In the quiet hum of my clinic, surrounded by years of memories, I reflect on a life dedicated to healing—one that’s not always about saving lives but about holding the pieces together when everything falls apart. Forty years as a veterinarian, and I’ve seen it all: from stitching a dog’s throat with fishing line in a pickup truck under dim flashlight, to facing the tough realities of modern-day vet practices overwhelmed by insurance codes and algorithms. Yet through all the changes in technology, one thing remains constant—the raw, pure love between people and their animals.

Back in 1979, in a small town near the Tennessee border, I helped a man save his dog’s life. There was no clean table, no anesthetic—just a desperate hope and a bond that transcended everything. That dog lived, and years later, the man still sends me Christmas cards, even after the dog and his wife had long passed. This is why I became a vet, not for the accolades or the recognition, but because of moments like these that make all the difference in the world.

The world has changed so much since then. I started in the ‘80s, fresh out of the University of Georgia, in a small brick clinic by a gravel road. There were no glossy brochures or Instagram-worthy waiting rooms—just a rotary phone, a rattling fridge, and a heater that worked when it felt like it. But back then, the work felt simpler. People came to you with trust, and you didn’t need to sell them on anything. Whether it was a shot, a stitch, or a quiet understanding that it was time to say goodbye, you just did what was needed. And in those moments, you were part of something deeply human.

I still remember the first dog I had to euthanize—Rex, a German Shepherd hit by a combine. Walter, the farmer and a WWII vet, broke down when I told him we couldn’t save Rex. But with a kiss on Rex’s nose and a whisper, “You did good, boy,” Walter made his peace. That was the moment I realized this job wasn’t just about animals—it was about people and the love they had for creatures that wouldn’t live as long as they did. 🌌🌿

Now, with my hair gray and my hands a little less steady, I still keep going. I’ve seen the world change. Apps, forms, influencers—sometimes I wonder if the love for animals has been lost in all the noise. Just last week, a woman wanted to get a second opinion from an influencer before I could intubate her bulldog. But no matter how much the world has changed, one thing remains: people still love their animals like family.

Through the toughest days—like the pandemic when we had to say goodbye through car windows or when I stitched up a dog in exchange for a peach pie—these small acts of kindness remind me why I stay. Because people still want to hold their pets, still want to say goodbye in a way that’s meaningful.

One of my favorite memories was when a man walked in with a kitten he found on the railroad tracks. He had no money but asked for help. We saved that kitten, named him Boomer, and when the man returned a week later with a half-eaten apple pie and tears in his eyes, it reminded me that the love between people and animals doesn’t come with strings attached. It’s pure. 🍏🥧

I still keep a drawer locked in my desk filled with memories from years past—thank-you letters, collars, photos. These are the things that remind me of the lives I’ve touched. Of the times we held the animals in their last moments. And the moments when we held the people too.

So, after forty years, I’ve learned this: you can’t save them all, but you give it your best shot. And when the time comes to say goodbye, you stay. You don’t flinch. You don’t rush. You kneel down, look into their eyes, and stay until the last breath leaves the room. 🐶🙏

That’s the part they don’t teach you in vet school. The part that makes you human. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world. 🌎💖

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