My Take Tuesday: Grace, Grief, and a Little Bit of Vomit

There are moments in veterinary medicine that feel set apart from the ordinary—as if the world slows down to make room for something sacred. Home euthanasias are like that. Without the clinical glare of bright lights or the sterile hum of machines, the space fills instead with love, memory, and a quiet reverence.

Millie was a wiry, scruffy little dog with a crooked smile and a tail that wagged in half-time during her golden years. For fifteen years, she’d stood guard at the back door, kept the mailman honest, and weathered every storm—literal and figurative—curled at the feet of the family who loved her. She was stitched into the very fabric of their lives.

Her body was failing, but her family’s devotion hadn’t faded. They called me to help her pass peacefully, at home, in the warmth of familiar voices and gentle hands.

When I arrived, Millie lay on a patchwork quilt in the living room. The air carried the faint scent of lavender and something softer—grief, maybe, or memory. The mother knelt close, stroking Millie’s ears with the kind of tenderness only time can teach. The father stood off to the side, swallowing hard. And the teenage daughter cradled Millie’s head in her lap, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the dog that had always been there.

I gave the sedative first. Then I waited. When they were ready, I knelt to complete the procedure.

And that was when it happened.

Without a word, the daughter leaned forward, overwhelmed, and—suddenly—vomited. Not beside me. Not near me. But squarely onto the right side of my face.

It trickled down the side of face. It was warm. It was immediate. And it was one of the more unforgettable moments in my career.

I stayed steady. I finished the injection with calm hands and soft words. Millie passed quietly, unaware of the chaos that had just unfolded inches away. Her final moment was peaceful, surrounded by the people who had loved her all her life.

Then came the silence.

The mother gasped.

The father sprang into action with a roll of paper towels.

The daughter, mortified, buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered through tears. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know it was going to happen.”

But I wasn’t upset. Not even close.

Grief isn’t neat. It doesn’t come dressed in black with tidy handkerchiefs. It arrives as it is—raw, unfiltered, and unpredictable. It breaks down barriers and spills out in tears, trembles, and, sometimes, the most undignified forms of emotion.

I wiped my face, offered a reassuring smile, and said what I knew to be true: It’s okay.

Because veterinary medicine isn’t just about the animals. It’s about being present for the people who love them. It’s about showing composure during someone else’s heartbreak. It’s about honoring the bond—even when it plays out messily.

Millie was loved. She left this life wrapped in warmth and memory. And if part of that moment meant I walked away needing a change of clothes, so be it.

The human-animal bond is a powerful thing. It’s loyal and imperfect, wild, and wholehearted. It teaches us how to love, how to let go—and how to stand steady, even when the unexpected shows up in the most unforgettable ways.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM