SciChronicles

Goat Friends and Gutted Plans

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This episode of SciChronicles, hosted by Risa Aria Schnebly, features the journeys of two scientists, Daniel Bisgrove and Sci-Chronicles co-host Kayla Burgher, who share how their careers aren't exactly what they had imagined.

Daniel Bisgrove, a Ph.D. Candidate in the Biology and Society program at Arizona State University, has always loved animals, especially goats. As a child, he aspired to be a vet, but he tells us of a shocking experience that made him rethink how he wants to work with animals. 

Kayla Burgher, a Ph.D. Candidate in the Environmental Life Sciences program at Arizona State University, tells us how the plans she put in place for her PhD haven't exactly gone to plan. Her research is unpredictable, and so is the world. But through her experiences studying sea turtles, she's learning to accept the uncertainty. 

P.S. The eclipse that Daniel mentions in his story occurred in April 2024.  

If you have not already, please consider subscribing so you do not miss future episodes. Also, be sure to check out ASU's Ask a Biologist and its companion podcast, as well.

If you are interested in crafting a story to share on SciChronicles, please fill out this interest form to learn more and connect with the hosts, Risa and Kayla.

Risa Aria Schnebly  0:16 
Welcome to SciChronicles. My name is Risa Aria Schnebly, and this is a podcast where scientists share stories about why they do science. From the outside, becoming a scientist might seem straightforward, right? You go to school for a long time, then start to work in a lab or the field, but as you listen to these stories from scientists at different stages of their careers, it becomes clear that pursuing this path is anything but straightforward, our storytellers reveal pivotal moments in their lives that change the course of their career. So whether you're considering pursuing science yourself or just curious about who scientists are, take a listen. You might be surprised by what you discovered.

Our first storyteller is Daniel Bisgrove, a PhD candidate in the Biology and Society program who studies the ethics, history and future of zoos. Everyone who knows Daniel knows he loves animals and has since he was a kid. His path to studying zoos, then might seem obvious, but there was one particular experience, you could say, a traumatic experience, that changed his course.

Daniel Bisgrove  1:22 
Did anyone watch the Eclipse this April? I did too, and it reminded me of the first time I saw one in 2017 sweat dripped down my back as I stared up at a solar eclipse in the skies of the New Orleans zoo, with eye protection. Of course, while the humidity wasn't my favorite part of my summer internship, I did enjoy hanging out with my coworkers, though they didn't seem to care much about the celestial dance happening above our heads. Murray was busy digesting his food and the now partially obscured son, his brother Ewok, was tenaciously rubbing his head into the radio on my hip, really trying to get a itch between his two horn nubs. Oh, yes, sorry. Ewok and Murray are goats. I probably should have mentioned that as I considered the aforementioned astronomical orbits, I reflected on how my trajectory had diverged from what I envisioned as a kid, whether it was catching plateau Fence lizards with my brother up on the Mogollon Rim or listening to our cat's heartbeat with a toy stethoscope. I, like every other kid who loves animals, was certain that I would grow up to be a veterinarian. I had read countless books regaling the stories of Small Town Country vets, a category of literature that may be unfamiliar to many. I knew exactly what the vet life was supposed to entail, a little farmhouse outside a quaint village in the British slash American countryside, where I would wait to spring into action when a local kid runs to my door with a sick dog in his arms. As an 11 year old with a deep understanding of the genre of country vet memoirs, you can imagine my excitement when my family went to visit my cousins at their beautiful property in Montana. It had everything I had read about, stunning vistas, small town, charm, but most importantly, goats, including two babies born the night before we arrived. Perhaps a bit rudely, I instantly abandoned my family to frolic with these goats for the whole week. It was there that I decided that these animals truly are the greatest of all time. A baby goat will play around like a dog, gallop like a pony, and stare into your soul like an octopus. I feel like I probably lost you on that last one, you see goats understand the value of eye contact, which is probably why they feature so prominently in some horror movies. And as I'm sure you're all aware, goats have rectangular pupils, which bear a striking resemblance to octopi eyes. But I digress. On the last day of our visit, my cousins needed to take the goats to a veterinarian, having only ever been to a small animal vet, at this point, I asked to tag along, excited to meet one of the local country vets that I had read so much about. Early that morning, we took these little goat angels to be disbudded, a procedure in which the vet removes the horn growth cells on the goat's head. This prevents the horns from growing so they don't accidentally get their head stuck in fences, or their horns impaled in their goat friends. As we finally arrived at the vet's place, it wasn't quite what I had expected. There was no quaint little half cottage, half clinic set up here, just a series of outdoor sheds and a dusty, covered paddock. We brought the goats over to one of the pens, where the vet sat on a stool next to his debudding tool, waiting for it to heat up. At this point, I started to worry. The vet scooped up one of the goats and tightly grasped the back of its skull with his gloved hand. Maybe this visit wasn't going to go quite the way I thought it was. The vet pressed down the hot iron on the little goat's head, and it screamed. Perhaps you, like me, only seconds before that moment, are unaware of what a goat scream sounds like. Funnily enough, it was never mentioned in the vet memoirs I'd read. Now you might expect a bubbly bleat or perhaps a deep guttural "bahhh." Let me put it this way, there is most certainly an etymological reason that we call both baby goats and young humans kids, but I'd suggest that it might be due to the fact that their screams sound the same. After 10 seconds of screaming, the kid emitted a few meek sounds before the vet moved the iron over to the second horn nup resuming the wailing and pungent smells of burnt flesh and hair tears streaming down my face, I rushed around the corner, unable to watch and unable to block out the bleating please, as the vet grabbed the second goat to repeat the process. This wasn't at all what I had read about as we drove home, all I could do was stare at the bloody rings on the goats sleeping heads. Their burns would heal, but my shattered dreams would not I wanted to help animals, and I couldn't imagine inflicting pain like that on them. I didn't know what else to be, if not a vet. It took a while, but I found an alternative path at zoos and aquariums, working with animals, including goats like my Eclipse oblivious pals, and teaching people about them. Today, I study how people think about their moral obligations to animals and nature and how visiting zoos might impact this sense of responsibility. Yet whenever I survey zoo visitors, my mind often drifts back to my younger days of goat frolicking. My time with these animals across the years has left an impact on my life, and while my days are now mostly goatless, at least, the only time I hear kids screaming is when a group of elementary schoolers spots a baby giraffe.

Risa Aria Schnebly  7:05 
Our next storyteller today comes from a familiar voice, my lovely co-host, Kayla Burgher. Today, Kayla takes the mic to tell a story about how coming into her PhD, she thought she had a perfect plan for her career, but her research isn't exactly predictable, and neither is the world. She's learned that science doesn't always go according to plan and how to be more adaptable in both science and life.

Kayla Burgher  7:41 
I was dangling over the side of a small fishing boat in Baja California, Mexico, scanning the water for any sign of a sea turtle. To help out with an ongoing population monitoring project. We had set nets to catch sea turtles in Magdalena Bay, a beautiful mangrove lagoon rich with sea grass, which is a green turtle's favorite food. The nets had been in the water the entire day, and we had nothing. I was going out on the boat for the last time to check the nets before we were just going to give up and pull them out of the water. As an undergrad at ASU, I never imagined that going to school in the desert I would be able to fulfill my childhood dream of being a marine scientist, but there I was on a study abroad in Mexico, the ocean and all its mysteries right at my fingertips. The fisher slowly maneuvered his boat along the net, occasionally pulling up mesh netting to check for turtles, but all he was pulling up was sea grass. We were almost at the end of the net and still nothing the fisher explained that when there's so much sea grass tangled in the nets, the turtles usually avoid getting captured because they can see the net better. I started to feel deflated. I had come all the way to Mexico to see my favorite animal, and it was looking like it wasn't going to happen. I sat back in defeat, but as soon as I did, I heard a loud splash, and the fisher exclaimed! My adrenaline spiked. Finally, I peered over the side of the boat to see a humongous green sea turtle suspended just beneath the surface. We sprung to action, untangling and hauling the turtle up and over the side of the boat. We looked ridiculous, a fisher and three undergrads, two of us quite small, trying to haul a record 350 pound male green sea turtle into this tiny little boat. I swear we almost tipped over in the process. Once the turtle was secured, I sat down in relief, and then the awe set in. Wow. There was a real sea turtle laying right next to me. His head was almost as big as my own, and his shell, dotted with barnacles, was so wide he hardly fit in the boat. As the fisher jetted across the lagoon back to the beach towards the rest of our class, the turtle took a deep, cavernous breath unlike anything I'd ever heard. It was magical, surreal, almost prehistoric. I gazed into the turtle's gleaming eyes, and in that moment, I knew I had to figure out some way to work with these creatures for the rest of my career. After returning to Arizona, I began working with the professor teaching the study abroad, Dr. Jesse Senko, and eventually applied and was accepted into a PhD program with him at Arizona State University. I was beyond excited I was going to make my dream a reality. Now I had to figure out how to succeed at grad school so I didn't waste my chance. The summer before my PhD began, my family and I spent a lot of time up at our cabin in northern Arizona, but while they were kicking their feet up and relaxing in the shade of the Ponderosa Pines, I locked myself inside the cabin to prepare so far, my long time plan to be a marine scientist was on track, but things were about to get real now it was Time to plan how to be a scientist. I read books about scientific writing and watched countless hours of productivity videos. I researched note taking and to do list apps and scoured the internet for advice from other PhD students. I meticulously planned out a system that would allow me to sail smoothly through my PhD. I would treat it like a job, go in nine to five daily, have scheduled writing time, balance all my other obligations, not work on weekends. This would be easy. I was sure of it. Once in my PhD, I began outlining my dissertation ambitiously, proposing five chapters to be completed on a strict timeline. I was eager, excited by the prospect of conducting what, in my opinion, was the coolest research ever. By the end of my first year, I already had the first chapter of my dissertation written, and my advisor and I were almost ready to submit it for publication. All I had to do beforehand was run it by our co author for approval, easy, but when I met with my co author over zoom to discuss the paper, he told me my analysis was too simplistic. We needed to go back to the drawing board and start over completely. I was crushed. You know that feeling when your heart just drops into your stomach? Holding back tears, it took all my willpower to resist turning off my camera or just flat out ending the meeting right then. I had poured my heart and soul into this paper, spending months analyzing data, writing and going back and forth with my advisor on revisions. I truly thought I had a finished product that my co author would be proud of but I had failed. This unexpected setback was going to throw off that strict timeline I'd planned for my dissertation. This could mean I'd have to do a whole other year of grad school, and surely my mentors would be disappointed in my slow progress. Now I wish I could tell you that redoing my paper was quick and easy, and that there were no more delays or detours with my research, but for all the fellow scientists listening, I assume you know that research is never that simple. I was only one year into my PhD. I hadn't even started my field work yet. But let me tell you, if anything will teach you that science is messy and doesn't always go according to plan. It's working in the field. Since there's no ocean or sea turtles in the Arizona desert, I spend my summers in North Carolina developing solutions to reduce sea turtle capture in fisheries. Every morning, I go out on a small boat with three other people to fish with these giant, clunky nets, often hauling sea turtles on board to tag and measure them. It can get pretty chaotic, and things are constantly going awry. I've had human sized calipers flung at my face, been stabbed by spiky fish and even spikier needles, and have endured my fair share of rainstorms. It seems like every day I get off the boat with sore muscles, bruises and scrapes, plus equipment is always breaking. The nets will snap in bad weather, sharks tear holes in the mesh to escape, and last year, half the experimental lights I needed for my research broke by the end of the field season. All these unforeseen challenges really took a toll on me. I was exhausted, mentally and physically. I was kind of a mess. But on one warm, humid field day, things were actually going right. We caught one of the largest Kemp's ridley turtles that we had ever caught in our nets. Unlike the dinner plate sized baby Kemp's we normally catch, this turtle was about the size of a large pizza box, big enough to come back with us to the lab for a satellite tag. After slathering epoxy on the turtle shell to attach the tag, I was put in charge of releasing the turtle. I was so honored. An endangered species was now my responsibility. My colleagues truly trusted me and thought of me as a real scientist, just like them. It was one of the first moments I had felt like all of my planning and effort was actually paying off. To release the turtle, I had to drive it 40 minutes away from where the holding tanks were. Mitch, a fellow sea turtle biologist who was tagging along to the release site, helped me find a large open transport bin and load the turtle into the back seat of my rental car. I got into the driver's seat, glanced back at this beautiful endangered creature, and we took off to the release site. As Mitch and I chatted about our research, our packages, and other nerdy PhD student stuff, the turtle noisily flapped around its bin. It was constantly banging its flippers against the plastic so vigorously that we had to shout over the slapping sounds coming from our passenger for a few minutes, we fell silent, taking in the beautiful North Carolina scenery - live oaks, pines and marshes filling our vision; the occasional Egret flying over the road on its way to its next seafood dinner. I was in my element. That is, until a horrid smell filled my nostrils. I glanced over at Mitch and thought, "Damn, did this guy let one rip or something?" After a minute, the smell got so bad I knew it could not have been produced by a living human. So I finally turned to Mitch and asked, "Do you smell that?" It was kind of hard not to. As it turns out, Mitch was not the source of the smell. It was our turtle friend. Not even halfway to the release site, the ridley had peed in the bin and was in the process of splashing it all over my rental car. I glanced back in horror, trying to keep my eyes on the road, watching this turtle fling this nasty pee all over the upholstery, the doors and even the ceiling of the car. The smell was making me nauseous, and I was starting to panic about having to pay for damage or cleaning of the rental car. I definitely had no plan for what to do when a turtle starts splattering piss all over your rental. But I was entrusted with releasing this turtle. This was my time to step up and be a scientist. I was committed to getting that turtle back in the ocean. So I kept driving my nose and car could deal with it. After we finally arrived at the release site and hauled the turtle bin down to the beach, I let out a huge sigh of both frustration and relief, but as I stared into the turtle's eyes, it's still frantically trying to escape the bin, that frustration melted, I began to reflect on my first interaction with that green sea turtle back in Mexico, and all that had happened since. Carrying this stinky pee-flinging turtle back to the ocean, I realized that I didn't really care that my car was a mess, or that I was a mess. Despite all the imperfections, hiccups and challenges that seeped into my plan for a so called perfect PhD, I was still making progress, learning, and living out my dream as a marine scientist. The process looked a little different from what I imagined, but I was learning to adapt to changes and roll with the punches that inevitably come with scientific work. Now in 2025, scientific funding and support are severely at risk under the current United States federal administration. I'm watching funding sources and career opportunities disappear overnight. More than ever, I'm feeling that all the research and career plans I've made are in jeopardy... and just as I was starting to get a handle on navigating the uncertainty in science. I don't know what jobs will be available to me after I graduate, or what the funding situation will look like. I don't know whether conservation and environmental research will continue to be supported by the federal government. And I gotta be honest, this is causing me a lot of stress and anxiety. It's really scary right now, but I'm trying my best not to freeze in fear, and instead, just keep pushing forward, planning what I can. I know I'll never fully be prepared to be a scientist. I'll never know exactly what's ahead. I can't plan for all life will throw at me. Everything can and will change, and I will have to be adaptable and willing to modify plans when needed. Science is messy, life is messy, and I'm learning to embrace the mess. I haven't fully accepted this, not even close, but that's okay. I feel grateful to have an amazing community of people around me for support, and hopefully I can pass on some of the lessons I've learned through all my experiences to others starting their scientific journeys. I'm learning to have faith that my passion and dedication can take me where I'm supposed to end up in life, even if the journey or destination isn't what I planned.

Risa Aria Schnebly 20:00  
Thanks for tuning in to SciChronicles. This podcast is recorded at Arizona State University, which sits on the ancestral homelands of the Akimel O’odham and Pee Posh peoples, without whose care in keeping we would not be here today. We would like to thank the School of Life Sciences, the Center for Biology and Society, and Ask a Biologist for helping us make these stories into a podcast. In case you're new to Ask a Biologist, it is an amazing website for all types of learners, young and young at heart. And best of all, it is free, including its companion podcast, which we recommend checking out. We'll make sure to put links to the website and podcasts in the episode notes. This podcast was developed by me, Risa Aria Schnebly and my co-host Kayla Burgher, we put a lot of effort into making this podcast. The two of us work with every storyteller to create and write each of the stories you hear. By the way, if you might be interested in telling a story for this podcast, please fill out the interest form linked in our show notes. Kayla and I also edit the audio ourselves, and I developed the original music that you hear between the stories. Thank you so much for listening, and if you have not already, please subscribe to this podcast so you don't miss future episodes.