Amy Conroy sat alone in a vet's office, clutching a bottle of water and fighting back tears as her 16-year-old cat, Raizel, struggled to breathe. She was waiting to see what would happen.
The door opened and in walked Laurie Maxwell.
Maxwell works at MedVet, a 24-hour emergency veterinary clinic in Chicago, but as she sat across from Conroy on a Monday evening in May, she explained that she wasn't there for the cats, she was there for Conroy.
Maxwell is a veterinary social worker, a job unknown in the world of therapy that focuses on relieving the stress, anxiety and sadness that can arise when pets need medical care.
Pets are no longer peripheral to their human families. For one thing, a 2022 survey found that nearly half of Americans sleep with their animals in their beds. And as the relationship deepens, so does the stress when something goes wrong. Those emotions can spill over into veterinary clinics, where social workers can help pet owners make tough decisions, like whether to euthanize a pet or whether they can afford to pay thousands of dollars to care for a pet.
Though still a small minority, the number of veterinary social workers is growing. Large chains like VCA and major academic veterinary hospitals are also starting to hire social workers. The service is usually provided free of charge. The University of Tennessee, Knoxville, a hub in the field, has about 175 certified in veterinary social work.
Maxwell oversees the work of five social workers across MedVet's five locations and also helps out during busy shifts.
Sitting in the room with Raizel's owner, Conroy, Maxwell asked one of his usual questions: “What role does she play in your life?”
Ms. Conroy smiled. “Well, that's a terrible thing to say, because I've had other cats,” she said, “but she'll be my favorite cat I've ever had.”
Conroy said it took her two years to touch Raizel, because the cat was so fearful when she brought him home from a shelter in 2010. Now the two have a strong bond.
“I have social anxiety, and it can be pretty debilitating at times,” Conroy told Maxwell. “I feel like she has it too. We're the same, you know?”
“Your soul cat,” said Mr. Maxwell, “I think it's a once in a lifetime cat.”
Down the hallway and around the corner, Dani Abboud, a social work major, was sitting on the floor talking to Gloria Reyes, her 11-year-old son, Jessreel, and her 8-year-old granddaughter, Jania, who were visiting Sassy, a 12-year-old pit bull who was experiencing serious complications from bladder surgery.
“Where were you?” Reyes asked Abboud, laughing. A few hours earlier, she had been deciding whether to euthanize Sassy or hospitalize her for a second surgery. “I might do that if I didn't see any life in her eyes,” she said. “I can't euthanize her.”
“You know what's in her mind,” Abboud said.
While social workers' primary job is to care for pet owners, veterinarians and technicians (essentially nurses) also say their work helps them, too. “Before, I would go home and really wonder what happened to my clients,” says Amy Heuberger, MD, MedVet's Chicago emergency department director. “Now, I'm able to care for more animals during my shift because I know my clients are well taken care of,” she says.
Elizabeth Strand, director of the University of Tennessee's veterinary social work program, said having therapists on staff is becoming a selling point to attract veterinarians and other workers. The veterinary industry is a stressful field, with a higher-than-average suicide rate among veterinarians.
After leaving Reyes and the children, Abboud, who used the pronoun “they,” turned to Evrim Topal, whom he had helped earlier that day. Topal had brought in his 16-year-old cockapoo dog, Zoro, because he was having trouble breathing. Tests showed that Zoro's condition was not likely to improve.
Abboud was with Topal in the “safe room” that MedVet prepares for euthanasia. Topal said she was emotionally confused when she first arrived. “I don't think I was prepared to make this decision,” she said. But after the discussion, she felt at peace.
After a moment, an assistant carried Zoro in on a cart. Oxygen was pumped through a plastic mask. The assistant held Zoro on her lap while Abboud moved the oxygen tube so Zoro could breathe more easily. “Esta bien, esta bien,” Topal whispered to Zoro.
After spending some time alone with Zoro, Topal rang the bell to let the staff know she was ready, and Dr. Heuberger entered the room with Mr. Abboud.
“Thank you all for coming,” Topal said.
Dr. Heuberger knelt on the floor and administered the lethal drug. After a few seconds, Zoro stopped breathing.