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Journal of Contemporary Ethnography

Managing Pet Owners’ 41(3) 337­–365

© The Author(s) 2012
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DOI: 10.1177/0891241611435099
Veterinary Euthanasia http://jce.sagepub.com

Encounters

Patricia Morris1

Abstract
Through examining the emotion-laden encounters between veterinarians
and bereaved pet owners, this study focuses attention on a group of medical
professionals who manage the emotions of their clients in light of opposing
contextual goals. While negotiating possible outcomes for animal patients,
veterinary emotion work is designed to assuage guilt and grief to facili-
tate timely and rational decisions. However, after clients make the difficult
decision to euthanize their pet, veterinary emotion work is geared toward
creating “safe” emotional space for grieving clients. This study illustrates that
veterinarians have a growing commitment to comforting the owners of eutha-
nized animals and to validating their feelings of grief, pain, and sorrow. On a
broader, theoretical level, this study also applies and extends concepts developed
in previous sociological analyses of emotion management and human–animal
relationships.

Keywords
emotion management in the workplace, euthanasia, socioemotional economy,
sociozoologic scale, human-animal relationships, veterinary medicine

1
Drury University, Springfield, MO, USA

Corresponding Author:
Patricia Morris, Drury University, Behavioral Science Department, 900 North Benton Avenue,
Springfield, MO 65802
Email: [email protected]

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338 Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 41(3)

Introduction
Euthanasia is different for today’s vets. Today people have varying relation-
ships with their pets, but very often they will see their pets as members of their
family. . . . This is kind of a new paradigm with regard to euthanasia. The old
way of doing things was when a person wanted to euthanize their dog, you
would take it in the back and it gets euthanized. . . . The client was really not
involved in the process at all. We are really getting away from that, but there
are still veterinarians [who] do that. There are still some veterinarians where it
is a business thing. You go up front and pay the money and the dog goes in the
back and gets euthanized. It is not warm at all. Most people now, however,
want to be more intimately involved with euthanasia. They want it to be a nice
experience.
—Forty-four-year-old male, veterinary professor discusses
euthanasia in a lecture to his seniors

Inspired by Hochschild’s (1983) groundbreaking analyses, much of the litera-

ture analyzing emotions in the workplace focuses on how individuals manage
their own emotions to meet cultural or occupational feeling norms (Smith and
Kleinman 1989; Sutton 1991). This research has sparked interest in how paid
professionals and volunteers try to influence the emotions of others. In a variety
of workplace settings, researchers note how workers use emotion management
strategies to achieve interactional and organizational goals (DeCoster 1997;
Jones 1997; Thoits 1996). For example, search-and-rescue workers count on
particular emotion management strategies to minimize awkward interactions
with tearful family members and distressed victims (Lois 2001). Also, bill col-
lectors manipulate debtors’ emotions in order to recover their employers’ lost
revenue—an obvious organizational goal (Rafaeli and Sutton 1991).
Although scholars have turned their attentions to the strategies workers use to
manage the emotions of others in the workplace, few have sought to untangle the
larger conditions that shape the application of emotion work. In other words, how
do competing occupational demands and opposing situational goals influence
emotion management? Recent research in emotion work suggests that workers
strategically apply emotion management techniques as dictated by contextual
demands and goals. For example, when studying search-and-rescue staff, Lois
(2001) found that they manage the emotions of victims and their family members
in qualitatively different ways. The targeted emotion work of rescuers allows for
the successful rescue of distressed victims in one context and minimizes awk-
ward interactions with tearful family members in another context.
Drawing on Goffman’s insights regarding tight and loose social situations,
Lois describes how rescue workers tightly controlled victims’ emotions, but

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Morris 339

created loose emotional guidelines for family members. Goffman (1963)

argues that all social situations are marked by a certain degree of “tightness”
or “looseness.” He describes tight occasions “as ones in which the partici-
pants have many onerous situational obligations” and loose occasions as ones
in which participants are “relatively free of these constraints” (207). When
interacting with family members desperately awaiting news of their missing
or endangered loved ones, rescue workers allowed them to “express a variety
of emotions related to their grief, such as guilt or joy about the past, uncer-
tainty or faith about the present, and fear or hope about the future” (Lois
2001, 155). Given that families are relatively free of behavioral and emo-
tional obligation, rescue workers create loose emotional situations for anx-
ious families. However, when interacting with victims in a rescue context,
workers construct rigid behavioral and emotional expectations for them.
During rescue situations, workers “wield a great deal of authority in defining
the situation and, thus, the norms and roles that correspond to it. They establish
power by taking control and demanding specific emotional reactions from others,
from whom they allow little input” (Lois 2001, 139). Rescue workers act as tight
emotion managers in this context because they fear certain emotions might inter-
fere with successful rescue attempts. For example, tight emotion work helps vic-
tims to “save face” when they feel embarrassed about their predicament and
remain focused when they feel anxious during the rescue. As such, workers
tightly transform and suppress problematic emotions in the rescue context but
they loosely manage the emotions of family, allowing for the open expression of
vulnerable emotions. The tight and loose emotion management strategies of res-
cue workers facilitate contextual goals, resolve problematic interactions, and help
both family members and victims “arrive at particularly healthy and useful emo-
tions for their situation” (Lois 2001, 152). Guided by Lois’s findings, this article
explores how veterinarians strategically apply emotion management techniques
as dictated by contextual demands and interactional goals.
Although scholarly interest in veterinarians has increased in recent years
(e.g., Arluke 1997, 2004; Atwood-Harvey 2005; Gauthier 2001; Irvine and
Vermilya 2010; Sanders 1994, 1995; Stanford and Keto 1991), relatively few
studies have focused attention on the work of these medical professionals.
While scholars have focused extensively on how physicians manage the
emotions of various types of patients (Coates and Lo 1990; DeCoster 1997;
Groves 1978) as well as patients’ grieving families (Fuller and Geis 1985),
only a few analysts have investigated emotions in veterinary interactions. For
example, Sanders (2010) has focused on how veterinarians deal with the least
appealing features of their emotional and physical tasks, and Swabe (1994)
has highlighted how the display of emotions in euthanasia encounters differs
from the typical, “unemotional” veterinary interaction between client and

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340 Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 41(3)

professional. Although Swabe’s work pioneers the discussion of emotions

among veterinarians, she does not discuss any of the specific strategies that
veterinarians adopt to manage clients’ emotions.
In the following pages, I delineate how physicians and veterinarians rely on
similar forms of emotion management to deal with the feelings of their respec-
tive patients/human clients. In doing so, I draw on Lois’s (2001) innovative use
of Goffman’s distinctions between tight and loose social situations to describe
the emotion management strategies veterinarians use to address competing
situational goals. My analysis reflects the symbolic interactionist perspective,
especially the notion that human interaction is guided by, derived from, and
modified through people’s interpretations and definitions of each other’s
actions (Blumer 1969; Sandstrom, Martin, and Fine 2010). Thus, in accord
with Francis’s (1994) concept of interpersonal emotion management, the anal-
ysis that follows assumes emotional exchanges occur anytime individuals
allow others to direct, mold, induce, or alter their emotions.
My analysis of veterinary euthanasia provides me with an opportunity to
synthesize concepts drawn not only from sociological analyses of emotion
work but also from sociological studies of human–animal relationships. For
example, I apply Clark’s (1997) notion of the socioemotional economy in
combination with Arluke and Sanders’s (1996) concept of a sociozoologic
scale to analyze euthanasia-related interactions that take place between vet-
erinarians and pet owners. As Clark observed when discussing the socioemo-
tional economy, sympathy is an important emotional resource that people
exchange according to culturally prescribed rules. Clark (1997, 131) noted
that “people limit sympathy depending on what they know, think they know,
or suspect about a person’s social value. Social value entitles a person to
sympathy margins. The greater one’s social value the wider and deeper the
margins others create for him or her.”
When elaborating the notion of the sociozoologic scale, Arluke and Sanders
pointed out that the social value of any species is determined by their position
along a culturally defined continuum. With humans at the top, an animal’s
relative position establishes whether or not we, as a society, worship, protect,
segregate, or seek to destroy others of its kind. Although any human or ani-
mal’s place along the scale is flexible, the higher an animal falls along the
“sociozoologic scale,” the less we tolerate their mistreatment (and the more
we evaluate their death as worthy of grief). Most crucially, by combining the
insights of Arluke and Sanders with Clark’s ideas, I demonstrate how societal
attitudes regarding nonhuman animals shape the socioemotional exchange of
veterinary euthanasia.

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Morris 341

Setting and Method

This discussion draws on data gathered through approximately 18 months of
ethnographic research immersed in the day-to-day activities of Doctors of
Veterinary Medicine (DVMs). This research was approved by my universi-
ty’s Institutional Review Board. In addition to interviewing participants
about their experiences with euthanasia, I also observed their interactions
with human clients, animal patients, veterinary technicians, and colleagues.
My initial fieldwork, secured through my friendship with an employee, con-
sisted of spending three months in a large veterinary teaching hospital in
New York. Based on that experience, I was invited to attend several classes
at a New England veterinary college, including a half-day seminar specifi-
cally focused on euthanasia. Next, I timed my fieldwork at a large teaching
hospital in Massachusetts to coincide with their thirteen-month internship
program. Finally, I compared what I had learned in the northeast with two
months of fieldwork in an emergency hospital in Santa Barbara, California.
To develop the analysis presented in this article, I used the inductive pro-
cess of grounded theory (Glaser and Strauss 1967). In order to allow themes
to develop inductively from participants, I initially used a semistructured
interview guide. However, consistent with a grounded theory approach, I
modified my interview guide over time, asking questions in follow-up inter-
views that were based on recursive analysis of the themes that emerged from
previous interviews and field observations. Throughout my time with veteri-
narians, I regularly compared key themes from my fieldnotes and transcribed
interviews to my earlier expectations and assumptions. By collecting and
analyzing data in an ongoing, interactive process, I repeatedly tested the
accuracy of my analysis and ensured that it was firmly grounded in both par-
ticipants’ narratives and observable experiences.
The fact that my findings were consistent across multiple settings suggests
they are credible beyond the specific organizational culture of one hospital.
However, given that my participants were not selected in a way intended to
represent all DVMs, I do not claim to offer a comprehensive or broadly gener-
alizable view of veterinary euthanasia as it is practiced everywhere in the
United States. My research is limited in scope to “small-animal” veterinarians
who exclusively administer care to pets or companion animals (as opposed to
“large-animal” veterinarians who treat copiously sized farm animals). In regard
to the terminology used in this article, I refer to those who pay for veterinary
services as clients, owners, and caretakers and those who receive veterinary
care as patients, companion animals, and pets. I also refer to the veterinarians I
observed and interviewed as participants. As small-animal veterinarians, my

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342 Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 41(3)

participants were not especially unique. In fact, between 65 and 70 percent of

U.S. veterinarians’ earnings in 2008 came from treating small animals, while
less than fifteen percent of all veterinarians work exclusively in large-animal
practices (AVMA 2008b).
The majority of my participants differ from typical American veterinari-
ans because they practice in large, teaching hospitals rather than small, locally
owned clinics (AVMA 2010). With state-of-the-art technology and board-
certified specialists, teaching hospitals usually offer clients the most advanced
veterinary care available in their area, including emergency or critical care,
ophthalmology, neurology, and oncology services as well as cardiovascular
and orthopedic surgery. In addition to these sophisticated referral services,
teaching hospitals provide the same preventive and basic health care offered
by most small-animal clinicians. As such, teaching hospitals exposed me to a
large number of clients seeking care for animal patients with a wide variety
of medical conditions.
Teaching hospitals also exposed me to a large number of veterinarians
who reflected diversity in gender, age, and expertise. Although 70 percent of
the participants I interviewed were women, the demographics of my settings
reflect those of the profession. Women make up approximately half of prac-
ticing veterinarians (AVMA 2010) and nearly 80 percent of veterinary stu-
dents (Chieffo, Kelly, and Ferguson 2008). Given that teaching hospitals host
a large number of residents and interns who recently graduated from veteri-
nary school, I expected to have a greater percentage of female participants. In
terms of expertise and age, I captured a wide range of perspectives from
novices to skilled specialists with nearly forty years of experience, ranging in
age from twenty-five to sixty-two years. All told, my data consisted of eighty-
one formal interviews with fifty-four veterinarians and more than six hun-
dred hours of participant observation.
During my fieldwork, I was especially concerned with how I might influ-
ence the behavior of those I observed (Lofland et al. 2005). However, many
factors suggest that my presence did not significantly alter the actions of my
participants. First, because I essentially played the role of a pseudo-student, I
believe my presence was minimally invasive and not especially conspicuous
to veterinary participants or their clients. Staff members employed in teaching
hospitals are accustomed to student observers taking diligent notes and spend-
ing time in their workspace. Clients were never told of my identity as a
researcher; however, they probably assumed that I was a veterinary student or
technician because I often borrowed lab coats, dressed in hospital scrubs, and
helped veterinarians with simple tasks.
Although some participants did not feel immediately at ease with me or see
me as a person they could trust, as time unfolded I believe I built the necessary

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Morris 343

rapport known to facilitate authentic data collection (Warren and Karner 2005).
First, I spent a great deal of time with participants, and we shared both the frustra-
tion of difficult cases and the joy of heroic life-saving events. Observing as many
cases as possible on day, evening, and overnight shifts helped me to build rapport
and established my genuine interest in their work. While no employee refused to
allow me to observe them at work, I was unable to schedule formal interviews
with every veterinarian employed at the hospitals because of time constraints.
Given my participants’ demanding schedules, a few of the interviews took place
in break rooms or hallways during slow shifts. In most cases, however, the inter-
views took place while participants were off duty in isolated areas of the hospital,
such as the library or private office. I conducted the majority of interviews for
approximately one hour but some lasted for as long as three hours.
In addition to spending many hours with participants, I built rapport by shar-
ing in the daily “grind” of the profession (Arluke and Sanders 1996). My duties
included cleaning exam tables, bathing animals, monitoring equipment, deliv-
ering charts across the hospital, and assisting in noncritical procedures such as
restraining patients or taking their temperatures. In fact, I once sustained a
semiserious injury while helping to control a very agitated feline patient.
Admittedly, I wore short sleeves proudly for a week after that incident with
hopes that others would notice my wounds and interpret the injury as a sign of
my commitment to the project. Over time, I became especially good at an
unpopular task known as “expressing” anal glands. Without going into much
detail, suffice it to say the oily secretions one must gently coax out of the swol-
len gland have a very disagreeable odor to humans. Thankfully, the sometimes
painful and pungent tasks helped build rapport with participants and facilitated
discussion of emotionally uncomfortable work-related experiences.
Humor also greatly aided my transition from “outsider” status to accep-
tance in the private workspace of veterinarians. Participants publically ana-
lyzed my character through the telling and retelling of two particularly
embarrassing events that happened to me early in my fieldwork. The first
story involved a horrific accident that occurred while transporting a large,
wheeled container packed full of animal cadavers to the crematorium. When
tipping back the wheeled container, I lost my balance and slipped, causing the
bodies to spill out on top of me. Told with increasingly exaggerated detail and
humorous glee by many participants, this story, which recounted lifeless ani-
mals falling on my face, always elicited a hearty laugh. The second comedic
event involved a devilishly planned practical joke in which I was asked to
feel inside the rectum of a Bullmastiff for foreign objects. This dog had ren-
dered himself unable to defecate by consuming an unsupervised birthday
cake which had been artfully decorated with pieces from a Civil War chess
set. As I stuck my fingers into his rectum, I managed to grab a missing rook

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344 Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 41(3)

which helped the patient release a sudden gush of black diarrhea all over my
face and clothes. Anticipating this explosion, the entire clinic erupted in
laughter and cheers.
My willingness to laugh at these emotionally troubling and embarrassing
situations reinforced my reputation as someone who can withstand the diffi-
cult parts of the job and who can be trusted with sensitive “insider” informa-
tion. Similar to Sanders’s (2004) experience as a researcher among sex
workers, in every setting I became the source of jokes, gags, and funny sto-
ries aimed at testing my willingness to “play along.” For example, partici-
pants often playfully implied that I was macabre or morbid because of my
research interest in euthanasia. Interns particularly enjoyed making me the
target of humor by asking me technical questions in front of clients so that
they could later take mischievous pleasure laughing at my awkward and
unscientific responses. Although such teasing may seem alienating, it made
me feel welcome. Workplace researchers repeatedly note humor as a key part
of socializing newcomers, relieving tension, and building a sense of group
camaraderie (Francis 1994). As such, participating in playful repartee and
good-humored teasing not only reinforced my acceptance as an insider but
also helped participants become more comfortable with me (and I with them).
Eventually, participants came to see me as a confidant, and I became
increasingly certain that I could trust their descriptions and see their actions
as genuine. As time passed, participants brought up sensitive matters without
my prodding and sometimes went out of their way to find me in the hospital
to share stories they thought relevant to the project. For example, after notic-
ing my interest in the euthanasia-related cards, letters, and gifts displayed
around their offices, participants often saved them to share with me during
our interviews. Although I did not do an official content analysis of these
cards and letters, I transcribed some of the key content in my fieldnotes.
While my fieldwork was often emotionally upsetting and physically exhaust-
ing, my use of ethnographic methods gave me direct access to the private and
emotionally charged interactions between veterinarians and their clients.

Results
Pet Owners’ Emotions: Guilt and Grief

Today’s “companion” or “small” animal veterinarians must attend not only

to the death of their patients but also to the emotions of their human clients.
Until the middle of the twentieth century, veterinarians worked almost exclu-
sively to maintain the optimal physical condition of economically valuable

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Morris 345

transportation and farm animals (Bryant and Snizek 1976). Early pet owners
assumed the duties of caring for their pets’ health and well-being and, when
it came to ending the lives of suffering or unwanted animals, they “put them
down” at home. Over time, however, pet owners began to regard home meth-
ods such as shooting or drowning as inconvenient, distasteful and, in some
cases, cruel or inhumane (Grier 2006). Concerned with how best to alleviate
(or simply evaluate) their animals’ suffering, pet owners progressively turned
to veterinarians for assistance, not only in managing their pets’ health but
also in attending to their deaths.
As euthanasia became an increasingly common task for veterinarians, the
procedure typically took place in the backrooms of clinics, far from the view
of pet owners. As late as 1981, articles in veterinary journals strongly discour-
aged practitioners from allowing client access to the death of their pets (e.g.,
Bustad, Hines, and Leathers 1981). Apprehensive that grieving clients would
become an additional time-consuming burden, veterinarians also expressed
concern that witnessing the death of beloved companions might be emotion-
ally disturbing for clients. While some veterinarians continue to ban pet own-
ers from euthanasia procedures, many criticize such policy as old-fashioned
and inconsiderate of clients’ wishes and expectations. In fact, surveys confirm
that the majority of pet owners strongly believe veterinarians should allow
clients the option to remain with their animals during euthanasia procedures
(Adams, Bonnett, and Meek 2000; Martin et al. 2004). Thus, many veterinar-
ians today interact with emotionally distraught clients leading up to and after
they have made the difficult decision to end the life of their pet.
Unlike the typical “unemotional” veterinary consultation, euthanasia-
related conversation between the veterinarian and client are often marked by
at least some degree of emotional distress (Swabe 1994). Although I wit-
nessed some pet owners make seemingly callous decisions regarding the
death of their animals, I more often observed emotionally distraught owners
who request to hold their companion animals during the euthanasia and spend
time with their bodies after they die. This pattern held true not only for own-
ers of dogs and cats but also of birds, mice, ferrets, hamsters, and even an
iguana. Veterinarians classified pet owners’ troubling emotions into two main
categories: those associated with grief (e.g., sadness, distress) and those asso-
ciated with guilt (e.g., doubt, regret).
For many pet owners, the death of a companion animal can feel similar to
the loss of a human relationship (Gerwolls and Labott 1994). In fact, research-
ers have found similar grief reactions among people mourning the death of
animals and those experiencing a human loss (Carmack 1985; Quackenbush
1985). Wrobel and Dye’s (2003) study of adults whose pet recently died

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346 Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 41(3)

found that 86 percent initially experienced at least one symptom of grief

while 35 percent continued to experience a symptom at six months and 22
percent at one year. Gage and Holcomb (1991) found males rated pet loss
about as stressful as the loss of a close friendship and females rated the loss
about as stressful as losing touch with their married children. As one might
suspect, a person’s experience of grief following the death of a pet is related
to their level of emotional attachment to the animal (Brown, Richards, and
Wilson 1996; Field et al. 2009). However, evidence suggests the deaths of
companion animals have become increasingly significant stressors in the
lives of pet owners (Chur-Hansen 2010; Gosse and Barnes 1994; Planchon
and Templer 1996; Stern 1996).
The decision to end the life of a companion animal can intensify the grief
process and cause many pet owners to experience troubling feelings of guilt.
While some pet owners feel guilty about simply considering the option of
euthanasia, others report feeling guilt and failure long after the animal’s death
(Ross and Baron-Sorenson 1998). Scholars repeatedly document conflicting
feelings that often emerge from giving consent for euthanasia (Hetts and Lagoni
1990; Meyers 2002; Stewart et al. 1985; Weisman 1991). Pet owners report a
significant amount of regret and guilt when they believe they contributed to the
medical problem that led to the decision to euthanize or when they made the
decision to euthanize based primarily on financial considerations (Hart, Hart,
and Mader 1990). Even when pet owners view euthanasia as a humane option,
they often feel guilty about their decision or question whether they made the
right decision (Adams, Bonnett, and Meek 2000). In fact, pet owners, con-
cerned about their choice to euthanize, often phoned veterinarians to seek reas-
surance that they had made an “appropriate” and “reasonable” decision.

Managing Owners’ Guilt: Veterinarians’

Use of Tight Emotion Work
Euthanasia decision making can also be a frustrating and stressful experience
for the veterinarian. For example, hours may feel like days for veterinarians
when they believe that an animal is suffering, but the owner needs time to
decide between euthanasia and expensive life-saving treatment. One such
case involved a feline patient who, struck by a car, suffered serious but treat-
able injuries. Although the owner could not afford the emergency fee or the
funds necessary to repair the injuries, he did not want to end his companion’s
life. After “doping the patient up” on pain medication, the veterinarian does
her best to convince the client to authorize the surgery or the euthanasia. The
veterinarian firmly believes her client’s emotions prevent him from making a

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Morris 347

difficult choice: “This man is suffering from serious grief at the thought of
losing his cat, but he also feels guilty because he let her get outside the house.
. . . You can’t waffle on something like this. . . . It is inhumane to leave this
animal the way it is, and it can be agonizing on us when they won’t make a
decision!” Participants often felt their clients’ emotions (particularly guilt and
grief) had the potential to impair their ability to make timely medical deci-
sions.
Circumstances in which guilt is not easily managed are often particularly
frustrating for the veterinarian as demonstrated by the case of Daisy, a Golden
Retriever, who swallowed a toothpick accidentally left inside her owner’s ham-
burger. When the toothpick perforated her gastrointestinal tract, she developed
a debilitating case of peritonitis. After Daisy’s first surgery to correct the dam-
age, she relapsed. Because of the severity of her condition, the intern assigned
to her case strongly recommended euthanasia. However, Daisy’s owner
responded, “I can’t kill her. It is my fault she ate the toothpick. I have to give
her another chance.” Unable to change his client’s mind, the intern reluctantly
agrees to another surgery. After three weeks of intensive care and two major
surgeries, the peritonitis returns. Despite a spiraling bill upwards of 10,000 dol-
lars and the surgeon’s prediction that Daisy would likely not survive another
surgery, the client wants to try again. At this point, a supervisor calls the intern
into her office to discuss the mounting bill and the owner’s refusal to euthanize.
The intern, clearly frustrated with the situation, loudly exclaims, “What do you
want me to do? Put a gun to his head? He just feels too damn guilty over that
fucking toothpick!” Thus, veterinarians fear a client’s guilt can prevent them
from making the right choice for the animal’s welfare.
In the decision-making stage, the veterinarian’s goals are typically instru-
mental; that is, he or she strives to help clients assuage problematic emotions
and make rational choices. Veterinarians tightly manage feelings of guilt by
strictly requiring clients to conform to specific emotional directives. In fact,
the veterinarians in this study relied on the same repertoire of emotion man-
agement strategies that DeCoster (1997) observed in his study of physician–
patient interaction. These strategies include reinterpretation, redirection, and
rationalization. Veterinarians reinterpreted their clients’ guilt in favor of more
constructive emotions. For instance, one participant encouraged her clients to
reinterpret guilt as love for the animal: “Lots of owners who choose euthana-
sia feel guilt and they doubt their decision, but that’s just a sign of your love
for Scratchers. It is not a sign that you are making a bad decision, but that you
care deeply for Scratcher’s best interest.”
After the client makes the difficult decision to euthanize his or her com-
panion animal, veterinarians continue to suppress their client’s feelings of

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348 Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 41(3)

guilt. In fact, participants used the same strategies to neutralize guilt after
euthanasia they previously relied on to facilitate timely decisions. For exam-
ple, clients often felt guilty considering euthanasia for terminally ill pets out
of the fear they might make the decision “too soon.” To facilitate timely deci-
sions, veterinarians might redirect their client’s guilt toward the negative
emotions they would unquestionably feel in the future if they allowed the
animal to suffer needlessly. However, even after the death of the animal, vet-
erinarians continued to redirect their client’s expressions of guilt into concern
for the animal’s feelings by focusing on how euthanasia ended the pet’s suf-
fering: “We did everything we possibly could, and at least she is not suffering
anymore. No more chemo. No more needles. No more throwing up.”
Rationalizing was an especially helpful tactic in facilitating timely deci-
sions and alleviating guilt after euthanasia. In the decision-making phase,
veterinarians rationalize euthanasia as one justifiable outcome among other
equally legitimate alternatives. However, after the client makes a choice, the
veterinarian may immediately rationalize that option as the best choice.
Consider the case of a Rottweiler named Spike. At first, Spike’s veterinarian
validates both the option of continuing life-sustaining treatment and the
choice to euthanize: “Though Spike could certainly respond to the new treat-
ments, 12-years-old is really old for a Rottweiler. It is obvious that you took
really good care of him and gave him a great life. So, I know whatever deci-
sion you make, it’s the right one.” Yet, after the client makes the decision to
euthanize Spike, the veterinarian exclusively rationalizes his client’s choice:
“You did the right thing. . . . This was the right call in my opinion. Many
people make the mistake of waiting too late. A big problem we run into is
when people won’t make timely decisions and the animal suffers. It is obvi-
ous that you love Spike and you didn’t want him to suffer.”
Even in cases when euthanasia seemed irrefutably in the best interest of
the animal, simply thinking about ending the life of his or her pet can threaten
a client’s identity as a good and loving pet owner. In fact, anxious pet owners
expressed considerable relief when hearing their veterinarian corroborate
their decision to end their animal’s life. Thus, as medical experts in animal
health and well-being, veterinarians wield a great deal of authority in
defining the best interest of animals. The veterinarians I observed relied on
this authority to define euthanasia as a positive, medically appropriate choice,
thereby engaging in tight control of owners’ emotions. In fact, as the follow-
ing participant demonstrates, veterinarians even rationalized euthanasia when
they had hoped for a different outcome for their patient: “As long as you feel
like [euthanasia] is somewhat medically justifiable. . . I will transition from

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Morris 349

having potentially—usually kind of tactfully—argued for the other side, to

supporting them and making them feel good about their decision.”
In their role as tight emotion managers, veterinarians strove not only to
help clients resolve guilt emotions but also to shape euthanasia as a loving
option for animals. In fact, participants so tightly controlled the meaning of
euthanasia that they outright refused to allow any disparaging remarks from
their clients regarding euthanasia. For example, in the following exchange
recorded in field notes, a veterinarian transforms her client’s pessimistic
statement regarding euthanasia into a positive sentiment shared by many
participants:

After the euthanasia of a couple’s cat, the wife tearfully remarks, “You
must hate this part of your job?” The veterinarian thoughtfully
responds, “You know it is really a blessing to be able to end suffering
of animals and to help people say goodbye to their pets. I am fortunate
to be able to do this for my patients. We went through heart failure with
my granddad and it was a horrible way to go. Really it [euthanasia] can
be a special time for me because I get to see how much people love
their animals.”

The tight emotion work of veterinarians helped clients resolve their guilt and
reconstruct their identity as good pet owners who, by choosing euthanasia for
their animal, made a kind and loving decision.
In addition to the instrumental goals of “getting the job done” and shaping
euthanasia as a positive practice, some veterinarians sought to manipulate or
exploit clients’ feelings of guilt for financial, personal, and professional gain.
For example, a few participants subtly encouraged guilt in their clients with
the hope of persuading them to pay for expensive life-saving procedures.
Novice interns occasionally “played on the client’s guilt” in order to coax
them into treatments or procedures they were eager to learn. However, when
most participants claimed to “use the client’s emotions to my advantage,”
they were typically referring to the psychological benefit they feel when
advocating the best interest of their patient. For example, veterinarians may
enhance guilt emotions if they believe it will help encourage clients to make
the decision to euthanize a suffering patient. Although participants some-
times viewed “gently pushing clients towards the best interest of the animal”
as justifiable, most regarded preying on client emotions simply for profes-
sional or financial gain as unethical, unsavory, and unprofessional behavior.

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Managing Owners’ Grief: Veterinarians’

Use of Tight and Loose Emotion Work
Veterinarians have similar goals when managing owners’ grief as they do
when managing owners’ guilt; that is, they strive to help owners assuage this
problematic emotion to facilitate rational, timely choices. However, after cli-
ents make the difficult decision to euthanize their companion animals, they
are no longer expected to suppress, rationalize, or disregard their feelings of
grief. In fact, they are allowed to express a wide range of grief-related emo-
tions (except for guilt). These emotions range from joy or happiness (based
on imagining good times with their companions) to relief, anxiety, sadness,
anger, and nonchalance. As such, veterinarians managed owners’ grief far
more loosely after euthanasia took place than they did during the decision-
making phase. Thus, in contrast to the tight management of guilt, participants
engaged in both tight and loose management of their clients’ grief.
Participants tightly shaped the definition of the negotiation process as a
nonemotional, rational situation. When clients express grief-related emotions
at this time, veterinarians ignored, disregarded or avoided this emotion. For
instance, in the following case the veterinarian briefly acknowledges her cli-
ent’s emotional expression but then disregards it and encourages the client to
concentrate on the medical problem at hand: “I know that this is upsetting for
you, but now is not the time to get upset. We need to focus. We have to think
about making the best decision we can for Dolce. We either need to go ahead
with the surgery or decide it is time to stop.” Another veterinarian avoids his
client’s emotional expression by ending the interaction: “I can see that you
need some time to collect yourself and think about this decision. Feel free to
use the phone if you need to discuss things with your son. Dial this number
when you are ready, or if you have any questions.”
Although it was frequently difficult for participants to disregard their cli-
ents’ grief emotions, they often did so out of concern for their patients, as Dr.
Arford explained:

It is no good [for the patient] to try and sugar-coat it and be all touchy-
feely stepping around the truth for the owners. . . . Based on your
medical knowledge, if you think the animal is suffering you sometimes
have to use the word suffering and not sugar-coat it because you think
it might hurt some feelings.

Veterinarians frequently described this process of ignoring, disregarding, and

avoiding clients’ grief as “medicalizing” their interactions with clients, as Dr.
Hill explains:

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Morris 351

The intense philosophical questions [of euthanasia] are naturally

emotion-laden, but we try to get the owners to calm down and focus so
they make the most informed decision. Sometimes they are so dis-
traught. . . . You have to go over it as rationally and calmly as you
can—over and over until their emotions are no longer in the way of the
medical facts. You just have to help them push through their emotions
until they understand what is at stake for their animal.

In light of a common belief that emotions are at odds with good decision
making, medicalizing is a tight emotion work strategy designed to encourage
an owner to see the veterinarian as an impartial and rational expert whose
advice is based on science and rationality rather than sentiment and personal
attachments.
Once a client chooses euthanasia, veterinarians shift their demeanor from
that of a detached medical professional to a sympathetic moderator of the
euthanasia experience. No longer concerned with the potential influence of
emotions on the outcome of negotiations, veterinarians acknowledge grief and
the fact that coming to such a decision is often an exasperating and agonizing
experience. Dr. Miller describes how she moves into “euthanasia mode”:

I make this conscious transition. . . . I may go from a very business-like

or intellectual or even slightly argumentative. If I feel that they are
giving me shit and they're not really listening to me, I'm going to be
pushing for my point just a little. But once they’ve made that decision
and it's clear, then I'm transitioning to the totally supportive, totally
compassionate person—to try and help them out emotionally [and] let
them know it is okay to let their feelings out.

As Dr. Miller implies above, participants often had to suppress their own anger,
sadness, and disappointment in order to transition into euthanasia mode.
Although most considered patient advocacy an important part of their job, they
also saw it as their job to help owners deal with the death of their animal or, at
least, to “help them feel their grief is appreciated and appropriate.” No longer
concerned with negotiating the best possible outcome for patients, the veteri-
narian’s goal moves toward “providing a safe space to grieve for animals” and
toward “creating an atmosphere conducive to the expression of emotion.”
To achieve their new goals, veterinarians use a variety of loose emotion
management techniques outlined in Table 1. They express empathy and sym-
pathy, listen to owners, reassure them, offer a comforting touch on the arm or
stroke the animal’s fur, and, in some cases, even hug the owners. Not

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352 Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 41(3)

surprisingly, the veterinarian’s choice of strategy was influenced by factors

such as the type of relationship built between client and veterinarian, the
perceived personality of the client, and the disposition of the veterinarian. For
example, physical strategies such as a hug were more frequently used with
clients with whom the veterinarian had established some rapport. Participants
relied heavily on the strategy of listening when they felt less confident in their
ability to offer “proper” or effective counsel to a grieving client.
By strictly requiring pet owners to conform to only a nonemotional defini-
tion of reality in the negotiation phase, veterinarians tightly suppress client’s
grief to achieve instrumental goals. However, when veterinarians allow own-
ers to express their grief in almost any way they need during the euthanasia
process, their emotion work becomes more loose and expressive, allowing
for a cathartic release of emotions. Loose emotion work encourages clients to
see the veterinary office as a safe space to express deep sadness over the loss
of an animal and feel comfortable enough to “let their feelings out.” Thus, in
the negotiating phase, veterinarians asserted significant authority in shaping
sentiments and defining the situation but, after the death of the animal, they
allowed clients greater freedom in expressing their feelings.
Although the expression of such intimate emotions disrupts the emo-
tional order by breaching the norms of emotional expression typically
expected between client and professional (Goffman 1959), the emotion
work of veterinarians helps to repair the interactional breakdown. In the
negotiation context, for example, the veterinarian’s tight emotion manage-
ment is designed to restore this emotional order by discouraging emotional
expression. However, in the context of euthanasia, the veterinarian’s loose
emotion work redefines the emotional order by normalizing the clients’ feel-
ings of grief. For example, despite the veterinarian’s permission to express
their emotions more freely, pet owners frequently apologized for their
behavior with disparaging remarks such as “This is so embarrassing. I can’t
believe I am crying like this.” In fact, most clients openly dismissed their
expressions of grief as “stupid,” “crazy,” or “ridiculous.” In response to such
remarks, veterinarians helped embarrassed clients “save face” (Goffman
1959) by reassuring them that their behavior is permitted, understandable,
and normal given their significant loss.
While the veterinarian’s tight and loose emotion work helps to resolve
awkward interactions with grieving clients and negotiate timely outcomes for
patients, emotion work may also strengthen veterinary–client relationships.
For example, in a lecture to third-year veterinary students on euthanasia, one
veterinary professor emphasizes the importance of offering sympathy, com-
fort, and counsel to clients:

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Morris 353

Table 1. Strategies for Loosely Managing Client Grief After the Decision to
Euthanizea
Strategy Definition Example

Catharsis Coaxing the client to “If you need to talk about anything, I am here for you.
express/talk about felt . . . Would you like me to stay with you?”
emotions.
Empathizing Understanding/ “I lost my cat of nine years to the same kind of
identification with the cancer just last year. It was a terrible process. I
client’s experience by know exactly what you are feeling right now.”
the verbal proclamation “I think just being there makes them feel better to
of similar emotion(s). some extent. Even though I am really busy I try to
This strategy may let them talk. It seems like the right thing to do.
include listening There is only so much you can say to comfort a
attentively to a client’s person.You don’t really know them but you can
stories about their listen to them. That is a gift too.”
animals or whatever
they choose to talk
about.
Sympathizing Stating or expressing “It looks like this was very painful for you.You
an emotion for the obviously care deeply for Scratchers. It was a
owner (feeling for the terrible accident.”
owner). This strategy “I just try to look sympathetic and convey through
may include using “body body language that I’m sorry. Taking the time to give
language” or gestures them a Kleenex is a form of communication.You
to provide emotional are bonding with them through interaction without
support or convey words.”
sympathy.
Reassurance Talking to instill confidence “I can see that you really loved him and it is natural
in the owner (that their to cry and grieve when we experience loss. Lots
grief is “normal” and of people really grieve for their pets. They are
legitimate). important parts of our families.”
Redirecting Encouraging owners “I ask the owner have you had them since they were
to focus on positive a kitten or a puppy? And then I try to get them to
memories of their pet think of those moments—the good times when
rather than thinking they weren't sick.”
about their death.
Comforting Putting a hand on the “If you are not the kind of person who feels
touch owner’s body (shoulder comfortable touching the person, then make sure
or hand) or offering you touch or pet the animal in the process. . . to let
a hug. Touch may also the owners know that you care.”
include touching the
animal.

a. Several strategies (catharsis, empathize, sympathize, and reassure) mirror those operational-
ized by DeCoster’s (1997) study titled “Physician Treatment of Patient Emotions.”

When I graduated from vet school . . . one of the first things a vet told
me was, “You know Ray, there is only one thing that you need to do
well as a veterinarian.” I said, “What is that?” He said, “How to eutha-
nize an animal. . . . If you can euthanize an animal well, gracefully, and

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354 Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 41(3)

with respect and compassion, when they [clients] go home and have
that visceral response, they will think, ‘My God. I really love my vet-
erinarian. He really understands how I feel.’ Even though it was a
negative experience or an extremely emotional experience, they will
feel that way. They absolutely will remember that compassion when
their future pets need services.”

While this research does not explore the pet owner’s perspective, many of the
veterinarians I studied strongly argued that “dealing with client emotions” is
essential to client satisfaction and building long-term relationships with cli-
ents. Although most participants denied the instrumental goal of profit as
their primary motivation for emotion work, they contended that emotion
work is a critical component to client satisfaction and, by extension, a veteri-
narian’s financial success.
During my research, it became clear that small-animal veterinarians
believe that veterinary service includes both maintaining the health and well-
being of animals and attending to the emotional needs of their clients. In
addition to engaging in the emotion work outlined above, the participants in
this study also provided literature on pet loss and recommend books to their
clients. They also worked in veterinary clinics that often offered referrals to
local therapists specializing in pet loss, and some even employ full-time
counselors to assist grieving pet owners (Dunn, Mehler, and Greenberg 2005;
Mercer 2007). Small-animal veterinary clinics commonly sell urns, caskets,
jewelry, and other products designed for memorializing deceased pets.
Although veterinary hospitals tend to make little profit on the urns and other
memorial items they sell, offering such acts of veneration suggests that ani-
mals are worthy of such honor, ceremony, and grief (and, by extension, worth
the cost of expensive medical care). Finally, veterinarians increasingly invest
in designer spaces for euthanasia known as meditation, comfort, or grieving
rooms with soothing wall colors, comfortable seating, and low lighting. Thus,
in addition to emotion work that allows for grief, veterinarians create literal
spaces for grief.

Euthanasia and Veterinary–Client

Interaction: A Unique Socioemotional Exchange
The affective role veterinarians assume in comforting bereaved pet owners
initiates an unexpected response. Relative to times when veterinarians cure
the animal or restore it to health, clients are far more likely to offer their
veterinarians gratitude for ending the lives of companion animals. In fact,

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Morris 355

participants typically received four to five times more cards or gifts from
clients after a euthanasia service compared to any other type of veterinary
consultation. Thus, the majority of cards, letters, photographs, gift certifi-
cates, gourmet food, flowers, gift baskets, and monetary donations to special
hospital funds come from clients after euthanasia procedures. While I wit-
nessed the desks of novice interns quickly fill with displays of euthanasia-
related gratitude, many of the more experienced participants estimate that
they have received several hundred such gifts over the course of their
careers. Although appreciative of their clients’ gestures, many veterinarians
feel baffled by the level of gratitude they receive for providing an “unsuc-
cessful” service that culminates in the death of the pet.
To make sense of the seemingly paradoxical response of pet owners, we
must briefly explore the larger cultural context surrounding human–animal
relationships. Researchers have long documented ambiguous societal atti-
tudes and ambivalent emotions toward nonhuman animals (Arluke and
Sanders 1996; Herzog 2010). For example, people train dogs to fight to their
death, race them for gambling purposes, leave them chained to fences in the
backyard, breed them in “puppy mills,” train them for dog shows, take them
on family vacations, buy them designer accessories, pamper them with spa
treatments, or leave them substantial inheritances. As medical providers to
nonhuman animals, veterinarians encounter clients with widely disparate
views and attitudes regarding animals in their charge. However, an animal’s
position along a continuum from valued subject (patients deserving of quality
medical care) to functional object (the client’s property) has clear implica-
tions for the kind of treatment it receives.
As subjects, companion animals provide valued emotional support to pet
owners, who consider them cherished friends or even family members (Albert
and Bulcroft 1988; Gosse and Barnes 1994; Katcher 1989). These animals
may receive hundreds or thousands of dollars worth of veterinary care. In fact,
according to a 2006 national survey on pet ownership, U.S. households spent
approximately 24.5 billion on veterinary care specifically for dogs and cats
(AVMA 2008a). Moreover, pet owners increasingly travel great distances to
bring their beloved companions to state-of-the-art veterinary facilities offering
the most sophisticated veterinary care available. For example, animals receive
advanced medical, dental, and surgical care, including dialysis, root canals,
hip replacements, chemotherapy, cataract extractions, and even pacemakers.
As objects, companion animals are legally their owners’ property. Some
animals are subjected to cosmetic and medically unnecessary services,
including the surgical amputation of their ears, tails, or claws for the benefit
of their owners. Some pet owners are unwilling to spend even minimal

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356 Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 41(3)

financial resources on their animal’s health care because they see the animal
as easily replaceable. Frustrated pet owners request euthanasia when their
animal barks too loudly, scratches the furniture, digs holes in the yard, or
urinates outside the litterbox. Healthy, well-behaved companion animals can
be “put down” or euthanized at their owners’ request. For example, pet own-
ers request euthanasia because they have simply grown tired of the demands
of pet care, their new boy/girlfriend is allergic to the animal, or they are mov-
ing to a new residence that does not allow pets.
Recall the unexpected finding of this research that veterinarians are far
more likely to receive gratitude for euthanasia compared to times when they
cured animals or restored their health. This finding stands in sharp contrast to
the gratitude pattern encountered by Lois’s (2001) rescue workers. When res-
cue workers saved victims, family members lavished gratitude on the work-
ers. Yet, when death occurred, family members rarely offered gratitude for
the service rescue workers provided them. Lois (2001, 173) speculates that,
when the victim died, family members did not feel obligated to provide grati-
tude because “socioemotional norms dictated that the families’ emotional
grief and bad fortune far outweighed the emotional support the rescuers had
provided during the mission.” By comparison, why did clients send so many
more gestures of gratitude when their companion animals died compared to
when the veterinarian successfully “saved” the animal? Moreover, shouldn’t
the pet owner’s bad fortune—the loss of their pet—outweigh the emotional
support they were provided by the veterinarian?
Arluke and Sanders’s (1996) concept of a sociozoologic scale coupled with
Clark’s (1997) notion of the socioemotional economy help to answer these ques-
tions. Because of our different positions on the sociozoologic scale, grief over
the death of any companion animal is rendered less socially legitimate com-
pared to the grief over the loss of a human. In light of the ambiguous societal
attitudes regarding the value of animal life discussed above, pet owners certainly
encounter others who simply do not understand their intense feelings of grief
over the death of a companion animal. Some people consider grieving for ani-
mals silly or overly sentimental and respond to the loss with an insensitive
remark such as, “It’s only a cat. What’s the big deal?” Friends and family may
want to comfort loved ones after the death of a beloved animal, but their actions
demonstrate that they may not fully understand or appreciate the loss. For exam-
ple, although well-intended, telling a pet owner “You might feel better if you just
go get another dog” can evoke the same reaction as telling a grieving widower
“Don’t worry, you can easily get a new wife.”
Because dogs and cats sit much higher along the sociozoologic scale com-
pared to mice, those who cherish their canine or feline companions may not

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Morris 357

understand the grief felt by mice enthusiasts over the loss of such an animal.
Consider the case of a young software engineer and his pet mouse named
Sam. Upon hearing that his companion would likely not survive, the young
man was inconsolable. Behind closed doors, some staff members jokingly
whispered to each other, “This guy is nuts. He is crying about a mouse!”
Although the veterinarian herself struggled to understand this man’s emo-
tional attachment to a mouse, she quickly chastised her staff: “That mouse
meant a great deal to this guy and, if we in the veterinary profession think that
his grief is strange, who else is going to understand what he is going through?
It is our job to support his feelings about this mouse and make him feel like it
is okay to cry over the death of a mouse.” While many of us try to keep mice
out of our homes, exterminating them as pests, others cherish their compan-
ionship and consult veterinarians to ensure their health and well-being.
The sociozoologic scale suggests that, despite some people’s attraction and
dedication to the mouse, most people in society will relate to the death of mice
in the same way the veterinary technicians did, thinking “It’s no big deal, it’s
just a mouse.” Although some pet owners experience greater bonds with ani-
mals than they do with humans (Barker and Barker 1988; Carmack 1985),
scholars note a broad societal tendency to trivialize grief over the loss of an
animal companion (Chur-Hansen 2010; Hart, Hart, and Mader 1990; Meyers
2002; Weisman 1991). In one survey of pet owners, for example, more than 50
percent of respondents believed that society did not view the death of a pet as
a loss worthy of grief (Adams, Bonnett, and Meek 2000). When a human fam-
ily member dies most people are surrounded by nurturing friends and family,
but they rarely receive the same attention when their animal dies.
The socioemotional economy suggests that the differing sympathy reac-
tions to deaths of humans and nonhuman animals reflect the fact that society
creates narrow sympathy margins for the loss of those deemed less worthy.
Nevertheless, as shown in the death of “Sam the mouse,” veterinarians
assume an affective role in comforting all bereaved pet owners. Although the
vet was bewildered by her client’s grief, she took him to the grieving room
and tried her best to offer sympathy and inspire confidence that grief over the
death of any animal is “normal” and legitimate. Therefore, according to the
combined logic of the socioemotional economy and the sociozoologic scale,
pet owners felt obligated to provide veterinarians gratitude because reciproc-
ity norms dictated that they were not owed the sympathy and emotional sup-
port they received from veterinarians for their loss.
Hochschild’s (1989) concept of the “economy of gratitude” offers further
explanation for why veterinarians received many more gestures of gratitude
related to euthanasia compared to other services. Hochschild argues that

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358 Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 41(3)

people offer each other gratitude only when their behavior is thought to go
“above and beyond” what is expected. Thus, perhaps clients feel obligated to
respond to euthanasia with gratitude because they believe they are getting
something extra that is not paid for in the typical fee-for-service exchange. In
the typical veterinary consultation, no extra gratitude is deemed necessary
because veterinarians receive monetary fees in what the client perceives to be
an equal exchange for services. However, when it comes to euthanasia, cli-
ents are never billed for the “extras” such as the time veterinarians spend
providing emotional support. In this light, the seemingly paradoxical response
of pet owners becomes a logical, appropriate reaction to a valuable service—
veterinary emotion work.
Moreover, the content of euthanasia-related cards and letters sent by cli-
ents demonstrate that clients recognize and appreciate the emotion work of
their veterinarians. For example, clients wrote, “Thank you for helping us
through such a tough time,” “Thank you for your kindness, compassion, and
understanding,” and “Thank you for helping us come to such a difficult deci-
sion.” In fact, clients often mention specific emotion-management strategies
such as listening and “being there for me.” For instance, pet owners often
note their appreciation for the veterinarian’s validation of their grief, stating:
“You really get my loss in a way that other people who don’t have pets just
can’t understand—that bond we have with our animals.” In addition to grief,
clients also frequently mention the veterinarian’s efforts to help them resolve
feelings of guilt. As Dr. Turner’s client wrote:

I just had so much guilt over not catching his cancer earlier, but you
helped me know how difficult it is to see when some animals are sick
because they are stubborn or brave like Dawson. You helped me to
finally say goodbye to my beloved friend.

Discussion
Although the work experience of veterinarians has drawn relatively little
attention from social scientists, emotion-laden encounters between veterinarians
and bereaved pet owners provide a rich context to examine emotion manage-
ment in the workplace. This study provides further empirical evidence for the
significance of the role of interpersonal emotion management. In a novel
health care setting, the veterinarian’s repertoire of emotion management
techniques overlaps considerably with many of the strategies utilized by
physicians (DeCoster 1997). The analysis of veterinary emotion work not
only substantiates the findings of other scholars, it expands our understand-
ing of interpersonal emotion management as contextually and emotionally

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Morris 359

dependent. Through the lens of Lois’s (2001) innovative distinctions between

tight and loose emotion management, this research directs our attention to a
group of workers who manage the emotions of others in light of opposing
situational and occupational goals.
When negotiating possible outcomes for patients, veterinarians facilitate
timely, “rational” decisions by strictly managing problematic emotions.
Specifically, veterinarians medicalize, ignore, and avoid manifestations of
grief and reinterpret, redirect, and rationalize their clients’ guilt. After clients
make the difficult decision to euthanize their pet, veterinarians continue to
tightly manage feelings of guilt while also allowing for cathartic expression
of grief. By consistently denying the legitimacy of guilt, veterinarians reas-
sure pet owners that they made a loving decision in the best interest of the
animal. Veterinary emotion work also validates grief over the death of an
animal companion as normal, appropriate, and indicative of a good and lov-
ing pet owner. Thus, through the management of guilt and grief after eutha-
nasia, veterinarians help clients construct positive moral identities.
This study firmly situates the emotion work of veterinarians within the
literature on interpersonal emotion management and human–animal relation-
ships. Although veterinarians are often baffled by the level of gratitude they
receive for euthanasia, evidence from this study suggests that clients respond,
at least in part, to the affective role veterinarians assume in validating grief
over the death of animals. According to the combined logic of the sociozoo-
logic scale and the socioemotional economy, pet owners are not owed the
same kind of sympathy accorded to those who experience a death in the fam-
ily because U.S. society creates restricted sympathy margins for the loss of
nonhuman animals. Thus, veterinarians must manage their clients’ grief
within a cultural context that often fails to provide pet owners with sufficient
emotional support for the loss of a beloved animal companion. Although I
believe that such emotion work is enhanced by the use of designer spaces in
veterinary hospitals, my findings invite further sociological investigation into
how newly created veterinary bereavement zones inform their emotion work.
My research also suggests that the study of veterinarians could provide
fertile ground for scholars interested in the connections between emotional
labor, self-conception, and identity. Scholars suggest that workers perform
emotional labor not only to meet job requirements but as a way to shape a
positive identity and fulfill important commitments to self (Hochschild 1983;
Wolkomir and Powers 2007). Time and time again, veterinarians described
euthanasia as both “the best and worst part of my job.” Although most partici-
pants in this study were quick to point out how the practice of euthanasia is
fraught with dilemmas and frustrations, they simultaneously depict it as a
rewarding and gratifying part of their work. In fact, for many veterinarians

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360 Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 41(3)

the ability to help clients during the stressful time of pet loss is part of what
attracted them to the profession in the first place. Likewise, having empathy
and, more importantly, the ability to convey it effectively to clients is a key
part of their moral identities as a professional—that is, these qualities estab-
lish them as “good” and competent veterinarians.
Significant for scholars interested in human–animal interaction, veteri-
nary emotion work underscores the importance of human–animal bonds for
many of today’s pet owners. Pet owners frequently experienced intense guilt
and grief when confronted with end-of-life decisions for beloved companion
animals. Subsequent research is needed to explore the pet owner’s perspec-
tive of veterinary emotion work. For example, while my participants argued
that dealing with client emotions is essential to building long-term relation-
ships with clients, more research is needed to establish the client’s point of
view. Interviews with pet owners might investigate client satisfaction with
emotion management techniques outlined in this research. This type of
research could aid grief counselors who wish to better understand grief asso-
ciated with pet loss. In addition, veterinary practitioners who seek to improve
client satisfaction would also benefit from this research.
Finally, this research has important implications for veterinary practitio-
ners as it illuminates an often veiled or ignored aspect of the profession.
Although managing client’s emotions is not generally considered an official
aspect of a veterinarian’s job description, my research suggests that small-
animal veterinarians are doing emotion work. For example, not only do vet-
erinarians believe they provide important emotional support to clients
(Pilgram 2010), but pet owners in this study thanked their veterinarians spe-
cifically for providing them comfort and counsel. Although some veterinari-
ans consider such emotion work outside of the domain of knowledge,
experience, and responsibility of veterinarians, my research reveals that
many veterinarians are rethinking old notions of professional responsibility
to include managing the emotions of clients whose animals they euthanize.
This research reveals veterinarians’ growing commitment to recognize the
intense feelings of grief, pain, and sorrow resulting from the death of a pet. For
some veterinarians, caring for the emotional needs of clients feels natural because
they are extremely empathetic to animals and the bonds people share with them.
However, others report considerable anxiety and stress related to this important
aspect of their work. Despite the fact that veterinary students repeatedly identify
dealing with owner emotions as one of their greatest concerns, veterinary schools
have been slow to incorporate training around this issue into the formal curricu-
lum (Cohen-Salter et al. 2004; Herzog, Vore, and New 1989; Pilgram 2010).
Academic coursework related to recognizing and managing the emotional states

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Morris 361

of clients has the potential to improve veterinary–client relationships and help

relieve future practitioners’ stress over this aspect of their work.

Acknowledgment
I wish to gratefully acknowledge the institutional support I received from Northeastern
and Drury Universities as well as the Charlotte Newcombe and Woodrow Wilson
Fellowship Foundations for their generous support of my research. I would also like
to thank Arnold Arluke, Clinton Sanders, Tom Koenig, Silvia Dominguez, Justin
Betz, Elizabeth Lowe, Andrea Hill, Jeremy Eggerman, Editor Kent Sandstrom, and
four anonymous reviewers for their thoughtful comments and helpful suggestions on
earlier versions of this article.

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author declared no conflicts of interests with respect to the authorship and/or
publication of this article.

Funding
The author disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research,
authorship, and/or publication of this article: The author received financial support
for this research in the form of a Doctoral Dissertation Fellowship from the Charlotte
W. Newcombe Foundation distributed by the Woodrow Wilson National Fellowship
Foundation.

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Bio
Patricia Morris is an assistant professor of sociology at Drury University and author
of the latest book Blue Juice: Euthanasia in Veterinary Medicine in the Animals,
Culture, and Society series by Temple University Press. She teaches and researches
in the areas of medical sociology, work and occupations, human-animal relationships,
death and dying, and the sociology of emotions.

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