Editor’s note: This is the first of a two-part series focusing on a day in the life of a large-animal veterinarian’s practice in the tri-corner region.
STANFORDVILLE — To travel with Dr. Isaac Angell of Bentley Veterinary Practice for a day was to witness a veterinary practitioner completely enamored with his work, and deeply connected to the region where he does that work.
Bentley Veterinary is a large-animal practice that specializes in farm animals. Its patients tend to fall on the large, stinky and hard-working side of the domesticated animal kingdom rather than the small, fluffy and genteel side.
On a recent January morning as we wended our way through the misty, dramatic hills of eastern Dutchess County and Litchfield County in Angell’s mobile animal-care truck — equipped with ultrasound, an array of medications, and surgical capabilities — Angell took the time between our various stops to share reflections from a lifelong devotion to veterinary medicine.
“I have a deep excitement for what we do. A tremendous respect for the field of veterinary medicine, and for my fellow practitioners … I often say it’s the animals that get you in, and it’s the people that make you stay.”
A soft-spoken man, quick to smile and quicker still to shift the spotlight from himself, Angell reiterated throughout the day his desire for our time together to spotlight the whole of veterinary medicine rather than his work alone.
“I think about that quote from ‘The Boys in the Boat’: ‘You can’t just write about me, you gotta write about the boat!’ The whole picture, the difficult parts and the joyful parts, are what make the job what it is … Still, for me, being a vet has always been a passionate dream.”
An average day for Angell or the other three veterinarians at Bentley often includes three to four visits — on busy days, that looks more like six or seven. While that might sound manageable, Angell’s practice offers service to an area larger than some states, from Canaan, Connecticut, to Woodstock, New York, to Great Barrington, Massachusetts. Much of Angell’s day is spent on the road between properties.
The necessity for this kind of travel can be traced to decades-long changes to the social and economic geography of the region. In 1972, there were 275 working dairy farms in Dutchess County. In 2022, there were just 15. While dairy production in the region has steadily increased, belying an emphasis on industrial-scale dairy farming, the number of working farmers has dropped steeply off a cliff.
“Growing up, on my road alone there were 10-11 dairy farms. Now there’re none.”
Angell and his wife and five children are the fourth generation of Angells to live on his family’s property. While he loves to work with all the clients he provides service to, Angell admitted to a bit of a soft spot for those who make a living working with animals: the vocational farmers that have grown rarer and rarer in the region. Helping those folks when able keeps him connected to the culture and tradition he was raised in.
Our day’s journey very much emphasized those connections, and consisted of three farm visits and a few social calls.
Old goats, vaccine shots, and estate farming
Our first stop was at a beautiful estate farm in the Northeast Corner. Angell characterizes estate farms as those properties owned by wealthier folks with a large amount of land and a desire to use some of that land for small-scale farming. Often, these estates hire full-time workers to manage the land and care for the animals, and those workers frequently come from the pool of inter-generational farming families that used to operate farms of their own.
Two old goats, 15 years apiece, and three donkeys received Angell’s practiced care that day.
Aside from the unending stares, everybody behaved themselves — shots were administered with minimal kicking and teeth were checked without biting. In addition to providing medical services, Angell also gave the animals’ caregivers advice on what feed to use, how much to give, and even where to buy certain products at a reasonable price.
The conversation between Angell and the property managers was easy and familiar, and the importance of maintaining good relationships is an element to his work that Angell considers both crucial to his success and one of the major perks of the job.
“I was taught pretty early on the value of developing a rapport with a client. You can’t treat the animal without the client.”
Angell’s range of clients means he often has to meet folks where they’re at in terms of the relationship they have to their animals. In addition to vocational farms, Bentley Veterinary works with three main types of clients: rescues and sanctuaries, backyard or estate farms, and equine organizations. An animal sanctuary may have thousands to spend on animal care, and a mission-driven investment in pursuing involved treatments. At a vocational farm, the reality can come down to economics, and many farms don’t have the money to spare.
Accordingly, Angell tries to approach every client with empathy and an understanding of where their decisions might be coming from, whether it’s a deep attachment to an animal or, sometimes, the lack of it. Developing a relationship with the person behind the animal helps him understand those perspectives and offer the kind of care that will align with their needs.
This clueing-in to the emotional component of veterinary medicine is an element to the job that Angell considers vitally important as well as often underemphasized.
“Unless you let it affect you on an emotional level, you’re not doing it right. You’ve got to have some sleepless nights, worrying about a case, or you’re not going to push yourself to become better quite as hard.”
Our day required little by way of difficult decisions —and on the estate farm, it was as clear as day that the property managers cared deeply for the animals in their charge. They worried after the right balance of feed to avoid bloat, mused on the personalities of the donkeys, and remarked on some of the humorous side effects of their job.
“Working with animals, you get used to a whole bouquet of smells you never thought you’d get used to. Knowing, ‘Oh, that’s not right!’ when you catch a hoof smelling a particular way.”
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Izzy Fitch at Battle Hill Forge in Wassaic.
The giant metal mantis, built by artist Jim Hackett, is now part of a summer contest Fitch devised. He’ll strap it to the roof rack of his car and drive it around. When people spot it, they can take a photo, post it on social media and tag @battlehillforge, @lakevillejournal and @themillertonnews. At the end of the contest, names will be drawn at random and gift certificates to Battle Hill Forge will be awarded.
“It’s just for fun,” said Fitch, whose work often blurs the boundaries between art, utility and play. “Who couldn’t use more fun these days?”
Fitch moves through his sprawling workshop spaces like an enthusiastic museum guide leading visitors through a collection he forgot he owned. Every few steps, something catches his attention. A hand-forged daffodil. A dragonfly. A prototype trellis. A powder horn his great-grandfather taught him to make. A concrete toad inherited from his grandmother.
“Oh, this is cool,” he says, veering off course.
A few minutes later:
“Oh, I forgot to show you this.”
Then:
“You want to see something really cool?”
The tour never quite follows a straight line.
Neither does Fitch.
Long before Battle Hill Forge became known for custom gates, garden structures and sculpture found everywhere from private estates to major cultural institutions, Fitch was a child building armor for toy animals.
“I had a Black Panther that was this big and I armored it,” he says, holding his hands a few inches apart. “I made all my little people and creatures, and I armored them all up and I made all the weapons for them.”
Fitch’s father was a logger. Tools were plentiful. Toys were not.
“He wouldn’t buy us toys really, so we would have to make our own.”
The family business, if there was one, was making things.
Izzy FitchNatalia Zukerman
His great-grandfather was a master craftsman who made Windsor chairs in collaboration with his uncle, Bert Fitch. His father supplied the raw materials, Bert made the chairs, his great-grandfather carved the spindles. His relatives were renowned woodworkers. People would travel from far and wide to have his great grandfather make handles for them.
“I really learned a lot from spending time with my grandparents and my great-uncles,” he says.
Today, that inheritance is visible everywhere inside the forge.
Giant steel pumpkins wait beside elegant peony supports. Honeycomb sculptures support an endearing bee also made by Hackett. Giant orbs loom playfully. Metal mushrooms, used in classes Fitch teaches to children, line the windowsills.
Many are prototypes Some are commissions. Some exist simply because Fitch thought they might be fun to make.
“I just think of something cool,” he says. And then he makes it.
“Most of the metalworkers that I work with don’t want to talk to people,” he says. “They’re like, ‘Just tell us what you want. Give me the plans and I’ll make it.’”
Fitch is different. Part craftsman and part translator, he enjoys helping clients discover what they want before it exists.
Unless, of course, he’s distracted by a frog story.
The previous Battle Hill Forge location, in Millerton, included a small pond where Fitch often ate lunch.
“There was a dead mouse out there one time,” he recalls. “This frog was so clever. He would sit near the dead mouse and when flies came down, he would get a fly.”
He watched the frog for an entire lunch break.
The story arrived somewhere between explanations of Japanese patinas and custom railings.
It also explains a lot.Fitch notices everything: plants, insects, old tools, odd solutions, clever engineering tricks. His work is filled with observations gathered from gardens, forests, old European designs and conversations with other makers.
A peony support isn’t just a peony support. It’s an opportunity to improve something. A trellis isn’t just a trellis. Maybe it can come apart for shipping. Maybe it can help a plant grow differently. Maybe it can do something no one has considered before.
“I’m not really inventing anything new,” he says. “I just tweak it a little bit.”
After its beginning in Falls Village, moving to Millerton and eventually settling in Wassaic, Battle Hill Forge has become one of the region’s success stories. The shop is booked months in advance. Projects range from garden ornaments to monumental railings weighing hundreds of pounds. Designers seek him out. Gardeners collect his work.
Yet Fitch remains most animated when discussing collaboration.
The intern helping in the shop first met him as a student in one of his metalworking classes. Local glass artists add to his sculptures. Garden designers have helped refine his plant supports. For Burning Man this summer, he’s joining a team of fellow artists to build an installation featuring an oculus and a pair of metal sphinxes.
“We’ll have a little party,” he says.
The phrase could describe half the projects in the shop, especially the praying mantis. Technically, that sculpture belongs to Hackett.
“He makes all this cool stuff,” Fitch says. “I sell them for him because he’s one of those artists who doesn’t want to deal with the public.”
Fitch laughs.
“Which is totally smart.”
Outside, a dog wanders through the yard. A timber framer works next door. Metal rusts into beautiful shades of brown. New ideas wait in various stages of completion and there’s just a little magic around every corner.
To contact Battle Hill Forge, visit battlehillforge.com.
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