Just Because We Can, Doesn't Mean We Should

This phrase is used often in human and veterinary medicine—particularly among veterinary teams working in emergency and critical care. It's not something we typically say aloud to pet families, but it is a guiding principle that helps keep us focused on what matters most: the welfare and quality of life of our primary patient—the pet.

Advances in veterinary medicine are remarkable. New medications, surgeries, imaging tools, and monitoring capabilities allow us to extend life in ways that were once unimaginable. And many of these advances truly restore comfort, function, and joy. In those cases, extending life and preserving quality go hand in hand.

But extending life should never be the goal on its own.

An extended life can sometimes mean prolonged pain, fear, anxiety, and repeated hospitalizations. A major surgery or aggressive treatment plan in a five-year-old dog may be reasonable, even if it involves temporary discomfort, because the outcome could be many more years of good quality living. That same approach in a thirteen-year-old dog already coping with arthritis, vision loss, or chronic dental disease carries very different risks. Instead of restoration, it may result in months—or years—of suffering, confusion, time away from home, chronic medications, and emotional strain for both pet and family. 

       A Story That Stays With Me 

Years ago, while working an emergency medicine shift, I treated a cat who had suffered severe head trauma when a large sheet of drywall fell onto him. He showed significant neurological impairment. The cat belonged to a no-kill shelter, and euthanasia was not an option. I stabilized him and referred him to a neurology specialist at a veterinary teaching hospital.

Months later, the shelter returned with the cat to show me his "progress." He was alive. He could eat and drink. He tolerated some petting. He could walk a little, though he could no longer jump. His body was visibly contorted, and I was told he wasn't as mentally alert as he once had been.

They were happy he had survived.

From my perspective, more than $20,000 (in today's dollars) had been spent to preserve a life that was no longer truly lived. The cat existed—but he could not experience the world in the way a cat should. This is just one of many stories that have shaped how I think about care, compassion, and responsibility. 

       Choosing With the Pet in Mind 

Just because we can, doesn't mean we should.

When faced with serious illness or injury, we owe it to our pets to step back and ask hard, honest questions. What is their current quality of life? What is the likely trajectory of their condition? Is there a realistic expectation of returning to comfort and joy? And what is the cost—not only financially, but emotionally and physically—for both the pet and their family?

Most importantly, we must examine our intent. Are we pursuing treatment for the pet's sake, or because letting go feels unbearable?

These decisions are incredibly difficult. Pets cannot tell us their wishes. Families carry the weight of love, hope, guilt, and grief. Veterinary teams feel the moral and emotional burden of guiding families through choices that have no perfect answer.

In future posts, we'll explore how hospice and palliative care partnerships can help families navigate these complexities—supporting comfort, dignity, and thoughtful decision-making, including when euthanasia may be the kindest option.

Because doing everything possible is not always the same as doing what is right.