For Vets Only: Things we never say out loud (#341)

You know the look.

The one you give your nurse across the room when the dog starts crashing.

The look that says, “Get the crash cart - now.”

No words, just instinct, timing, and years of quiet emergencies stitched into muscle memory.

This is veterinary medicine.

And if you know, you know.

We don’t talk much about the times we cried in our cars before walking into the clinic.

Or how we rehearse euthanasia conversations on the drive in.

Or how we sometimes hold our breath in exam rooms, praying the client doesn’t say, “I can’t afford it.”

Because we know what comes next.

We joke.

We cope.

We compartmentalize.

But beneath the banter and bravado, there’s a weight we all carry.

And if you know, you know.

You’ve laid awake at 3 AM wondering if you missed something on that case with the abnormal liver values.

You’ve sat with a dying animal long after the owner left, just to whisper, “You were loved.”

You’ve gone from a puppy vaccine appointment to a CPR attempt in the span of five minutes, and somehow held it together.

You’ve called a colleague from the parking lot, not to talk medicine, but to say,"Please tell me I’m not the only one who feels like this."

We stay for the wagging tail that survived parvo.

For the barn cat who purrs when you lance an abscess.

For the goat named Kevin who follows you like a dog.

For the little girl who clutches her guinea pig and whispers, “Please help him.”

For the midnight phone call that starts with panic and ends in relief.

We stay because somehow, against all odds, we still believe in what we do.

Veterinary medicine isn’t just a job.

It’s a language, a culture, a code.

And if you know, you know.

We say things like “It’s just a lipoma” and everyone breathes again.

We say “It’s time,” and everything else stops.

We say “I’m sorry,” more times than we care to count, sometimes for things we couldn’t change.

But we keep going.

We show up.

We fix what’s broken, comfort what’s hurting, and grieve what can’t be saved.

And that?

That’s enough.

To the vet who’s still learning.

To the vet who’s nearly burned out but keeps showing up.

To the vet who’s quietly mentoring the next generation.

To the vet who remembers why they became a vet, even on days they want to quit.

You’re not alone.

We see you.

And we’re still here too.

Because no matter what the world says, this profession matters.

This profession really matters.

And if you know, you know.

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