Tilt!

 

Tilt!
by Dave Wright, DVM

Although some may dispute this claim, I don’t think I was ever as heartless as my predecessor.

Our senior partner viewed the collection of overdue accounts as an opportunity for emotional catharsis. He would review the books at the end of the year, look at the list of accounts receivable, stew about all the time and expense he had invested in the service to those on the list, and proclaim his first New Year’s resolution: “It’s time to collect these damn overdue accounts!”

What better time than New Year’s Day to embark on his resolution? Having been on call for the holiday weekend, Stan left his family at home and settled into his swivel chair at the veterinary clinic. He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. Perfect. Every person on this list will be at home nursing a hangover and will be waiting for the afternoon football game to begin. Time to start dialing.

Stan also stalked the hangouts of his worst offenders. A new pickup truck belonging to one of our chronic deadbeats sat in the parking lot of a bar and restaurant where Stan stopped to have lunch. Its mere presence riled him. Why can this guy afford a new pickup, but he can’t afford to pay his vet bill?  Not bothering to remove his coveralls—coveralls that carried the ripe odor of a rank barnyard, Stan entered the restaurant and took a seat at a table within sight of the pinball machine. He allowed his prey to slip his quarters into the machine, then approached the brightly lit table as if he were a curious by-stander. The guy claimed to be a Pinball Wizard. He wondered if it was true. The Wizard pushed the button for a new ball. It dropped into the slot. He pulled the spring to the exact tension. Release. The ball careened from one bumper to the next, racking up point after point. As the ball finished its tour of the table, a buzzer rang out and lights flashed. TILT! GAME OVER.

The Wizard looked at the by-stander in surprise. The bells and whistles had begun to attract attention from the bar. Would Dr. Passive Aggressive have the nerve to repeat this most flagrant example of pinball misconduct? Surely not. The Wizard dumped another four quarters into the machine. One ball finished the course, then a second. The points multiplied. Close to a free game. TILT! GAME OVER. Now that Stan had The Wizard’s full attention, he suggested in a voice loud enough to be heard from the bar, “How about taking care of that overdue veterinary bill rather than invest another buck in a game that’s sure to be rigged against you?”

As a new partner in the business, I was more concerned than Stan was about the amount of income that lingered on our books. Having recently assumed a buy-in payment and a new home mortgage, I was deep in debt. When I offered to help with the accounts, he smiled, tipped his head, looked over the top of his bifocals revealing a freshly mown crew cut, and said, “I know an account you can start with.” He dug through his drawer and squinted at a list. He shook his head and grumbled, “Oak Street. Humph!” He handed me the paper. “Collect this account, and you’ve got the job.”

Eileen Brokenliester. Overdue more than 90 days. Original bill: $15 for vaccinating a cat. Current balance: $20. (A dollar a month service fee.) Only twenty bucks. Should be no problem.

The mail having proved itself ineffective, I went directly to the phone. No answer at noon. No answer at five p.m. The next day I tried again at nine a.m. A woman with a smoker’s voice answered. As soon as I identified myself, the phone clicked dead. I tried again. No answer. It’s not the amount; it’s the principle of the thing. Time for a personal visit. I knew she was at home, so I paid a visit to Oak Street. I parked in the street next to a run-down trailer house. Its grassless lawn was littered with ornaments: a bicycle on its side, two bent-up tricycles, and a wagon that had once been red. A snotty-nosed child peered out of one window. I stepped onto the wooden steps and knocked at the door. The child in the window disappeared behind a flutter of beige curtains. The house went silent. No doorbell. I knocked again. More silence.

It’s not the amount; it’s the principle of the thing. Should I pick up a tricycle and hold it hostage until the ransom has been paid? A flash of moral reckoning: I’m not as heartless as my predecessor. Poor woman. Last thing she needs is someone harassing her for twenty bucks. Just write it off.

I got the job anyway.

“But how do we prevent this from happening again?” I asked myself. Our books might be full of sad stories like Eileen’s. Do they deserve credit—particularly after having proven to us that they have no intention of paying? That’s not much different than theft, is it?

Our client files fit nicely into the 80/20 rule: 80% of them responded to our monthly statements and paid promptly. Of the remaining 20%, fifteen percent were simply late payers. Their response to an overdue notification was a cliché: “The check’s in the mail.” Often it was.

That left the remaining five percent, the bad actors—the professional deadbeats. These people, I found out, made a career out of slipping from the grasp of the most hardened collectors. It had no bearing on wealth. My worst fear was driving through a stone archway on my way to a pristine stable surrounded by miles of white fence, only to receive a message from a stable manager without a checkbook: “The owner says money is no object.” The unspoken subtext was, “He or she doesn’t intend to pay anyway.”

A solution? Stop the hemorrhage. Apply first aid. Identify the bad actors early so they wouldn’t keep racking up bills over and over again.

We were not the only clinic with collection problems. I attended a local veterinary association meeting where the problem was being discussed. One of the competing veterinarians in our area—a single practitioner—was aghast when he heard that many veterinary clinics struggled with excessive overdue accounts. “What? You mean, if someone doesn’t pay, you go back to the farm again?”

But we, like most of my colleagues, offered a longer leash to our clients. Let out enough leash, but not so much it would jerk free and be gone forever.

As I settled into my new role as chief collector for the clinic, I decided that rather than ruin every day thinking about the problem, I would only pound my thumb with a hammer one afternoon a month.

My physician at the time was a stoic fellow with a deadpan bedside manner. “How much alcohol do you use?” he asked at my annual physical.

“Oh, maybe one glass of wine a day—but none when I’m on call…Now that I think of it, maybe sometimes two a day…except on weekends with friends, or when I’m hosting relatives, then a few more.” No response from the good doctor. He kept his head down and jotted on his notepad.

“Do you get any regular aerobic activity—anything to get your heart beating faster?”

“I go through the accounts receivable once a month,” I replied quickly.

A grin flickered crossed his face.

The day I dedicated to thumb bashing and aerobic activity was the 28^th of the month—one day before statements went out. My bookkeeper handed me a list of our accounts receivable. I ignored the accounts that were current, but focused on those overdue 30, 60, 90, and over-90 days. My plan was to apply gradual pressure to these accounts, beginning with a polite reminder, progressing to more aggressive wording, then flagging the account as “cash-only,” and finally issuing an ultimatum in the form of a certified letter threatening to send the account to a collection agency.

The problem was that I was a member of a partnership. We managed by consensus, and I was naïve enough to believe that a shrug of a shoulder or a lack of dissent from my partners constituted an affirmation of my plan.

Several months into the plan, I was cruising through the accounts on the 28^th. Paid. Paid in full. Marvelous. Progress. “Wait! What’s this?” I hollered to an empty office. “Who charged to this cash-only account again? It had a zero balance two months ago, and now it’s got a new balance that’s overdue. What the…?”

I tracked down the culprit and delivered a scathing lecture—my version of the Sermon on the Mount: Blessed are those who collect at the time of service. “Service is never more valuable than the moment it is offered,” I explained in my most patient voice. “Write up the bill. Hand it to the client and say, ‘The total is $_____.’ The next person to speak loses.”

Of course, I was not immune to ignoring my own reprimand. After receiving a late-night call from a client with a “Wanted” poster hanging in my office, I reminded him that I would need payment for the service that night.

“Okay,” he mumbled, and I climbed out of bed to attend the call.

I completed the call, sat in the truck to write up the bill, and handed it to the client. The client looked at the bill and said, “Checkbook’s in the house.” Then he shuffled slowly across the muddy yard and disappeared into the house. I waited five minutes, then ten. I started the truck to take off the night chill. Fifteen minutes. The lights in the house flicked off.

The next time I see that SOB’s truck in the restaurant parking lot, I’ll tilt his pinball table right off the floor!

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