Near the holidays, our practice is usually the beneficiary of some great Christmas cheer—clients sending homemade treats and
cards thanking us for our special attention to their valued family members. Last December, we got something else.
Kyle Palmer, CVT
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In our community of just under 10,000 people, we help provide some assistance to both the city and the county. The city has
no animal control department and our county dog control is usually a day or two away. As a result, the practice I manage has
grown accustomed to filling the need from time to time. I've answered my door more than a few times in the middle of the night
to find a police officer with a stray dog in the patrol car. We've held strays on our own dime for days and weeks, hoping
for a reunion that doesn't always come.
Despite our help, we've come under fire from the county for cutting them out of a potential revenue stream. I'm against the
idea of making money on lost pets. I'd rather focus on customer service, and I know good clients make the occasional mistake.
The pet is my priority, and I'm not willing to gamble and play dog roulette to send them to the shelter when that may reduce—even
slightly—the possibility of their successful return. After years of seeing how rarely people look for their lost pets, we
exponentially expanded our microchipping program by practically giving them away.
This last December, a longtime client called to let us know that one of her dogs had escaped and was on the run. For most
of the day, the lost notice was little more than a scrap among the collage of others that are posted in our reception area.
Around 2 p.m., however, a woman entered the clinic with a pet that matched the lost dog's description. She said she'd found
the dog and asked to have it scanned for a microchip. 
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