Any time I hear of a dog injuring or killing a child, my heart breaks. As a human, it breaks for the child, who has either been physically and emotionally scarred or taken from this earth far too early.

As a mother, it breaks for the child’s family to see their child endure such a trauma. As a veterinary professional, it breaks for the dog.

“Wait…” you say… “but the dog is to blame for this horrible act. Why should we feel bad for the dog?” My response is always “Why did the dog feel it needed to act this way?”

A recent report of two dogs fatally mauling a young boy in Massachusetts has me once again advocating for the dogs, while everyone else is carrying their pitchforks and calling for legislation.

The details have not been confirmed, but this little boy had found himself inside of the fenced-in area where these two neighborhood dogs were confined. Unfortunately, one of the dogs was euthanized, while the second is in custody.

As a mother to a young boy, I cannot imagine the heartbreak that his family is going through. I do not negate that a child’s life was tragically and horrifically lost. However, let’s take both the dogs and the child out of the picture.

A human trespassed onto someone else’s property.

If this was an adult, they would be arrested or threatened by the homeowner. Let’s add the dogs back into the story. A human trespassed onto someone else’s property and was attacked by the homeowner’s dogs.

In this story the dogs may be considered heroes, simply protecting their owner and their property. Now make the trespasser a child. Suddenly the dogs are murderers, dangerous, and should be euthanized. Their entire breed should be banned. How does this leap happen?

“Well, children don’t know any better. You can’t possibly blame the child for a vicious dog’s behavior!”

How is it that a 7-year-old does not know that you need permission to be on someone else’s property? Or that if you don’t know a dog, you shouldn’t approach them without permission?

According to Stopthe77.com, roughly 77% of dog bites are from a family or friend’s dog. Which means that 77% of dog bites come from dogs that children KNOW.

This tells me that there is a severe lack of education on how children should be interacting with the family pet. If they don’t know how to interact with a dog that their family deems as friendly and tolerant, then how are they expected to know how to approach a strange dog?

Watch any montage of “cute” dog and kid videos and you’ll see dogs who give so many signals that they are uncomfortable. The parents and family taking these videos aren’t malicious – they don’t WANT these children hurt. However, if they knew how to read their dog’s body language they would put the camera down and intervene.

These situations are so easily preventable. As someone who loves dogs, who works with them daily and has taken the time to educate myself on their behavior I urge parents to TEACH their children.

Take some of the blame off of the dogs. They only know how to survive and protect themselves. They don’t speak our language and we can’t teach them to. So that puts the responsibility on US to learn how to speak theirs.

Stop calling for bans on specific breeds. It’s not the dog’s fault. ANY dog can bite; small dogs, large dogs, lazy dogs, old dogs and young dogs. Should a known aggressive dog who is a true public safety risk be humanely euthanized? Absolutely.

Should a whole breed of dogs be banned from knowing what it’s like to be loved, pampered, trained and properly socialized because we’re too selfish and full of ourselves to see past their looks and learn how to communicate? Absolutely not.

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.

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About the Author

Maryanne Aldrich is a Veterinary Assistant at PawSteps Veterinary Center in Northbridge, MA. She graduated with an Associates Degree in Animal Care from Becker College and began working at PawSteps in the spring of 2013. She developed an interest in animal behavior early in her career and has continued to improve her understanding of veterinary patients through self-study, consultations with other professionals, and formal continuing education courses . She regularly advises clients about home behavior care and has successfully implemented programs at PawSteps to provide less stressful veterinary experiences. The mother of two tiny humans, and a chocolate lab named Abbie, Maryanne understands the importance of educating clients and their families on how to “read dog” and is passionate about setting new puppy parents up for a lifetime of success.

“Uh oh!” I look to my right, and a distressed stranger is pointing at the ground next to me.

I’m standing at the front desk of a veterinary clinic, so I look down cautiously. (You never know what could be on the ground at a hospital, and I am admittedly only cut out for the business side of vet med).

There is a river of dog urine closing in on my favorite suede booties. It’s coming from my friend’s senior Weimaraner, Callie.

“Oh my God. I don’t know her,” I joke, shooting my friend my best judgmental look. (Obviously, my dog never does anything embarrassing).

My friend, however, is completely mortified. “SHE NEVER DOES THIS! I AM SO SORRY! CAN I CLEAN IT?” she exclaims.

The customer service representative stares at her blankly. “I mean, there’s paper towels over there.” She motions to a station across the store, and my friend obeys the direction.

Unfortunately, there are about 2 towels left on the roll, and we are dealing with a 60-pound dog amount of pee.

“Kind of seems like a mop situation. Callie really committed to this,” I say to the customer service representative as two more appear behind the desk. More blank stares. As a former practice manager, my head starts to slowly spin. How are they not getting that they should offer to help?

“Well, there are probably more paper towels at another one of the cleaning stations,” the CSR finally suggests. My friend dutifully ventures off to find them while I try to go to a zen place in my mind.

“Not my practice, not my staff, not my problem,” I repeat over and over in my head. I wonder if I’m overreacting, or if my friend is as horrified as I am by the team’s response.

We move on to the exam room, where my friend expresses her concern about the public urination incident to the veterinary technician. She isn’t communicating that she’s upset about cleaning it up. Instead, you can tell she’s worried something is wrong with her aging dog.

“Ya, we’ll check her bladder when we bring her in the back,” the veterinary technician responds. My Wendy Meyers fandom makes me cringe at the term “the back”, but I’m even more concerned about the general lack of concern for my friend’s feelings. Again, I wonder if I’m overreacting.

Callie gets admitted to the hospital, and my friend and I return to the car to debrief.

“They really weren’t very compassionate, huh? It makes me wonder if they’re, like, going to yell at her if she barks while she’s there or something.”

And this is when I realized this is more about a puddle of pee coming dangerously close to my beloved Steve Madden boots. It’s about trust.

My friend felt embarrassed about her dog’s accident, and no one reassured her. She felt concerned about her dog’s unusual behavior, and no one comforted her.

Callie might receive the best possible medical care while admitted at that practice, but my friend’s trust has been lost. No matter how good your medicine is, remember that building trust can start with simply mopping a pee puddle.

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.

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Danielle K. Lambert is a former veterinary practice manager and the founder of SnoutSchool.com, a website dedicated to teaching veterinary hospitals to use social media effectively. You can get her 5 favorite social media tools here, or follow her on social media to see excessive photos of her Brussels Griffon. She’s @DanielleSnout on Snapchat, Instagram & Twitter.

“You’re always so happy, how do you do it?” the client asked me as I examined her dog.

“Good acting,” I half-quipped. This day in particular had me believing my happy face was nothing more than a ruse.

It had been a tough week and an even tougher day. Our four (looking for a fifth) doctor practice was down a doc again as we had been for six of the previous eight weeks, a cat I had seen for a UTI had died unexpectedly at home, my parents’ dog was in end-stage kidney failure, and I had spent 15 minutes on the phone with an irate client who believed I was personally responsible for her dog tearing her cruciate while she was boarding.

I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. How could I go into an exam room with a smile on and pretend everything was alright?

Compartmentalization.

In that exam room, for those few minutes, I was happy. I was with a client who loved her pets and was always kind and appreciative of my efforts to care for them. She had recently lost one of her dogs, but here she was with a newly adopted senior dachshund she had opened her heart to. I was happy for her. So I left everything else at the door.

Compartmentalization is how we focus on explaining atopy to one client while worrying about the CHF dog in oxygen in the back. It’s how we kindly and genuinely greet one client right after getting reamed out about charges by another.

And it’s how we go home at the end of a 12-hour shift filled with emergencies and still manage to enjoy a good snuggle with our own pets. Compartmentalization is how we stay sane. So how do we do it in a healthy way?

Leave Work at Work

We all do it. We bring a chart home to write up. We research a case on VIN from our house. We stay up all night worrying about our splenectomy from that morning. We don’t give ourselves a break and that is a recipe for burnout.

Start the process of disconnecting from work before you leave the office. Make sure your calls are made, your charts are written up and your in-patients checked on. Then tell yourself you’re leaving. Make it a mantra. “Goodbye vet med.” “Lauren has left the building.” “Peace out, pets.” Saying the same thing every time tells your brain to start shutting down.

The mental shutdown may take a while. Allow yourself to process the day on the commute, but once you’re out of the car, work is over. When you start thinking about work again, remind yourself that it can wait until tomorrow. Your patients are safe with their families or the next doctor on shift. Your clients have the number for the local emergency clinic. It’s okay to stop thinking about work for a while. You are not a horrible person if you take time for yourself.

Focus on One Thing at a Time

Multi-tasking has become an integral part of life, but it’s not always good for you or your patients. It may feel ingenuine to go from a euthanasia to a new kitten exam and act all ooey-gooey, gushing over the cuteness. It’s not. That kitten and her family deserve your enthusiasm as much as the family euthanizing their dog deserves your empathy.

When it’s time to move from one room to another, step into a neutral place. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and tap into the energy that you’re going to need for the next appointment. Once you’ve made the change, move on to the next room and focus all your energy on the new task at hand.

Don’t Ignore the Bad Stuff

It’s not healthy or helpful to spend all your time obsessing over a case that went bad, a client that blamed you for something that wasn’t your fault or a bad review. Learn to shut it off—but not forever. The really bad stuff needs to be processed. You need people you can talk to about it and a time and place to analyze it where it won’t interfere with the rest of your life.

Repressing the difficult stuff only internalizes the pain. Trying to push through and ignore it is one of the risk factors for developing compassion fatigue. So if you have a compartment that feels especially heavy make sure you make time to open it up and lighten the load.

Learn to Say “No”

We hate hearing it almost as much as we hate saying it. We feel like we have to do it all. But we can’t.

We only have room for so many compartments at once. That means we need to decide what the most important things are, carve out a place for each, and say “no” to the rest.

If one compartment is for going to the gym after work, then when someone calls at the last minute asking you to see their dog with an ear infection, the answer is “no” because you need to get out on time. When you’ve made a compartment for Saturday with the family and a colleague asks you to cover their shift, the answer is “no” because you already have plans. And for all that is good in this world—PLEASE don’t give your cell phone number to clients to call you at all hours. A decent night’s sleep is essential for processing all the events of a day and waking up ready to do it all again.

Compartmentalization generally has a negative connotation, but the truth is, sometimes it’s necessary. It’s a tool we need to survive, to create a balance in our lives, and to give ourselves permission to enjoy the good things in life.

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.

When I went away to college at Mississippi State University, I was a wreck. I’d never been away from home. Though I fell in love with the campus the second I set foot on it, being left alone there was another story. College was something I had worked my whole life for, but I was absolutely terrified.

I put aside my anxiety and bravely attended my first day of classes, only to find that my name wasn’t on the roll in any of them. For an introverted 18-year-old kid, this was the stuff of nightmares.  When I called to find out what happened, I discovered my entire schedule (that I had woken up at 5am to secure) was gone because a small fee had not been paid.

At orientation, Dr. Ruby had given all the parents his home number with instructions to call if they ran into trouble. When I called my Dad and told him my schedule had vanished, he was going to calmly try to talk me through how to fix it myself.

When he heard me holding back tears and panic because I’d already tried, he decided to avail himself of Dr. Ruby’s number.  I think it’s telling that he had the number ON HIM at work.

While I sat in my dorm room trying not to cry, this is what was happening at my Dad’s office:

His boss, seeing his red face (and likely the steam coming out of his ears), put him in a private room to make the call. Dr. Ruby answered.

“Dr. Ruby, I’m going to try really hard not to yell at you right now. My baby is up at MSU away from home for the first time. She has two thousand dollars on account, and some idiot in the registrar’s office just canceled her entire schedule over a $25 fee. We were assured everything was paid when we left.”

Now I have to tell you, my Dad has a VERY scary voice. I mean pee-your-pants scary if you get on the wrong side of him. They called him “the Voice” at the office and sent unruly customers to him. Those customers almost always settled down after a few words. While this may not look scary in type, trust me, there was murder in his tone and you could hear his teeth gnashing.

In deep voice with a thick southern drawl, Dr. Ruby said pleasantly, “Mr. Buisson, let me assure you. I will handle this evil which has befallen you”.

BOOM.

He left my Dad nearly speechless. “Okay” was all he could manage before hanging up. I called him 15 minutes later.

“What did you DO? All my classes are back!”

This story has been told umpteen times every year for the last 23 years. It’s one of our favorites. Seriously, if you ever meet my Dad, have him do his impression of Dr. Ruby.

Mulling it over, I realized what a brilliant customer service move Dr. Ruby made. Here’s why:

1. He listened. He didn’t interrupt, or tell my Dad to lower his voice. He just listened.
2. He responded in a way that indicated he heard the words, the tone, and the feelings
3. He acknowledged the gravity of the situation – he held in his hands my Dad’s eldest child and only daughter as well as a big financial investment
4. He kept his promises
5. He disarmed my Dad with humor (for those of you who need to be told, this isn’t always appropriate)

In two sentences, he calmed a freaked out parent and made sure his worry was addressed. This is what we do every day in veterinary medicine. We handle freaked out parents who have trusted us with their beloved pets. Our clients often feel out of control and helpless. They may not be 700 miles away, but they feel as though they are. If we take the time to hear them, let them know their concerns are valid and important, and promise only what we can deliver, then we may gain their trust and loyalty.

It isn’t always that easy. Dr. Ruby got lucky in that my Dad was trying to be reasonable and has a wicked sense of humor. I wonder, though, how many of us spring to defensiveness first and then sort out the carnage later. Had he chosen that route, this story wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining.

Next time you have to deal with a person in distress, pause a beat. Take a breath. LISTEN. If you look at good customer service as a challenge instead of a chore, you might start to enjoy the nuances. You may even become the stuff of legends.

Thank you, Dr. Ruby.

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.