Choosing a vet in France: a British vet’s experience with pet care

Living in another country teaches you that assumptions are easy to make and misconceptions are hard to shake. The longer I spend in France, the less interested I become in asking which country does things ‘better’. A more useful question is: what is each country trying to achieve? The answer is often far more revealing than the technology itself.

So, I’m about to venture into the unknown. Although I cannot practise veterinary medicine in France because my British qualification is no longer recognised following Brexit, and despite the fact that I am far from fluent in French, I have been invited to spend some time observing at a local veterinary clinic. It will be an opportunity to see French veterinary medicine first-hand and to challenge a few of my own assumptions and misconceptions.

But before I can begin that journey, I have a veterinary problem of my own.

Our adopted stray cat, Fifi, has become unwell. He has lost weight, developed persistent diarrhoea and, after years of living rough, remains just wary enough that a thorough clinical examination is impossible without sedation. For the first time in nearly fifty years as a veterinary surgeon, I find myself in the unfamiliar position of being simply a worried owner who needs to entrust his own animal to another veterinary team.

Being a veterinary surgeon doesn’t make these decisions any easier. In many respects it makes them harder. Years of experience mean that every clinical sign immediately generates a list of possible diagnoses, ranging from the reassuringly simple to the deeply worrying. Experience tells you what could be wrong, but it doesn’t tell you what is wrong. That is why, when it comes to our own animals, we have to trust colleagues.

So, who do I choose? Our local village clinic, just a short walk away? A larger independent clinic in the nearby town, about fifteen minutes by car? Or the large corporate-owned referral-style hospital some forty minutes away?

In the UK, my instinct would be to compare the practices online before making a decision. Most have comprehensive websites explaining the services they offer, introducing surgeons and nurses, describing their equipment and facilities, and often providing online appointment booking.

In France, my experience has been rather different. Our local village clinic has no website at all. The team speaks very little English and my French is certainly not good enough to discuss a complicated medical case with confidence.

The clinic fifteen minutes away does have a website, but it is very simple. It introduces the team but tells me little about their individual interests or experience and only hints at the facilities available. I noticed they have an ultrasound machine. More importantly, I have already experienced their kindness and professionalism. One Easter weekend, they opened the practice specially to allow me access to their lab and dispensed medication when one of our other cats became ill. That counts for a great deal.

The larger clinic, forty minutes away, has by far the most impressive website. It projects the image of a modern, well-equipped hospital, but beyond that I know very little. I have never met the team, and websites, however polished, can only tell part of the story.

Perhaps my first lesson in challenging assumptions. A sophisticated website tells us a great deal about how a practice presents itself, but less about the qualities that matter most when your own animal is ill: kindness, clinical judgement, trust and the confidence that your pet is in safe hands. Like most pet owners, I value a personal, compassionate approach combined with clinical excellence. So, the clinic fifteen minutes away it is. I’ll let you know how we get on.