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Life With Clients

A Vet’s Guide to a Better Life For Your Cat

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You have decided to adopt an adorable spawn from hell otherwise known as a cat (I kid!). Cats are amazing, but also very complicated. Many people obtain cats through friends or rescues, but may not truly know what goes into cat ownership.

As veterinarians, we often only see cats for end-of-life care. Many times we don’t get to guide owners regarding behavior, vaccinations, abnormal habits, etc. It’s tough to see an animal that could have been helped sooner, but the owners were unaware of the options. If you are thinking of adopting, know someone who is adopting, already have a cat, and are concerned about its quality of life, or just want to learn something new then this article might be for you.

Cats are not small dogs. Let’s say it again – cats are not small dogs. Once people realize this it makes it easier to acknowledge their differences and what goes into cat ownership. If treated like a dog, you might have some behavioral issues to deal with or even miss out on the subtle way cats show you they aren’t feeling well. While a dog can easily miss a meal and recover quickly, one missed meal for a cat can mean a variety of things and needs to be acknowledged in a timely manner. While dogs crave attention from their owners, cats can be more independent and need more space to do their own thing – think hiding spaces and cat trees. Dogs enjoy walks outside and sniffing new things while cats… well, sometimes they enjoy that too.

The first few months of a kitten’s life are an ideal time to bond with you and with the veterinary clinic of your choice. Many people skip this step entirely and wait until they can take their kitten to a spay/neuter clinic to have them altered and a rabies vaccine is given. Although this is a great option for people who cannot afford regular care, it doesn’t help much with socialization and fears that can become ingrained at an early age.

We typically like to see kittens for the first time at eight weeks of age to start on vaccinations, deworming, and general socialization. For the next couple of months, the kittens will come in for visits to get used to being in a carrier, being around other people, and will be monitored for health issues. This is also the perfect time for us veterinarians to discuss the lifestyle you plan on giving your new kitten – outdoor, mixed, or indoor only. Many people do not realize that even indoor cats are at high risk for fleas, mosquitoes, flies, and roaches, which can carry some nasty diseases.

If you plan on obtaining a kitten or cat, identification is a good idea. Many owners do not realize that their little bundles of joy can escape and more than 90-percent of cats in the U.S. do not have identification whether it be a collar or ID chip. Starting early it is always a good idea to get a kitten or cat used to a collar and making sure it is a safe quick-release collar is key. If your cat or kitten will not accept a collar then permanent ID chips can be done during spay/neuter. That way if they get lost it is easy to ID them. Even if you plan on keeping your cat indoors they might have other plans and go rogue so make sure there is an easy way to identify them if they get lost.

More than half of shelter-surrendered cats are surrendered because owners’ expectations do not line up with how the cat is acting. Owners think that cats are being spiteful when they urinate on their bed when in reality it might be a behavioral issue or medical problem. Many times these cats do not get spayed/neutered at the appropriate time and can start having aggression issues or urination issues. The more cats you put into a household the more it can create a hostile environment that may also start to create more issues at home.

If you have multiple cats, but only one litterbox you are setting yourself up for frustration. The usual rule is one litterbox per cat, plus an additional litterbox. If your litterboxes are in places your cats do not like going into or are guarded by the other animals in the house then your cats may start peeing or pooping in inappropriate areas. Also, think about your older cats – do they have to go down into the basement to use a litterbox? If so they might have a hard time due to arthritic issues.

I am often brought cats for euthanasia where the owners state, “she just got sick for the last month and it’s not fair for her to live anymore.” While this statement may be true and I don’t want to see animals suffer, the first part is avoidable. Half of the issue is veterinarians can sometimes blow off how important healthcare is to cat owners – it isn’t that we don’t care, but a lot of owners aren’t as receptive to it since it’s “just a cat.”

We as veterinarians need to be better at explaining how important yearly checkups are for your feline friends. But the other half is your responsibility to get your friend to the clinic when it is sick. There are many “dying” cats that could be saved if they were brought in for regular checkups. We don’t want to just see you for end-of-life care. We want to help you, and your cat, have the best life experience possible.

Cats can be complicated creatures but are overall rewarding to own. If you take the appropriate steps many abnormalities or issues can be avoided. If you have a cat or are thinking of getting one, make sure you have a veterinarian you know and trust to discuss cat ownership. Your vet can help you make sure you are providing the best care available so your little feisty devil can give you years of joy. And don’t forget, the stupidest questions are the ones that are never asked, and we always welcome educating owners on their pet care needs.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of the DrAndyRoark.com editorial team.

What Running and an Old Cat Carrier Taught Me About Life

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James was my heart kitty. He was like a little person. He had stress-induced asthma and I used to sing to him (“Sweet Baby James”) in the car – when we drove cross-country from California, where he was born in an old church, or when I had to take him to the emergency clinic in the middle of the night to get him on oxygen. He saw me through five moves, my vet school graduation, my bad-idea boyfriends and my marriage. He knew the ins and outs of my moods and never loved me any less for one second, even when I got a dog.

 

 
An Old, Loved Carrier

 
Through all of this, there were few constants other than love, his affinity for chewing around the edges of plastic shower curtains, and… the cat carriers. Green plastic, the kind that open at the top as well as the front, but the handles cut into your hand when the rubber grips wear off. They sat in the study at my Dad’s house in Maryland, the living room in my one-bedroom apartment in Ithaca, my townhouse in Syracuse, and in the “cat rooms” at our houses in Pennsylvania. No matter where we lived, there they were, with old hairy towels at the bottom in any room where my cats liked to hang out. They used them as beds, they played footsie through them, and they left snack crumbs in them. Sometimes, they had to go to the clinic in them, but by then the cats and the carriers were old friends.

 

In the winter of 2015, James went into heart failure. He spent four days at the ER and came home to me for one night, held together by a whole bunch of medication and my desperate hope. I got up the next morning and found him gasping for air, unable to eat, looking at me with liquid eyes that asked for peace. He was in his carrier, sitting on his old hairy towel. I closed the door, put on my coat, and sang his song to him all the way back to the ER for the last time.

 

We hear it all the time: we live in the age of instant gratification. We have access to more information than we could ever hope to need about any subject we could possibly think up. We have drive-through coffee and order-ahead food apps and movie streaming and digital books and online bill-pay. We can renew our auto registration or pay the mortgage on the day they’re due. Somehow, even though we can get so many things done instantly, we have less time than ever before. And this makes the truth hard to swallow: in this era where you can have no cash on you and use an app to find a ride from a stranger in five minutes or less on Saturday night in a major city, some of the best things in life still take time – sometimes a LOT of time.

 

I schlepped those cat carriers across the country and up and down the East Coast, and I rarely cleaned them out because my cats loved the smelly old towels and were suspicious of new ones. They looked terrible and they weren’t even comfortable to carry. But knowing I didn’t have to stuff my terrified, gravely ill, once-in-a-lifetime kitty in a box he hated on the last day of his life? That was priceless. It literally took years and it was worth it.
 

The Long Game in Life

 
Bill Dellinger said, “Good things come slow, especially in distance running.” He might as well have said, “… in crate training,” “… in medicine,” or “… in relationships.” I heard a podcast a while back where two running coaches were discussing what kinds of clients they like to take on. They said the biggest thing for them that determined whether a runner would be successful was whether the person was looking for rapid progress or in it for the long game. A runner who entered the program knowing they would be working hard for 18 months or more before really expecting to try to achieve a big goal was already demonstrating the keys to most great things in life – dedication and patience.

 

But we don’t admit this enough. When we start a new job, we feel like we have to gel with the team immediately. We might feel lonely because no one really knows who we are, and it feels like they never will. Even if we left a job we knew wasn’t the right fit anymore, we think nostalgically about our former coworkers who really “got us,” forgetting that they had the benefit of many hours spent together in the trenches.
 

Clients Forget This Too

 
When we meet a client, there’s instant pressure to show them we are the best they’ve ever met and to convince them we know the right way for them to spend their money and emotional energy to keep their pet healthy. When we take on a project such as implementing the Fear Free initiative at our practice or trying to get clients and staff to embrace our message and culture, we are looking for immediate improvements in patient care, client perception and education, and staff happiness. These goals simply aren’t realistic, and yet we are surprised every day when we appear to fail.

 

I talk to clients every day about getting cats used to carriers, about conditioning their dogs to love the car, about the lifelong struggle that is allergic skin disease, and about planning ahead for things like flea season, emergency surgery, chronic disease, and possible weight gain after spay or neuter. I wonder if I often avoid direct references to the passage of time. People don’t seem to want to hear about that.

 

They want to know whether they will see relief for their pet in 24 to 48 hours, not hear that they will need to do a 12 week food trial with an elimination diet to try to avoid years of unnecessary medication. They want a guarantee of excellent behavior after one session with a trainer, not a link to videos about how to train your dog to allow his nails to be trimmed using positive reinforcement and about a metric ton of patience. And we can’t blame them at all, because this is what we want too. We just know better when it comes to our area of expertise.

 

Next time you feel the urge to roll your eyes as a client asks, “Why does her ear infection keep coming back? We can’t keep spending all this money for you not to fix it,” remember that client probably has 20 apps on her phone that let her get groceries ordered, bills paid, and trips scheduled faster than it takes you to figure out how to put a cat carrier back together.  Maybe, without condescension, find gentle words to remind her that anything really meaningful – like a pain-free, comfortable life for the Cockapoo whom she loves like a child – is worth the time and effort it takes to get it done right.

 

In the one-click age of Amazon Prime, sometimes the most revolutionary thing we can do is play the long game.

 

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of the DrAndyRoark.com editorial team.

Dr. Katie BerlinAbout the Author

Dr. Katie Berlin is a small animal general practitioner in Mechanicsburg, PA. She is also a reader, a rider, a runner, a lifter, a teacher, and an art lover. She graduated from Williams College in 2000 with a degree in Art History and worked in art museums before going back to school and earning her DVM from Cornell in 2009. She is an avid supporter of Fear Free practice and the battle against compassion fatigue in the veterinary profession.

My Greatest Service Was Sending You Away

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When we met, you were dying. Not in the existential ‘a little every day’ or a slow fade of light, but in the ‘Poo is hitting the fan, move. Now.’ kind of way.

I quickly went to work. Your eyes were screaming for help, and you let us. Thank you for letting us, I know it was scary.

I was able to find out what wasn’t going on: you weren’t bleeding out, your heart wasn’t failing. You were, I would later learn, crashing in septic shock.

Then I met your dad. His eyes were screaming even louder than yours. I ran him through everything I knew, and what I felt to be true. That elbow, the shock, a chance.

I saw my technicians getting your catheter in over your dad’s shoulder while I talked. One of them made eye contact with me, a silent conversation between us about what you needed, she nodded, and pushed two bags, steady, and calm. My other technician kept his hands on you the whole time. He talked you through the plan I was discussing with your dad, and what was going to be asked of you.

I had minutes to convince your dad to trust me, and then to take you and run. What you needed, I couldn’t give. I wasn’t sure anyone could in that moment, and I told him that.  You deserved a chance.

A friend came at that moment, listened, and took the helm. She said to load both of you in her car, she was driving, she would pay, they could be at the ICU in under an hour if they left now, you deserved the chance.

You spent the next week in the ICU. My whole clinic read your SOAPs every day. Dad started a crowd funding page and the whole town chipped in. You kept going.

It would be months of recovery. Anonymous donations kept showing up on your account. You were in our clinic every other day. Your dad would talk to every person that was in the lobby about how I saved you.

It’s hard for me to own that. I sent you down the road, your dad was really doing the work with your oral meds, my technicians were doing laser on you.

Maybe there’s a lesson about knowing when we can’t help. My skills didn’t save you, my treatments bought you the hour you needed to go somewhere else. My greatest service was sending you away. You deserved to be saved and I couldn’t do it.

A few weeks ago your dad came in with wrapped presents. One for each person in the clinic. Thank you, each of you. Paw print charms, some on necklaces, some on earrings, a bracelet. Every single person put one on. Not because we all have the same taste, far from it, but because every single person cares about you.

I wear one on a necklace with one other charm, the ashes of my own dog. I couldn’t save him.  But every time I see the charm on someone else, I’m reminded that we can win, and I want them to see that in me. I want every animal to listen to that silent conversation we had when I first looked in your screaming eyes, “I’m here to help”.  I wear it to remind myself every time I look in the mirror, “This is why I practice”.

When we enter medicine we know, at some level, that we will never fully win. The greatest doctors of all time have never kept a patient alive forever. But we keep showing up, not to win the war, but to fight for ever small victory.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of the DrAndyRoark.com editorial team.

About the Author

Dr. Hammond is a graduate of Ross University. She practices integrated small animal medicine in Gloucester, MA. When she’s not in the clinic she spends time traveling with her husband, on the ocean, or getting lost in the woods with her dogs.

When Relinquishment Punishes Everyone

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It happened again. A family could not afford the care of their pet and the veterinarian offered relinquishment instead of having to euthanize the animal. It should be a feel-good story. It should make you say, “Wow that veterinarian is so nice to do that for that animal instead of euthanizing.” But instead, people get angry. People start harassing the veterinarian. People start spreading misinformation. And then the family gets their pet back at no charge because the public has made a spectacle of it all and forced the veterinarian to work for free.

Misinformation continues to fuel these situations.  I’ve written about this before. People get wrapped up in the title and read very little details regarding the situation and then just click that share button. And then it’s shared… and shared… and shared.  Suddenly we are dealing with a misinformation mess.  Let’s go over what really happens in these situations to try to get some facts straight before this trend continues.

In most of these stories, a pet is brought in for a major issue such as parvovirus or a surgical issue or even just a really sick dog or cat.  Typically the owners cannot afford treatment, even the bare bones estimates. The veterinarian sees this sweet animal suffering and usually has to bring up euthanasia as a treatment option but doesn’t like discussing that when the animal could be saved. So we discuss relinquishment.

Relinquishment means that we will take on the cost of the treatment but the animal now belongs to the clinic. Here is where the story always takes a turn.  The owners will always ask if they can have the animal back once it is better or sometimes will harass the clinic for updates on who is the new owner so they can guilt those people into giving the animal back. Or sometimes you see social media get involved and random people will scream at the clinic saying “If you are doing the work for free why not just give the animal back to the owner.” So let’s discuss those misconceptions.

No, the owners cannot have the animal back once the clinic has saved it unless they come up with the money to pay for treatment. Unfortunately, animal clinics are businesses and we need payment to keep afloat. If we gave back every animal that was relinquished without payment we would no longer be in service.  This also creates a vicious cycle because now those owners think any time their pet is in trouble they can get work done “for free.”

That brings up the second part. We are not doing the work for free. We still have to pay for those medications, anesthesia, and time that had been put into saving the animal.  Several animals that I have saved due to relinquishment or abandonment were charged to my account and I happily paid them since I became the new owner of said animal.  None of the work is for free. Now maybe the clinic will discount some of the services or write them off but that doesn’t mean that any random pet owner should be able to cheat the system and not have to pay.

Relinquishment doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Sometimes animals get into situations that clients cannot afford.  If a veterinarian offers relinquishment that means that they care enough to try to give the animal a chance. But if the public continues to act like veterinarians are just money-hungry people wanting to take everyone’s dogs for profit then a lot fewer veterinarians will be willing to allow relinquishment which means a lot more unnecessary euthanasia.

You don’t have to be rich to own an animal but you do need to take responsibility for that animal. Relinquishing an animal is the responsible route to take if you cannot afford treatment.  You are allowing that pet to live another day. We need to stop punishing both the owners and the veterinarians in these situations. We all want to help the suffering animal and that should be the endgame.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of the DrAndyRoark.com editorial team.

5 Lessons I Learned From Losing My Own Pet

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I’ve been working in the veterinary field since I was 15 years old. I witnessed my first euthanasia just two hours into the job.  It struck me in that moment, even at my tender age, that this would be the most important aspect of my job.  And it is.  Saving lives is wonderfully satisfying, and new puppy kisses are amazing, but helping a pet transition through this world is a sacred thing.

I’ve cried alongside pet parents, I’ve laughed at their funny stories, I’ve stood solemnly in the corner out of the way, and I’ve been thankful I was able to lighten the burden of their loss, even if just a little. But despite the countless euthanasias I’ve witnessed and performed, I was ill-prepared for the death of my own pet.

Your first dog as an adult holds a special place in your heart. Mine certainly did.  Countless moves, different jobs, different countries, new partners and friends – you flounder through life and they’re with you through it all – your beacon in the storm.

At the age of 16, when renal disease progressed past being manageable my first love my Border Collie, Brae, told me it was time for him to go.  I listened.  I had countless people supporting me, many words of wisdom, words I’ve even said myself.  I had the comfort and support of compassionate family, understanding co-workers and loving friends.  Brae left this world surrounded by friends and family under a huge walnut tree on a warm summer day, blanketed in the serenity of our farm.  It couldn’t have been more perfect.

But what happens then?

Sometimes the best decisions you will make will also be the hardest.

To say I was devastated by his loss would be a gross understatement.  I couldn’t go to work for a week.  Please note I said couldn’t.  I physically couldn’t face those new puppies, aging seniors or worst of all, pets on the same road he had been on. I was a mess.  Although I wasn’t depressed, I was deeply, deeply sad.

Even though I’m not an overly emotional person, the smallest thing would cause rivers of tears.  I was fine one moment, and a pile of bawling, snotting jelly the next.  I found myself frequently wondering how people get through this.  I’d helped people with the process of euthanasia countless times, but the “what now” was uncharted territory.

The world around me was continuing to move, but I had ground to a stop.  I bounced back and forth on whether I had made the right decision for him.  What if I had waited one more day?  What if we had tried something else?   I’ve told countless clients over the years that your companion animals tell you when it’s time, and he did.  I knew I had made the right decision for him, but that didn’t stop my mind from exploring the possibilities I knew didn’t exist.

Grief is intensely personal.

It took just about two months for me to get my sadness and secret sob-fests under control, crying in the shower is strangely cathartic.  That’s not to say I was “over it”, not by a long shot.  About six months after Brae had passed, a medication he had been on came up in an exam room and the doctor I was working with asked me what his dose was.

I had to excuse myself and go dab my eyes in the bathroom.  How could I be so broken?  How could the mere mention of a Zyrtec dose send me spiraling?

Animals, especially dogs and cats, hold such privileged positions in our households.  They’re privy to every aspect of our lives.  They’re there when you wake up, there when you go to bed, there for every highlight, and every sad time.  They have become our constant cheerleaders, our furry therapists.  There is nothing as therapeutic as crying or smiling into a furry neck.  Studies have shown that for many people the loss of a companion animal often takes a greater emotional toll than the loss of a human family member.

My dogs are so much more than companion animals, they’re like a piece of me, and I know I’m not alone in this thinking.  Losing one is like losing a limb.

I had a distinct moment of clarity when a friend (who is now an ex-friend) said to me, “It’s been six months, you need to get over this, he was just a dog.”  Harsher words have never been spoken, at least not to me.  But this lead me to think, when will I get over this?  Will I ever?  And he was so much more than just a dog.

Your timeline is yours alone.

It’s been five years since I said goodbye to my boy, and I think I may have the answer as to when my grief will end.  Never.  I will never get over his loss.  True, I don’t openly weep each day, but I do still choke up and get misty-eyed when I think of him, or speak about him sometimes.  I’m fairly certain that’s just my new normal, and that’s okay too.  It’s no longer a place of deep sorrow, but of quiet smiling introspective and a kind of happy wistfulness.  I’ll be honest while writing this I pulled out some photos of him and had a little weep, and it’s been five years.  YEARS.

Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.

His collar still hangs on my car’s rear-view mirror, and his spark will be forever engrained in my heart.  With distance, I’m able to focus more on the good times we had, the happy memories, instead of fixating on his loss – and that’s a gift, but it’s also taken time, more than I ever thought it would.

I look back at him now more often with smiles than tears, and his legacy of love lives on in my other dogs.  They will never be him, but I love them just a fiercely, all three in very different ways.  I’m also able to enjoy each day with my dogs now, instead of focusing on the “what ifs”.  As Brae aged, I spent a lot of time wondering about the future, and mourning him before he was even gone.  He taught me just to live in the now, to enjoy each day, and not worry about the future.

They say there’s never a love quite like your first love, and I guess that’s true, but that doesn’t mean love doesn’t go on.  It does, taking paths you didn’t know existed.

I’ve learned along the way that grief is a deeply personal thing.  There is no timeline.  There are no right answers.  Dogs are such amazing gifts, such unfiltered, unbiased, pure joy.  To me, they are love embodied, like tiny points of light. If someone tells you they don’t understand because “it’s just a dog”, please feel free to tell them, from me, that they can’t possibly understand because “they’re just a human.”

My life is so enriched by my three dogs, and the animals I get to interact with each day in my occupation.  Sure, it would hurt less to not endure the losses, but my life would be so hollow without them in it. 

Losing love is hard.  So is allowing yourself to find it again. 

A lot of my struggle with Brae’s loss was trying to justify my feelings to the world, if only from inside my head.  I know now that I didn’t have to. My loss and my reaction to it were mine alone, they were separate from my husband, my family, and each person I have helped walked down this road.

Some people just won’t understand the pain of your loss, and that’s fine too. Just know that there are people out there who understand.  We get it, even if no one else does.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kimberley Beldam-Saylor is a veterinary technician and lifelong equestrian.  Kimberley is the Technical Director at Shiloh Veterinary Hospital, a two practice, nine doctor hospital in York, PA and Dover, PA.  Originally from Kingston, Ontario, Kimberley now lives in Dover PA with her three dogs (Border collies Vimy and Wynn and Aussie Cross Jelly), and her three Cheval Canadians, Patriote, Xcellence and Wish.  A previous FEI level dressage rider/trainer Kimberley now competes in the fast-growing sport of Mounted Archery.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of the DrAndyRoark.com editorial team.

That One Time You Needed Me and I Wasn’t There

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Remember that time that you needed me to help out you and your pet and I didn’t do it? I remember that too. I think about it from time to time, and not just when I see you on the street or I’m looking at reviews on Yelp.

I think about it whenever I feel that dark urge to find something to beat myself up about. I remember it when I’m tired and things aren’t going well and I decide to really punish myself by mentally reviewing all the times I just couldn’t pull out a win.

You were really upset. You said if I cared about pets, I’d keep the clinic open late and I wouldn’t charge so much money. I did everything I could to get the care your pet needed as affordably as possible, but I told you I couldn’t do what you were asking for this time. So you told me — and others, whoever would listen — that I’m greedy and that I hurt your faith in humanity.

You know, it hurts to see someone telling one side of an emotional story without being able to add the other side. Especially online, people can be quick to offer support to someone they perceive as a victim of injustice. They grab their pitchforks and head to their keyboards to exact revenge, oblivious to the full truth of the situation.

I’m not here to give you excuses for why I couldn’t do what you wanted, or to try to convince you to change your emotions. I’m genuinely sorry that you and your innocent pet were ever in a situation where you needed to ask for help. Please know I wouldn’t judge anyone in that position, and I understand how hard things can get. My heart breaks for the fear and stress you felt when I explained what I could and couldn’t do to help. It always breaks.

I could give you an endless list of all the times I’ve sacrificed my time, money, health and relationships with friends and family to go as far as I could to help all those I could. I could cry trying to explain how much I care about my patients and how painful it is not to have endless power and resources to fix all that’s wrong with them.

I could walk you through all the costs involved in keeping our clinic open and making payroll for the people who work here — arguably underpaid for what they do — giving it all they have. I can lament the fact that, unlike in hospitals for humans, there are no government programs to support medical care for pets when their families can’t pay the bill.

You might have heard that my profession has a serious problem with depression, compassion fatigue, and burnout. You might even know that veterinarians are more likely to commit suicide than almost any other group. I know that doesn’t change the frustration you feel, but maybe it helps make clear how hard these ethical decisions are for most of us, and how seriously we take what we do.

There’s a long list of reasons that I couldn’t do what you wanted me to do that time. The one that matters most is that I need to help as many families as I can, and that means sustaining myself and those who work with me.

You needed me one time. Just this once! It’s the only time in your life your pet has needed an expensive surgery or ongoing medication or intensive care. It was only one time, and I couldn’t make it happen.

The miserable truth is that it’s not one time for me or for the people I work with. It’s several times every day. Daily, we are begged to take exceptional measures for a pet in need. Daily, we have to make choices about how we can and can’t help the endless tide of animals who come in without the money or time needed to care for them. Daily, the animals come, and we do what we can for them and the people who bring them, whether they’re from the shelter, the farm, the college dorm or beside the highway.

But there is no magical, endless well from which veterinarians can draw. We can’t be a bottomless source of time and discounted or free care. No one can.

I don’t plan to stop trying to help people and pets. So if I’m going to keep this up, there will have to be times when I have to draw a line. I can’t help pets if my clinic goes out of business (and yes, we’d go out of business in a matter of days if we said yes to everyone’s “just this once”).

I can’t be compassionate when I’m depressed and my soul is threadbare. I can’t feed others when my cupboard is bare, and I can’t give them water when my own cup is empty.

I’m going to help as many as I can, as best I can. That means there will be some times when I have to step away so that I can keep moving forward. I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you the one time you needed me, but as I prepare to head back to a job that I still find reward in and have resolve to do, I can’t regret my decision.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of the DrAndyRoark.com editorial team.