We have arrived at the point where owning a pet feels like signing up for another child, complete with mounting, unpredictable private medical bills and a corporate business model that treats compassion as a margin driver.
Veterinary practice used to be a straightforward, local profession. You built a relationship with a vet you trusted. They knew your animal’s quirks, they offered sensible advice, and if something went wrong you felt their clinical judgement – not a balance sheet – shaped your care. That model is collapsing under the weight of private equity and consolidators who now dominate the sector.
These companies wave statements about “not pursuing profit” like a talisman. Yet behind the PR, they impose production targets on their clinicians – quotas for scans, for dental procedures, for revenue per head of cattle or cat. That is not subtle. Targets are the language of commerce, not medicine. When a vet has to justify why they did not hit a numerical target for advanced diagnostics, the clinical compass tilts towards the financial one. Reassurances about quality ring hollow when the remuneration frameworks embed targets that mirror high-street sales metrics.
Prices have soared. Simple consultations can cost a small fortune; diagnostics and procedures quickly add four-figure sums. Pet insurance helps, but premiums are rising too, and excesses bite. For many owners it no longer feels like caring for a companion; it feels like servicing debt. You start budgeting for “that inevitable vet bill” the way you would for university fees – only with less certainty and greater anxiety.
The defenders of the corporate model point to investment and modern equipment. Fine. Upgrading X-rays and ultrasound machines is good. But investment is not a virtue if it comes with a compulsory quota for their use. A bit like insisting that every child must sit five extra exams a year to justify the school’s new sports hall.
The real scandal is not simply that vets are expensive. Good clinical care should cost money. The scandal is that the financial incentives under the new ownership structures actively shape clinical pathways towards more, and more expensive, interventions. Targets on medical procedures are a profit mechanism wearing a clinical coat.
Pet ownership should be a joy, not a ledger exercise where every sneeze leads to a quotation and every limp triggers a target-driven scan. If we want to preserve trust between owners and clinicians we need to call out the rhetoric for what it is: a corporate gloss on what is essentially a commercialised health service with all the perverse incentives that entails.
Until that truth is faced, “loving your pet” will continue to mean planning for another child with none of the love but all of the bills.
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