An animal in distress is one of the hardest things you can ever experience. As horse owners, we know deep down that accidents and illnesses are inevitable, yet we hope that our beloved animals will live out their lives safely, free from injury or acute pain. We trust in professionals like veterinarians, just as we do for our human loved ones, to be there when something goes terribly wrong. But what happens when that trust is shattered?
We hear about the cracks in the human health system constantly, but what about the care for our animal family?
I want to share something with you before I go further: the oath that veterinarians take. Read it a few times and let it sink in.
"As a member of the veterinary medical profession, I solemnly swear that I will use my scientific knowledge and skills for the benefit of society. I will strive to promote animal health and welfare, relieve animal suffering, protect the health of the public and environment, and advance comparative medical knowledge."
A few days ago, I lost my healthy, vibrant horse, Murphy. His death was preventable—or at the very least, it should have been. The reality is, whether the vet could have saved him is uncertain, but they could have relieved his suffering. They could have helped him die in peace rather than in agony. But instead, I was told no help would come unless I paid $600 upfront.
We horse owners are often more self-sufficient than most pet owners because we’re dealing with animals that weigh upwards of 700kg. In a crisis, it’s not as simple as loading them into a car and rushing to the nearest vet clinic. We have to manage the situation on the spot, often administering treatments ourselves while desperately waiting for a professional to arrive. If Murphy had been a smaller animal, I could have driven straight to the vet and demanded care. But because he was a horse, and because I didn’t have $600 on hand, he was left to suffer.
What followed was a nightmare—one that revealed a disturbing gap in the veterinary system, a disconnect between the oath vets take and the reality of how they operate. As I shared this heartbreaking experience, I was flooded with messages from others who had faced the same issue. The question that keeps running through my mind is: why is this okay?
Let me make one thing clear: I am not a vet. I am an equine bodyworker with a holistic approach, believing in the balance between physical and emotional healing. I don’t charge after-hours fees. I don’t diagnose, even when I’ve been right more than once. But these professionals, the ones sworn to care for our animals, can hold us hostage to their fees. That’s what it felt like—ransom.
Here is the cold, hard timeline of events, stripped of emotion, though my heart was breaking through each minute:
17th October 2024
4:15 PM - My partner arrives home and notices Murphy is acting strange—pawing the ground, restless.
4:20 PM - I receive a call to come home immediately.
5:21 PM - We call Vet 1, our regular vet, to whom we’ve given over $1500 in the past two months. They say they’ll call back when the vet is on the way.
5:31 PM - Vet 1 calls back. They’re now closed, and this is an after-hours call. They require $600 upfront. I don’t have it. I offer $200. They suggest borrowing money from someone. I explain I can’t. They say they’ll speak to the owners and call back.
5:33 PM - Vet 1 calls again. They still need $600. When I ask if they’re willing to let my horse die, they hang up on me.
5:41 PM - We call Vet 2. They will speak with their vet.
5:50 PM - We call Vet 3, but their after-hours message says they only see existing clients.
5:55 PM - Vet 2 calls back. They’re sorry, but they have another emergency, and it’s a regular client.
5:57 PM - We call Vet 4 and leave a message.
6:02 PM - We reach out to a friend for suggestions. She recommends all the same vets we’ve already tried, plus one more.
6:22 PM - We call Vet 5. He has personal issues but says what we’ve done so far is good. Murphy has stopped rolling and is walking, but he’s still sweaty. Vet 5 advises us to monitor him and call in 20 minutes.
6:45 PM - We call Vet 5 again. No real change. He says he’ll come.
7:08 PM - Vet 5 confirms he’s on his way—40 minutes away.
7:35 PM - Murphy dies.
7:37 PM - We call Vet 5 to cancel his visit.
18th October
9:43 AM - Vet 4 finally calls back: "Sorry I missed your call, how’s your horse?" My response: "He’s dead."
This isn’t just about Murphy’s death. It’s about a system that has lost sight of its purpose. Money has become more important than the welfare of the animals. Every animal owner knows they don’t just get sick between 9-5, and yet, there is no support.
If any vet reads this, know that if you devoted your practice to after-hours emergencies in the Latrobe Valley, you’d be busy every night. And you’d be the one vet who truly honored the oath you took:
“I will strive to promote animal health and welfare, relieve animal suffering.”
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