The Cost of Loving Animals
People often tell me how lucky my animals are.
I know what they mean. They see photographs of dogs running along the beach, horses grazing peacefully in the paddock, and quiet moments that look almost effortless.
What they don't see is everything that happens outside the frame. They don't see the emergency phone calls, the long drives to specialist hospitals, or the hours spent sitting in waiting rooms, trying not to imagine the worst while your dog disappears through a set of swinging doors. They don't see the medication lined up on the kitchen bench, the reminders on your phone telling you what needs to be given and when, or the invoices that quietly accumulate over the years.
People sometimes ask me how much I've spent on my animals. The honest answer is that I stopped keeping track a long time ago. Not because I have endless money. Quite the opposite. There comes a point where you realise the question isn't, Can I afford this? It's, How can I make this work?
If you've ever loved an animal, you'll probably understand. You don't hesitate when your dog needs emergency treatment. You don't negotiate with yourself while your horse is standing in a specialist hospital. You find a way. Somehow, you always find a way.
I've lost count of the number of times I've driven home from a veterinary appointment mentally rearranging my finances before I'd even left the car park. Plans get postponed. Holidays disappear. The new lounge can wait another year. Some weeks, it feels as though every spare dollar has gone to someone with four legs.
I don't resent a cent of it.
That doesn't mean it's easy.
There are nights when you lie awake wondering whether you've made the right decision. Whether you've missed something. Whether your animal is comfortable. Whether tomorrow will be a better day.
Because money eventually returns.
Time doesn't.
Neither do the animals we love.
Two years ago, Rosella became critically ill. Her platelet count dropped to zero. A plasma transfusion failed. At one point, a vet gently suggested euthanasia.
It wasn't an unreasonable suggestion. From a medical and financial perspective, many people would have made the same decision.
I couldn't.
The cost of trying to save her was more than I could afford.
So I started a GoFundMe.
I sold my car.
I found another way.
I don't tell that story because I think everyone should make the same decision. Every situation is different, and there are times when the kindest thing we can do is let an animal go peacefully.
I tell it because, for Rosella, giving up didn't feel like the right decision.
Today, two years later, she's healthy. She runs on the beach, talks to me all day, gives me dog hugs and kisses, insists on massages, and reminds me every single day why I refused to give up on her.
Sometimes I think about what would have happened if I'd listened to that advice.
The money would have stayed in my bank account.
I'd have kept my car.
But every day for the past two years, I would have carried an unbearable pain, wondering whether I'd walked away too soon.
Instead, the money came back.
Eventually, so did another car.
Rosella didn't.
Because she never left.
Some things can be replaced.
She couldn't.
People sometimes describe animals as expensive. They're right. They are. But that's only part of the story. The real cost isn't measured in dollars. It's measured in responsibility, in worry, in rearranged lives, in cancelled plans, in learning far more about medicine than you ever expected to, and in becoming an expert on one particular animal because no one else in the world knows them quite the way you do.
And then, every now and again, something reminds you why none of it mattered. A dog resting her head on your knee. A horse softly greeting you when she hears your voice. A quiet walk on an empty beach. A morning when everyone is healthy, everyone is together, and for a little while life feels wonderfully ordinary.
Those moments never appear on the invoice.
But somehow, they're the part you remember.