A father and his daughter, probably in her early teenage years, recently brought in their newly adopted eight-year-old mixed-breed dog. She had a mild case of kennel cough. Soulful eyes, a gentle demeanor, and a constantly wagging tail—she won my heart quickly.
The smiles on their faces were just as memorable. The father answered my questions about why they had chosen her and how she was settling into her new forever home. It was obvious that this dog was already becoming an important part of their family.
The father was a relatively experienced pet parent. He understood the basics of preventive care from having dogs before, so we reviewed what he already knew and filled in a few gaps. I recommended completing the care the shelter had started once his new family member was feeling better.
And then I noticed.
Something Changed
His body language changed. He began shrinking into himself, made less eye contact, and his tone of voice changed.
Almost 30 years in veterinary medicine have exposed me to plenty of opinions about how veterinary professionals approach pet care—and plenty about how we sometimes perceive the people who bring animals to us. But there are some truths I keep coming back to.
People fall on hard times. The human-animal bond is real. Sometimes, that bond saves lives—human and animal alike. People sometimes take responsibility for pets without having the financial, emotional, or practical resources to meet all of their needs. And sometimes, despite our best efforts to understand the circumstances, pets do suffer because needed care isn’t provided.
Most of us are doing the best we can with what we have: our time, our emotional energy, our knowledge, and our financial resources. Veterinary care can be expensive. Preventive care can be difficult to budget for. Unexpected illness can create financial stress that a family simply wasn’t prepared for.
The Story We Don’t Know
And when a pet parent declines a recommendation, we don’t always know why. Is it a lack of understanding? Mistrust of medical care? A different assessment of the risk? A lack of resources? Or simply a different set of priorities in that moment?
We shouldn’t assume we know the answer.
This is one reason I think the conversation around “spectrum of care” within veterinary medicine is important. At its heart, spectrum of care recognizes that there can be more than one reasonable path to helping an animal. The ideal or most comprehensive option isn’t always the only option that provides meaningful benefit. Sometimes care can look different without meaning that someone cares less.
There are many ways veterinary teams can help families navigate those differences. Local shelter partnerships can sometimes reduce or even eliminate the cost of an initial visit and treatment, as ours did for this dog. Nonprofits may provide lower-cost veterinary services. Vaccine clinics can make preventive care more accessible. Financing options can help families manage large, unexpected expenses. Wellness plans and pet insurance may make routine or unexpected care easier to budget for. Technician appointments can sometimes provide appropriate services without the cost of a veterinarian examination. Preventive care can sometimes be divided into smaller steps rather than requiring a family to do everything at once. Veterinary medicine itself continues to explore different diagnostic and treatment approaches that may allow us to provide good care in different ways.
None of these options is right for every family or every patient. Each has benefits and limitations. But veterinary professionals are in a unique position to help pet parents navigate those choices.
The difficult part is often that the pet parent has to tell us they need help.
That brings me back to the father and daughter.
She Was Watching
While sitting beside his daughter, the father explained that he expected to receive a paycheck soon. Once he did, he planned to follow my recommendation to bring their new family member back in a week or two to complete her vaccines and continue her monthly parasite prevention.
As he said this, I watched his daughter.
She tensed and began avoiding eye contact.
And I wondered what she was hearing—not just about veterinary care, but about her father.
Was she learning that money problems are something to be ashamed of? That admitting you can’t afford something means you’ve failed? That asking for help is embarrassing?
Or could she instead learn that adults sometimes have limitations, and that talking honestly about those limitations can lead to solutions?
Children are watching us.
They watch how adults respond when things don’t go according to plan. They watch how professionals respond when their parents admit they don’t have all the answers—or all the resources. They are learning, often without realizing it, what it means to need help, what compassion looks like, whether limitations make someone less worthy, and what kind of relationship they can expect to have with professionals when they are vulnerable.
That matters in veterinary medicine.
What Will She Remember?
The child sitting beside a parent today may be the adult bringing her own dog or cat to a veterinary hospital decades from now. The experience she has watching us today may become part of the story she carries with her about veterinary medicine: whether it is a place where people are judged, or a place where people can ask questions, admit limitations, and work with someone to find a path forward.
I think that’s part of our responsibility as veterinary professionals. Not just to treat the animal in front of us. Not just to educate the person holding the leash. But to remember that sometimes there are other people in the room who are watching—and learning from how we respond.
Brené Brown, whose work has explored shame and vulnerability extensively, said:
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“Shame cannot survive being spoken. It cannot survive empathy.”
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The hard part is that pet parents have to feel safe enough to speak their shame, fear, confusion, or financial limitations before we can help them navigate them. Empathy doesn’t mean assuming that every pet parent is doing the best they can, or that every decision is acceptable. It means being willing to understand what is standing between a pet and the care they need—and looking for ways to move past those barriers when we can.
I think about that often in veterinary medicine.
A Way Forward
So the father and I talked about the fact that the path to providing veterinary care could be flexible. My goal was to see that their new family member received the care she needed, and there could be multiple paths to get there.
We explored the options.
Slowly, he eased back into his normal body language. He made eye contact again. His voice changed.
And I wondered what his daughter was learning in that moment.
Perhaps she was learning that having financial limitations isn’t something to be ashamed of. Perhaps she was learning that asking for help can be an act of responsibility. Perhaps she was learning that a difficult circumstance doesn’t make a person less worthy of compassion or respect. And perhaps she was learning something about veterinary medicine, too.
Those experiences can shape how children understand vulnerability, how they see themselves, how they relate to their parents, and eventually, whether they feel comfortable seeking help themselves.
I hope that when that girl someday brings her own dog or cat to a veterinary hospital, she remembers this experience not as a moment when her father should have felt ashamed, but as a moment when he was honest about his limitations and a veterinary professional responded with empathy, flexibility, and a willingness to find a way forward.
I hope I’ll see that gently wagging tail again, along with a father who knows he has options—and knows I will support him in finding them.
But most importantly, I hope his daughter walked away knowing that asking for help does not make us less worthy.
Sometimes, it is how we find our way forward.
