Angela hasn’t eaten chicken in the seven years since she fell in love with Tyson and Leonardo.

One glance will tell you that Tyson is the strong, silent type, and he stands patient and still as a stalk on a windless day as he waits for Dr. Kelly to walk through the door. Not to be outdone in politeness, Leonardo, with legs rather elegantly akimbo, sprawls delicately on Angela’s lap in Barred Rock rooster style. Everyone who meets the pair remarks that they are the most socially graceful birds they’ve ever set eyes upon and, if you’ve spent some time with chickens, you’ll agree.

“I don’t have children, and these are my babies,” Angela says, in flawless English packaged in a thick Latina’s accent, as she gently strokes Leonardo’s back. He’s visibly panting, which is why he’s here at Ventura’s Bristol Animal Hospital. He’s been having trouble breathing, while Tyson has a sore on his chest that’s stubbornly refusing to heal.

As she waits with the two silent roosters — Leonardo standing motionless like the weathervanes so commonly fashioned in his likeness — Angela relates the story of how, when Leonardo was little more than a chick, she played surrogate hen by carrying him in her shirt for four full months. What’s more, she recognizes the meanings behind 20 of the sounds emitted from the roosters’ little beaks, and regularly vacuums their little bodies free of mites — an activity in which they revel.

In a few minutes, Dr. Kelly’s on his way back into the exam room, where Tyson — so named because he once took a nibble on someone’s ear — is still standing on the steel examination table and Leonardo is still reclining on Angela’s lap.

It’s just another day in the life at the animal hospital, where one never knows what to expect.

Doc Kelly

Michael R. Kelly is a veterinarian, but this, as it turns out, is his second life.

In his first life, the one he lived before becoming Ventura’s own version of Dr. Doolittle, Kelly was a builder on the brink of retirement, a man with a wife but no kids and the promise of many an afternoon spent on the green.

But this afternoon, instead of perfecting his swing, he’s treating a fairly amiable — I say ‘fairly’ because the little snapper has had a habit in the past of, well, snapping — dog with a torn dewclaw. The little white dog looks no worse for the wear, but is clearly annoyed by the length of yellow bandage tied snuggly around one paw. Kelly’s life is no putting green.

“I went to school in my 40s, so it was like a calling,” explains the 53-year-old Kelly, in a tone so relaxed that it’s hard not to chill out by just listening to it. “I’ve always loved animals and had lots of animals, and been connected to the animal kingdom.”

And so, at the age of 41, Kelly enrolled at the University of California, Davis, where he studied veterinary medicine alongside fellow students nearly half his age. “It was hard,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I was always a good student, but it was a big change because all of your classmates are very young and you’re not part of their culture.”

Kelly sits his exceedingly tall frame down in an exam room and rests his hands on the steel examination table. Behind him is a trendy, miniature print of three paintings of cats decorated with French phrases.

Kelly laughs easily and can converse about every topic under the sun. With his graying beard and kind eyes, it’s easy to believe that he could be a counselor or a basketball coach as easily as he could be your friendly neighborhood vet. “Veterinary medicine is a fear-based program,” he laughingly says, sans ego, of his years at Davis, where he studied a ton of “ologies” — like radiology, cardiology, pharmacology and the like. “You learn from the fear of flunking out.”

The oldest of seven kids and previously from Camarillo, Kelly graduated from Adolfo Camarillo High School in 1970, earned a bachelor’s degree in biology from California Polytechnic University, San Luis Obispo, and eventually settled in Carmel, where he met his wife of 22 years. The move to veterinary medicine wasn’t the only major change in Kelly’s life. He and his wife, a former stockbroker, are now parents to daughter Kaitlyn, 10, and son Trevor, 7.

“I was used to being comfortable and in a position of culture,” Kelly says. “I went from a life in Carmel playing golf to a life of raising kids and working on animals … It’s idealistic. A lot of people think I’m crazy for giving up my golf game.”

Greetings

Margie Wilkins’ smile is the first thing the clinic’s roughly 5,000 clients see when they walk through the doors of the hospital, which is bigger than it looks from outside the odd little strip mall where it sits.

Like Kelly, Wilkins is easy to talk to and it’s not a stretch of the imagination to believe she has a calming affect on clientele and their four-legged counterparts. Then again, Wilkins, who has been a receptionist at the hospital for about a year, is no stranger to veterinary medicine. “I was a tech for a while, but you get older and you can’t lift as much — so I decided to go up front.”

The differences are obvious. “Before, I’d see Fluffy come in — and now I know what Fluffy’s owner looks like,” she says. “You deal with the clients more and we try to present the client’s point of view to the doctor, too.”

The fringe of wheat-colored hair framing Wilkins’ face sways a little as she speaks and her eyes crinkle around the edges as she grins. This, she says, is where she wants to be, so veterinary medicine is more or less her calling, too. Wilkins was a veterinary technician at a different hospital for 12 years before taking a hiatus to “sit in an office” at a steel and aluminum foundry — a job that she just couldn’t put her heart into.

“It’s very challenging,” Wilkins says of her job. “Every day, it’s totally different and you feel like you’re really doing something. Even if you have an older dog to put to sleep, you just help the clients get through it — and the next day a new puppy comes in.”

The rough times usually arrive in the form of financial trouble, when clients who would otherwise have animals treated are forced to make tough decisions to avoid breaking the bank. “Everyone here loves animals to death, but there is a side to it that’s a business.”

Wilkins is a Washington state native with two grown sons, ages 23 and 26, and a 2-year-old granddaughter. Though she says she wasn’t necessarily looking for another veterinary job, she “ended up here,” and here is a place she likes. “I really like Dr. Kelly,” she says. “He’s polite and upbeat, and he says great things about his staff.”

What’s more, Wilkins says, Kelly and his eight-member team are planning to start hanging out together on Wednesday nights, when they’ll hit the bowling alley or roller skate. “We’ve got to get along,” she says. “We spend more time together than we do with anyone else so, in a way, it is a family.”

Doc Moon

Wilkins is doling out some handy flea-killing advice to a tall man with a shaved head when veterinarian Rachel Moon, a lanky young lady in a white lab coat, strolls into the waiting room.

Moon explains to another client that his dog’s come down with a nasty ear infection. “The ears were quite sore, but we were able to get most of the debris out,” says the 32-year-old Moon, a noticeable trace of Southern lilt in her voice.

Moon, who was raised in Santa Paula, was a vet tech at the hospital before Dr. Kelly became its owner, when it still belonged to Harris Tate. “It’s really neat because I do know a lot of the clients,” she says. “A lot of the animals are older now, but I know the clients.”

Moon attended St. George’s University, in Grenada, and Auburn University, in Alabama, where she graduated in 2003. She also spent some time in Texas and her husband’s from the South, which more or less explains her gentle drawl. “I’m one of those people who, ever since I can remember, always wanted to be a vet,” she says, settling onto a stool in a common area behind the examination rooms. On the radio piping in from above, Fiona Apple sings about being a bad, bad girl.

Moon, who works part time at the hospital, joined the staff almost a year ago. Her husband is also a veterinarian and works nearby at a local emergency clinic. Their flexible schedules allow at least one of them to be with their son, 18-month-old Noah, almost all the time.

Growing up, Moon rode horses and raised sheep for 4-H. Becoming a veterinarian was simply a natural progression for Moon, who says the job entails performing more of a balancing act than she had expected. “It’s definitely about treating animals, but the interaction with the human clients is more of an aspect than I anticipated,” she says. “Matching the medical needs of the patient with the emotional needs of the people can be a challenge that requires communication.”

It’s difficult, Moon says, to see clients who aren’t able to provide medical care for pets to the extent that they would prefer. “It’s hard on a lot of owners,” says Moon, who adds that medical insurance for pets isn’t a great financial burden if the insurance is purchased when pets are young and healthy. It isn’t surprising, then, to learn that Moon’s favorite parts of the job are preventive maintenance and client education.

“I definitely enjoy doing preventative care on puppies and kitties and seeing the healthy animals,” she says. “I like being able to do some client education — and I can be a little long-winded in the exam rooms, which drives some people crazy because we get behind. I hate when you go to the doctor and they write you a prescription, and you really don’t know what’s going on or why they chose that medication.”

A few feet from Moon, an older gentleman in overalls is repairing the clinic’s eye wash station in trade for veterinary services. “It’s a really good environment here,” Moon says with a grin, “and the staff is really stable.”

Not surprisingly, euthanasia is one of the job’s tougher aspects. “In some respects, it’s a privilege in our profession to end suffering.”

No matter what, Moon says, the objective is to “offer people the best.” “You want to be opinionated to the fact that one thing’s best, but your job isn’t to guilt people into anything or make them feel badly about anything. We always get the question, ‘If it was your dog, what would you do?’ ”

Moon believes that humans and our relationships with pets have changed over the years, primarily for the better. “I think pets are part of the family,” she says. “They sleep in people’s beds now and they’re more like surrogate children than they used to be.”

Jack of all trades

For Aron Oppliger, hospital manager, the business of treating animals has been all about learning on the spot — sink or swim.

Twenty-five-year-old Oppliger, who’s worked as manager for the past three years, was originally hired by former hospital owner Tate. “He said, ‘I’m selling this practice and I don’t know if you’re going to have a job. The guy who just came in — Dr. Kelly — is buying this place. Good luck,’ ” Oppliger says with a laugh and a shrug.

It turned out to be good luck after all. “He kept all of us who worked here,” Oppliger says. “It’s completely different medicine — and I’ve learned a lot more with Dr. Kelly.”

Though he hasn’t attended schooling for veterinary medicine, Oppliger is a valued employee who’s learned on the job. His job description includes the ordering of supplies, managing staff, meeting with sales reps, placing IV catheters, monitoring anesthesia, drawing blood, performing injections, doing urinalysis, running blood work and generally keeping the place running like a well-oiled machine.

“I’ll be in medicine all my life, whether it’s human medicine or animal medicine,” says Oppliger, who adds that the time and financial investment of medical school are two major factors keeping him from studying human medicine. And then there’s Calen, Oppliger’s 2-year-old daughter, a little girl who’s already fascinated by her father’s profession.

“She thinks my job is awesome,” Oppliger says, in his relaxed, even tone. “We could drive past this street and she starts talking about Daddy’s work — and Pinky, the hospital cat. Pinky’s been here longer than anybody.”

Oppliger, who was working at Green Thumb before he was hired at the hospital, also works at a nearby emergency clinic and particularly enjoys emergency medicine. “I like it when we have emergencies that come in and it goes well,” he says. “It’s great to see clients so happy to get their animals back.”

Whether Oppliger goes on to become a doctor or remains at Bristol for a long and distinguished career, he seems satisfied for the time being with things as they are. “When I go somewhere and someone asks what I do, it’s not a short conversation — no matter how short I try to keep it,” he says.

Oppliger’s also pretty pleased with Kelly. “He’s one of the best bosses I’ve ever had,” he says. You can almost hear the “Aw, shucks” rumbling from Kelly’s mouth somewhere in the distance. “He understands that people have lives, and there aren’t too many things that you can’t come to him about.”

The man who talks to animals

Kelly may as well live at a petting zoo. There are a horse, donkeys, goats, pigeons, dogs, cats, guinea pigs, turtles, tortoises, fish, rabbits and chickens at his rural home in Camarillo. At the clinic, he treats plenty of dogs and cats, but also sees his share of representatives from the slightly more exotic side of the animal kingdom — like Leonardo and Tyson, for instance.

“I do like the emotional reward of working with the animals — and we’re helping people, too,” he says. Kelly purchased the hospital from Tate in 2001, after which he expanded the premises, hired some new staff and increased some of the on-site services.

One doesn’t need to spend much time with Kelly to learn that, while he may be a businessman, he’s also a bit of a philosophical idealist.

Here are a few Kelly gems guaranteed to ensure you leave his clinic with a smile on your lips: “Money doesn’t buy happiness. That’s true for me,” “Life is what you make of it and we have lots of opportunities in America to be what we want to be,” “You have to be happy with yourself and the world you live in — and you can’t focus on the downside of the human condition,” “This isn’t a high-paying job, but we’re here because we care,” “You always have to do the best you can. Give it 110 percent.”

“I tell myself I’ve got to give it my best shot,” he says, before returning to Tyson and Leonardo, “and that’s what I tell the staff. Just do your best and I’ll always be proud of you.”