I want to say something I’ve never quite let myself say out loud: It’s OK to put the hot dog down and set a boundary.

Here’s why it’s so hard for us. We didn’t fall into this work; we clawed our way into it. We love animals, we love the people who love them, and somewhere along the line, that love got quietly rewritten into an obligation to be available always, everywhere, for free. Everybody has a pet, everybody adores their pet, and everybody has an opinion about what we charge.

The part that actually stings was listening to what my friend was really saying that night. She was scared—scared of a number, scared she couldn’t do right by a dog she loves—and in me, she found a veterinarian she could vent to with no bill at the end. The barbecue conversation was never about her dog’s tarter; it was about money, fear, convenience, and a profession the public increasingly sees through the lens of an invoice.

That’s a real and tender thing. The cost of care is genuinely keeping people up at night. I have enormous compassion for that. But I have to be honest about something: I can’t fix it standing next to the potato salad, and every time I try, I make it a little worse. I never want to get between my colleague and their client, who happens to be standing next to me while I’m enjoying my Capri-Sun.

When I give the free hallway read, I reinforce the very idea that’s hurting us—that what we know is worth nothing, on tap, no appointment required. I’m also quietly robbing my friend of the help she actually needs: her own veterinarian, her dog’s record, an exam, and a real plan with real options. My guess over a paper plate isn’t generosity; it’s the worst version of medicine, served with a side of coleslaw.

So, how do we set the boundary without turning into the cold, aloof doctor nobody wants to sit next to? The same way we do everything well—with warmth.

I’ve started saying, honestly and kindly, “Oh, that sounds so frustrating. The best person for this is your own vet. I’d hate to guess wrong without seeing him.” When someone pushes, a little humor goes a long way. I have a strict no-rectums-at-the-grill policy, and I’m happy to enforce it. 

When the conversation turns to cost, I’ve learned not to defend the whole profession’s pricing over a plate of baked beans. I acknowledge the feeling (“I know, it adds up, and that’s stressful”), steer them back to their clinic for payment options and a real conversation about what’s necessary, and then I change the subject to anything else on Earth. The weather. TV shows. The burgers. Their kids’ travel soccer schedule.

None of this is unkind. It’s the opposite. Protecting your evening is how you protect your career. Showing people that veterinarians are people who clock out and who eat the hot dog while it’s still warm, may be one of the healthiest things we can do for a profession that loses too many of its own to exhaustion.

I keep thinking about why this matters now. We talk constantly about burnout, about boundaries with clients inside the building, about the pace that never lets up. But we rarely name the quieter erosion, such as the way the job follows us out the door, into the weekend, and into the very places that are supposed to refill us. In the soccer stands. On vacation. At your own doctor’s visit. You can’t pour from an empty bowl, and you certainly can’t refill it if every cookout is just an unbilled second shift.

So, I’ll keep going to the barbecues. I love that people trust us enough to ask; that trust is a gift, and I never want to lose it. But I’ve made my peace with a sentence I wish someone had handed me 15 years ago: “Let’s not talk shop tonight. Text your vet on Monday, and come grab a burger with me.”

Loving this work and protecting your life away from it were never conflicting concepts. They’re the only way to do this for 30 years, instead of far less. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my hot dog is getting cold.