My Take Tuesday: Love Interrupted

Death is something I deal with every day.

As a veterinarian, I stand at the intersection of hope and heartbreak more often than I’d like to admit. I witness first breaths and last ones. I celebrate new life and bear witness to final goodbyes. With time, you learn how to function in that space—but you never become immune to it. You can’t. And if you ever do, it’s time to stop doing this work.

For many people, losing a pet is not simply losing an animal. It is losing a constant. A confidant. A steady presence that didn’t judge, didn’t leave, didn’t waver. A being that loved purely, faithfully, and without conditions. For some, that bond runs as deep—and hurts as profoundly—as any human relationship.

Yet grief over a pet is often minimized. Quietly dismissed. But those who have shared their lives with an animal know better. That grief is real. It is heavy. It settles into the quiet spaces—an empty spot by the door, an unused leash, the silence where nails once clicked across the floor.

What makes this loss so unbearable is its abruptness. Love doesn’t fade. It doesn’t prepare us. It stops mid-sentence. Mid-routine. Mid-life.

Love, interrupted.

In the exam room, I see it before a word is spoken. The hesitation. The disbelief. The quiet bargaining. Hands grip fur just a little tighter, as if love alone might hold life in place. I feel the weight of those moments—every single one of them.

People often ask how I do this job. How I face death day after day. The truth is, it takes a toll. Every goodbye leaves a mark. Some days, I carry them home with me. Other days, they rest quietly on my chest—unseen, but always felt.

And yet, I also witness something extraordinary.

I see courage—the courage to love knowing the ending is inevitable. I see selflessness—the willingness to absorb pain so an animal does not have to suffer. I see devotion—the kind that stays until the very last breath.

Grief, I have learned, is not weakness. It is evidence. Proof that love existed. Proof that the bond mattered. Proof that something beautiful was shared.

And while love may be interrupted by death, it is never erased by it.

It remains—in memories, in habits that linger, in the quiet gratitude for a life well lived and deeply loved. That kind of love does not disappear. It simply changes form.

If you are grieving a pet today, know this: your grief is valid. Your pain is earned. And your love mattered more than you may ever fully understand.

Love interrupted still counts as love.

And sometimes, it is the purest kind there is.

And that is My Take. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM