Grief is a constant companion in veterinary medicine. As a veterinarian, I’ve seen it in countless forms—from the quiet moments shared with a pet in its final hours to the overwhelming sorrow that floods in when the inevitable can no longer be postponed. But the grief that comes with being both a veterinarian and a pet owner takes on a complexity that can be difficult to explain.
Tango, my dog, was a special case. He had battled cancer, and after two surgeries and chemotherapy, I had hoped we could buy him more time. He was barely nine years old. But this time, the cancer was relentless, moving too fast for us to fight. The decision had to be made: it was time to let him go. Yes, I cried. Euthanasia, in these moments, is the greatest gift we have in veterinary medicine. We can offer our animals a peaceful end, something we can’t do for humans, even when the suffering is undeniable.
This idea of a peaceful end was brought home to me again recently with Flora, a rescue dog who came into the clinic for weight loss. Flora was a complex case. We addressed several medical issues, but as each was resolved, she continued to deteriorate. Finally, I got permission to perform radiographs, and the images confirmed what I feared: large masses in her chest. Even if they weren’t cancerous, they were still very bad. Despite my recommendation for euthanasia, the rescue requested a specialist consultation. The radiologist confirmed my findings—there was nothing else going on in her lungs. No infection. No pneumonia. Just the large, bad masses.
I recommended euthanasia, prepared the bill, and then left for a weekend dive trip. But the rescue delayed the decision. For eight more days, Flora hung on, her condition worsening each day until, finally, she was too weak to stand and refused to eat her breakfast. For eight days, my staff and I watched her knowing there was nothing we could do. It was
agonizing—not just for Flora but for everyone who had to witness her slow decline. This kind of waiting feels different when it’s a rescue dog versus a beloved family pet spending its final days surrounded by love and familiar faces. Flora’s last days felt unnecessarily prolonged.
During those same days, my own grief was deepening. Tango was worsening too, and on that Tuesday, he peacefully passed away, surrounded by love and reassurances that he was cared for. He knew he was loved him as he quietly slipped away. I think often it is better for the animal for the family not to be their because they doubt the decision and it takes the pet longer to pass. I cried as my staff put Tango to sleep. Then I thought I was okay. Yet, grief has a way of catching you off guard. The next day at the airport, I saw a black hound with a gray muzzle. He didn’t look a thing like Tango, but the black fur and gray reminded me of him, and suddenly, I was crying again.
As if that wasn’t enough, my husband’s dog, Crash, was declining rapidly too. His heart was failing, likely due to a heartbase tumor causing pericardial effusion. We did the workup, tried medications, but nothing worked. At 11.5 years old, the decision was made not to attempt surgery. It was risky and likely to make things worse. So, on that Friday morning, before work, I put Crash to sleep. He was my husband’s dog more than mine, but still, his loss stirred up all the grief I was already feeling for Tango—and for all the pets I’ve lost before.
And then, I worked the whole day. That’s what veterinarians do. We mourn, and we grieve, but the work goes on.
Finally, on Sunday evening, we were allowed to euthanize Flora. Eight days after I had recommended it. The rescue told us they hadn’t acted sooner because “all lives matter.” It stung. Did they think we didn’t care? Every time I looked at Flora in those final days, knowing what we all knew, I had tears in my eyes. And it wasn’t just me—my staff was affected too. We care deeply about these animals, and watching Flora linger in unnecessarily hurt us all.
This morning, I couldn’t sleep. I got up early, came into the clinic, and in the quiet of the early morning hours at Guardian Animal Medical Center, it was too quiet. Tango’s absence was palpable, and once again, there were tears. And then, of course, the others came to mind—Crash, Flora, and the many pets I’ve lost or had to help cross the rainbow bridge over the years.
The worst thing about losing a beloved pet is that they’re not there to help you grieve. When you lose a friend or family member, your pet is there, sensing your sorrow, comforting you in ways only they can. But when it’s your pet who’s gone, you are on your own. Yes, people can help, but pets—they help more. They offer a kind of companionship in grief that no person can fully replace.
Grief waxes and wanes. It comes in waves, sometimes crashing over you unexpectedly, like at an airport when a dog who doesn’t even look like your own reminds you of what you’ve lost. Other times, it’s a slow, steady ache, like those quiet early mornings at the clinic when the absence of your pet’s familiar presence is louder than anything else.
Being a veterinarian means dealing with grief daily. Sometimes it’s the grief of others, and sometimes it’s our own. We are the ones who must make the difficult decisions, who must counsel pet owners through their losses, even as we wrestle with our own. It’s a weight we carry, but it’s also a privilege. Because in those final moments, we get to offer the gift of peace.
As I continue to grieve for Tango, Crash, and Flora, I know someday I will only think of the love they gave me, the joy they brought, and the peace I was able to give them in return. It doesn’t make the loss easier, but it brings comfort in its own way. The grief may never fully fade, but the memories and the love remain.