The Reinvention of Dr. Joe Jesse Owens, III: How One Veterinarian Is Rewriting the Rules of Animal Care

The fluorescent lights of a Las Vegas emergency clinic are unforgiving at 3 AM. Dr. Joe Jesse Owens knew this better than most—nights spent stabilizing critical patients, navigating distraught pet owners, and making split-second decisions that meant life or death. But on this particular night, as he watched yet another diabetic cat turn away from its prescription food, something clicked. Not just as a clinician, but as an inventor. That moment would eventually lead him to Steve Harvey’s stage with a prototype that could change how pets eat—and redefine his entire career.

A Legacy in the Making

Growing up as the son of a Tuskegee veterinary pioneer—his mother, Dr. Sharon Owens, broke barriers as a USDA inspector in the 1980s—Joe Jesse Owens III was raised on equal parts discipline and possibility. "Dinner conversations revolved around animal physiology and social responsibility," he recalls. At Tuskegee University, where both parents had studied, he didn’t just follow in their footsteps; he carved his own path, serving as Mr. Tuskegee and student body president while eyeing a future in public health.

Then, a professor’s offhand question—"You’re not curious about clinical work?"—sent him to a Las Vegas externship. The glitz of the Strip paled next to the adrenaline of emergency medicine. "I fell in love with the chaos," he admits. Within four years of graduation, he’d co-founded three thriving practices across the city, treating everything from Chihuahuas with chocolate toxicity to Great Danes with bloat.

The Birth of an Inventor

Clinical practice exposed a recurring frustration: pets refusing therapeutic diets. "Owners would spend hundreds on specialty food, only to watch it sit untouched," Dr. Owens explains. Traditional solutions—syringe feeding or appetite stimulants—felt archaic. Drawing on his dual loves of animal behavior and engineering, he sketched a bowl with a raised center ridge to mimic natural foraging motions.

The gamble paid off. On Steve Harvey’s Funderdome, his pitch for Enjoy-A-Bowl® won $50,000 in seed funding. Today, the patented design is used in homes and veterinary hospitals nationwide, helping pets with everything from kidney disease to post-surgical recovery. "It’s not about the bowl," he clarifies. "It’s about giving animals agency in their own healing."

The Hard Truths of Modern Veterinary Medicine

Ask Dr. Owens about the state of the profession, and his usual charisma gives way to sobering analysis. He speaks of new graduates "chasing corporate signing bonuses without surgical confidence," of clients shocked when a dental cleaning requires anesthesia and radiographs, of colleagues burning out after years of being vilified for costs they don’t control.

"The pandemic pet boom exposed our cracks," he reflects. "We have an entire generation of animals whose preventative care lapsed because exhausted vets stopped having tough conversations." His solution? A return to mentorship—the kind he received at Tuskegee—paired with disruptive innovation. After selling his clinics in 2022, he’s focused on developing telehealth tools to bridge gaps in care access.

The Man Behind the White Coat

In a profession grappling with suicide rates four times the national average, Dr. Owens is vocal about self-care. Twice-monthly therapy sessions and deep-tissue massages are non-negotiables. So is lifting weights at 5 AM, a ritual he credits with "processing the emotional residue of euthanasias and abuse cases."

Then there’s the skydiving. He leapt from a plane at 14,000 feet days before signing the papers for his first clinic. "Freefall strips away illusions of control," he muses. "Just like veterinary medicine—you prepare relentlessly, then trust your training when the chute opens."

What’s Next?

Between raising two toddlers and expanding Enjoy-A-Bowl® into international markets, Dr. Owens is plotting his next act: a venture combining his clinical expertise with his knack for business disruption. "The industry needs fewer Band-Aids and more paradigm shifts," he says.

One thing’s certain—whether in the OR or the boardroom, he’ll keep betting on himself. After all, as any Las Vegas native knows: the house doesn’t always win. Sometimes, the visionary does.