Preface
I shared this blog not just to start a conversation, but to continue my advocacy for pet families—their right to choose, their right to transparency, and their right to fair pricing in aftercare. While I expected strong reactions, I did not expect the level of hostility, personal attacks, and bad-faith arguments that followed.
I understand that not every practice operates this way. I understand that veterinarians and staff are doing their best, often under difficult circumstances. If this article doesn’t reflect your experience, that’s okay—but it doesn’t change the fact that it reflects mine (with one notable exception) with real-life examples that should be far more concerning than the fact that I’m writing about them.
And this issue is bigger than me. Independent aftercare providers across North America and Europe are facing similar challenges, increasingly shut out as corporate consolidation takes over veterinary care—something that has been widely reported in the media. These challenges are only getting worse, yet the conversation around them remains largely silenced.
At the same time, pet care is evolving. Families today embrace pets as true family members in ways they never have before—investing in their health, well-being, and end-of-life care with the same love and responsibility as they would for any loved one. Yet aftercare has not evolved to reflect that shift. Instead, it is held back by a system designed for profit, not compassion. Why should families be denied the same level of dignity, choice, and transparency in aftercare that they demand in every other aspect of their pet’s life?
The consequence? If this continues unchecked, pet owners will soon have no real choices at all. Anti-competitive practices and corporate buyouts are making it harder and harder for independent providers to survive. If we don’t push for transparency and fair competition now, grieving families will be left with only one option—whatever the largest corporate provider decides to offer at whatever price they choose to set. Where does that leave pet families?
I welcome respectful discussion and differing perspectives, but what I saw in the comments was neither. The majority were not constructive, not thoughtful, and not rooted in a genuine desire for conversation. Because of that, I have chosen to remove the commenting option.
That does not change my experience. It does not change the realities I have witnessed. And it does not change the fact that transparency in aftercare is a conversation worth having—whether people are comfortable with it or not.
If you take the time to read this piece with an open mind, I encourage you to reflect on why transparency in veterinary aftercare is so controversial, who benefits from keeping these conversations quiet, and what happens if nothing changes.
“It’s just business,” they said.
I am grateful for the care my pets have received through local mobile and brick-and-mortar veterinary services. And I have learned the veterinary industry does not like scrutiny. It thrives in the shadows, built on trust, emotion, and grief—particularly grief. Because when a pet dies, an unspoken transaction takes place—one most pet owners never think to question. A transaction takes place, disguised as compassion but driven by profit. "We’ll take care of this for you." That’s what they say. And that’s what we believe.
But that belief may be misplaced.
A local mobile euthanasia service provides a truly compassionate in-home euthanasia experience—one I have personally recommended to many of my clients. They understand what grieving pet owners want. They know what they expect. And on social media, that is exactly what they are shown: serene images of pillows and blankets pets are gently wrapped for transportation from their homes, as if they are being carried through the final stage of their journey with love and care.
But what is left out is what happens after—when those same pets are placed in body bags, stacked in a freezer in their garage, and left to wait for twice-weekly pickup. The portrayal is not an outright falsehood, but it is a deliberate omission—one designed to comfort the living rather than reveal the reality of the dead. And that omission is even more striking because there is an alternative—one where pets are never placed in a body bag or a chest freezer, where they are cared for the same day and returned to their families within days. The profit margin isn't as robust, but what would people choose if they could?
What does "We’ll take care of this for you" really mean?
It means a corporate deal, hidden from view. It means massive price markups, far beyond reasonable costs. It means the body of your pet—a being who was part of your family—is immediately monetized. Some clinics charge grieving owners exorbitant fees, pocketing the difference between the actual cost and the inflated price. Some 'corporate partners' sweeten the deal with perks—free cremations for staff, commissions on urn sales, even catered lunches—while also covering the cost of body bags and freezers, ensuring veterinarians stay loyal to their contracts without ever having to absorb the operational costs themselves. The grief-stricken rarely ask questions. The industry banks on it.
I know this because I tried to offer something better. I built a service that provided dignity in aftercare—no hidden markups, no corporate profiteering. And what did I learn? That transparency is unwelcome. That offering pet owners a choice is a problem. Because this industry is not designed to serve grieving pet owners—it is designed to extract from them.
A client of mine, preparing for her pet’s euthanasia, informed her veterinarian that she wished to use my services for cremation. The clinic’s response? She would have to transport her pet’s body home for pick-up if she wanted to use an independent provider, an inconvenience easily avoided if I were allowed to pick up her pet at the clinic like funeral homes do from hospitals. A grieving pet owner, forced into the impossible position of carrying her dead companion home because her veterinarian didn’t want to lose a transaction. Not because there was a lack of care, not because there were no means to assist her—but because it did not serve their financial interests. Now, imagine if a hospital told a grieving family that if they wanted to use an independent funeral home, they would have to transport the body home for pick-up there. The very notion would be appalling—unthinkable. And yet, in veterinary aftercare, this is happening.
Another pet owner, searching for cremation pricing in Stratford, called me, stunned by the numbers she was given. My fee for her 10-pound pet was hundreds of dollars less than the next cheapest option she found locally. And for what? Storage in a freezer, a routine transfer to a corporate crematorium, and a return in a box. The best part? I returned their beloved pet’s remains before she would have even been picked up from the veterinary clinic for transport to the corporate crematorium.
These are not isolated incidents. And they persist because veterinarians—our most trusted professionals—do not disclose these financial arrangements. The College of Veterinarians of Ontario, the regulatory body tasked with oversight, does nothing to change this. When I raised my concerns, their response was bureaucratic indifference. Veterinarians, they assured me, are free to choose their providers. There is no obligation to inform clients of THEIR options. There is no ethical violation in exploiting grief.
Their advice to me? Build trust with veterinarians over time. Accept the system as it is. Convince those profiting from this structure to grant me a seat at the table—on their terms. And if I believed a veterinarian's actions were unethical? I was welcome to file a report. A bureaucratic suggestion, not a solution. A dead-end designed to preserve the very system I was questioning.
This wasn’t a call for reform. It was a warning: the status quo is not to be disturbed.
I wanted local pet families to know they had a choice—one that met the same standard I held for family. I tried to engage with veterinary clinics, hoping to offer an alternative for local pet parents. Instead, I was told, in no uncertain terms, that if they were to throw me a bone—literally—I had to play by their rules: match corporate pricing, raise my rates to align with their markup, and take down my pricing. Transparency, it seemed, was dangerous—bad for business, bad for maintaining the illusion of choice. If pet owners saw the real numbers, they might start asking questions. They might take their business elsewhere. They might realize that the 'compassion' they were being sold was nothing more than another carefully crafted revenue stream.
My former veterinarians pressured me to fall in line—match corporate high-volume pricing, offer perks, and raise my prices just enough to make their markups look reasonable. It was clinical, calculated, crass. They told me outright: if my prices were too low, people wouldn’t question their inflated fees—they’d question MINE. They told me the people don't bat an eye at prices, they just pay. They wanted the illusion of choice, but only if every choice led back to them.
Yet when one of their own lost a pet, the system she defended was suddenly not good enough. A veterinarian from that same clinic called on me on a summer long weekend. She refused to let her own dog be left in a freezer. She leaned on me, taking my time and seeking compassion. She wept in my arms, receiving the very dignity she had denied her own clients. At that moment, she was not a businesswoman—she was simply a grieving pet owner who wanted what was best for her beloved companion. But when it was her turn to return to work, when the grief was no longer hers, she stepped right back into the system, back into the machine that demands profit over mercy, secrecy over choice.
And when she returned to retrieve her pet’s remains a few days later, she acknowledged the service she had sought out helped her in her own moment of sorrow. She also told me how busy she was. They had eight euthanasia appointments that day—eight grieving families, and eight beloved pets crossing that threshold. And yet, not one of them came my way. Did they not deserve the same dignity she had taken for herself? Would those pet owners have chosen freezer-free, compassionate, and expedited care too if given the choice? Did they not deserve better than a cold goodbye on a stainless table or the clinic floor?
I did not start this to expose a system. I started this as a grieving pet owner who wanted something better. I built a service that prioritized dignity over profit, transparency over secrecy. And I learned that the problem isn’t just the corporations running these crematoriums. It is the veterinarians who sign the contracts. It is the regulators who look away. It is the entire structure that reduces the love we have for our pets to an economic opportunity.
Should veterinarians profit from aftercare? If they are investing in necessary capital expenditures, covering operating costs, managing memorials and inventory, transporting pets, and provide aftercare—fine. But that’s not what’s happening. They simply secure a contract, bag the pet, inflate prices, and collect the difference. And they do it because they can. Because no one asks. Because grief is profitable, and compassion is expensive.
Pet owners deserve better—better than secrecy, better than exploitation. They deserve transparency, the right to choose, and a system that does not see their sorrow as a financial opportunity.
This is not just about my experience. It is not just about one veterinary clinic. It is about an industry that refuses scrutiny because scrutiny is bad for business.
And it's time we demand change.
There are exceptions, but they are hard to find. I found veterinarians in an independent practice making ethical and considerate choices. It's where I take our pets. They are proof that integrity still exists in this industry, that pet aftercare can be guided by compassion rather than profit margins.
Final Thoughts
I understand that conversations like this are difficult. The veterinary industry is facing a mental health crisis, and that should never be ignored. But silencing discussions about transparency, ethics, and fair treatment of grieving pet owners does not protect anyone’s well-being—it only protects the status quo. Critiquing a system is not the same as attacking individuals, and the reality is that aftercare providers—many of whom enter this work to help ease grief, not create conflict—are being pushed out by the same corporate interests that are making veterinary care unbearable for so many.
The stories I’ve shared are real, but they are not just about one person, one clinic, or one city. They are part of a larger, growing pattern that independent providers across North America and beyond are facing. If we care about the emotional toll of this industry, then we should be asking how we make it better for everyone—not just veterinarians, but pet families, independent providers, and those who dedicate their lives to honoring the bond between people and their pets. Hard conversations like this are necessary, not harmful. And if transparency, informed choice, and fair treatment are seen as threats, then maybe that is the real problem.