My parents died in the summer of 2020 exactly one month apart. They left behind so many small treasures that I cherish, but the two things I found myself adoring more than anything else, surprisingly, were their two cats. A gray tabby, Timothy, and an orange tabby, Pete, already in advanced age with health problems, made the move from South Carolina to join me in Chicago. I always considered myself a dog person, but these two old man cats made me appreciate the special joys of cat ownership (as if ownership is the right word). Timothy and Pete kept me afloat while I navigated deep grief and loss, bringing me so much comfort in a dark time.

I established Timothy and Pete as patients at Companion Animal Hospital of Norridge. I believed Companion of Norridge was a local, community vet and was impressed by the nice facility. I hoped this practice and the veterinarians employed there would partner with me in their care. However, over time, I became increasingly concerned about the care my pets were receiving. The veterinarians would come into appointments completely unprepared to see their patients. They were so unprepared that they did not even know their patient's name. One veterinarian repeatedly greeted me by saying, "Hello, it's nice to meet you. Has your pet ever had labs before?" I would have to remind him that we'd met many times and that my pet is a regular patient. When a vet suggested an X-Ray with anesthesia, I asked if anesthesia would be safe for a pet with a heart arrhythmia. He replied, "What? He has a heart arrhythmia?" When I asked why my pet's insulin needs changed so dramatically, he said, "What? His insulin dose changed?" When I asked about medication compatibility, he said, “What? He’s on Keppra?” Every appointment required a re-introduction. Every appointment required me to spoonfeed the vet his own patient's medical history. Every appointment had me on guard, anxiously asking questions to ensure that their treatment plans would be safe for a patient that they weren't familiar with, despite having seen regularly. I was unfailingly polite, understanding, forgiving, and respectful. I had so much respect for veterinarians that I made excuses for them, and I was naive enough to assume that when I really needed their help, my pets would become a priority. They saw my senior boys many times over more than two years in exchange for $10,000 in visit fees, medications, and diagnostic tests.

In early February, I woke up to find Timothy breathing heavily and vomiting. I immediately took him to Companion of Norridge. His veterinarian came into the room and impatiently demanded to know when Timothy last had labs, where, and what they showed. When I said he had labs at the hospital, he snapped, “Why was he at the hospital?” He ordered labs and X-Rays, and a technician took Timothy out of the room. After 15 minutes, the tech came back to the exam room and told me the labs and X-Rays were done, and the vet had reviewed them. They noticed his body temperature was a little low, so they put him in a special heated cage. She said that the veterinarian was going to let Timothy warm up while he saw other patients. “Don’t worry,” she said, “he’s stable back here.”

Over an hour later, the vet came back into the room to review Timothy’s labs with me. Then, he took me to the back room to review the chest X-Ray. He said Timothy’s lungs were filled with fluid and that the problem could be bacterial or viral pneumonia or it could be cardiogenic pulmonary edema from a heart murmur. He said he couldn’t confirm a heart murmur because Timothy’s breathing was too loud. I had to inform him that Tim had already been diagnosed with a heart murmur at Companion of Norridge. The veterinarian was surprised. In the back of the office, I could see Timothy alone in a cage with wide eyes, clearly in distress, uncomfortable, and not stable. The vet told me he would try to listen to Timothy’s heart again and sent me back to the room to wait. When he came back to the exam room, he said Timothy had declined and that he could not help him because “this isn’t a hospital.” He told me Timothy was suffering and that his body was shutting down. He recommended euthanasia. When I attempted to ask him questions about his assessment, he answered by shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. I had to make an agonizing decision. From seeing Timothy’s face for a moment, I knew he was suffering, but it was also obvious to me that his veterinarian had not reviewed his patient’s medical history and had not spent more than a few minutes trying to assess the problem. The veterinarian gave me neither a diagnosis nor a prognosis, and it wasn’t because he couldn’t but because he didn’t care to try. Timothy and I had been separated for well over an hour, and my sweet friend, who shared my pillow and tangled himself up in my hair to sleep, was suffering alone in a cage.

They withheld Timothy from me until after all the arrangements were made and they collected the $1200 bill. The technician then entered the exam room looking for Timothy to insert the catheter, and I had to inform her that her patient was still alone in the cage where she had left him. After a few minutes, she re-entered the room, dumped Timothy in the middle of the cold table, and left without saying a single word. Tim had a large, open catheter taped to his leg. He was nauseous, gagging, struggling to breathe, and in distress. We had a rushed goodbye. The veterinarian and technician entered the room for the euthanasia. The procedure was not explained to me before or during. They threw a towel over Timothy, pushed the sedative, flopped him over on his side on the cold table, jabbed the needle in the catheter on his leg forcefully, pushed the second drug rapidly, and euthanized him like he was of no value. The drug was pushed so forcefully and so aggressively that Timothy’s eyes popped open and bugged out of his head. It was horrifying. It is an image that I can’t get out of my head, and in my nightmares, I re-live their roughness, their cruelty, and their attitude that getting Timothy dead was an inconvenience in their day.

Later, I went to Companion to pick up Timothy’s memorial paw print. I was heartbroken to find that they had my name printed on it instead of Timothy’s. While anguished, I wasn’t surprised that after years and many appointments, they still couldn’t demonstrate that they knew their patient’s name. I shared all of these concerns and questions with Companion. The only response I received was an email from the manager letting me know that I was no longer welcome at Companion. I left a public review on Google. Her response to that review is rude, dismissive, and sarcastic.

I do not expect my vet to miraculously heal my pets for free. I do expect that he or she will adequately prepare for appointments, have a working knowledge of their patient's medical history, listen to and answer questions thoughtfully, respond to substantive concerns, and be at least as attentive as the front desk is at collecting my money. For hundreds or thousands of dollars per appointment, this minimum standard should be met, but this is not what I experienced at Companion. I will forever regret taking Timothy to Companion on his last day. I let Tim down by trusting his care to the wrong people. Every other practice in the neighborhood seems to understand that the reason we invest time and money and trust in a regular veterinarian is for the relationship, not the fancy windows or X-Rays with image processing algorithms. While I would pay any amount of money for a veterinarian that cares enough about my pets to be familiar with them, I’ve been astounded that bills elsewhere are half or a third of what Companion charges.

At Companion, it was my job to know my pets’ medical history and to spoonfeed it to the veterinarian. It was my job to know the details of my pets’ lab work. It was my job to make sure treatment plans were safe. It was even my job to keep track of where my pet was in the building. At my new vet, which is privately owned, none of those tasks are my responsibility. The veterinarian prepares for appointments and greets his patients by name. He is familiar with their medical histories and can assess them accurately and treat them safely. The practice addresses concerns and answers questions because they work for their clients and patients instead of a megacorporation. I know that every dollar I spend there stays in the community instead of lining the pockets of a megacorporation that will use it to buy up more practices, drive up prices, and exploit customers. The most infuriating realization is that the difference between great care and horrific care is less than five minutes of pre-appointment preparation that the veterinarians at Companion Hospitals routinely fail to do because it might impact the only metric that matters to them: the bottom line.

Pete recently made the transition to join his brother. His new vet didn’t have the opportunity to get to know Pete over years, and I hadn’t paid $10,000 to the practice. I hadn’t invested years of patience, understanding, and time. As it happens, I didn’t need to make years of investment in the practice for the hope of mattering. On Pete’s last day, they evaluated him immediately to make sure he wasn’t uncomfortable or in distress. They wanted to give medication to ensure his comfort so that we could have time to say goodbye. When I was ready, they took him out of the room to put in the catheter. They didn’t leave him alone in a cage to suffer and decline while they saw other patients. They brought him back to me after only a few minutes. I sat on a comfortable couch, and they helped me arrange Pete on a soft blanket in my lap. While Pete enjoyed a last meal of Fancy Feast, the veterinarian described to me the entire procedure, every single thing she was going to do, every single thing my pet would experience, and every single thing that I would experience. With my consent, when I was ready, she administered the sedative in a line attached to the catheter in Pete’s leg. Then, she gently flushed the medication through the line with saline. I felt Pete fall asleep comfortably in my lap. With my consent, when I was ready, she put the second medication in the line then used saline to gently flush it into the catheter in Pete’s leg. Pete gently and peacefully died in my lap. I cherish the clay paw print they gave me with Pete’s name printed on it as well as the sweet memory of our last goodbye.

Every pet in the community deserves to be known, to receive compassionate care, and to have a peaceful, comfortable, and gentle transition at the end of their lives. If you are concerned that your veterinarian is not meeting these expectations, it is time to ask: who owns your vet?