A Cry for Help: The Story of a Maltese Woman Who Lost Her Dog Due to Lack of Veterinary Support

In Malta, much is said about the importance of animal welfare and the support available to pet owners. However, when faced with a real emergency, many realise these promises do not translate into assistance. This was the heartbreaking experience of a Maltese woman who lost her beloved dog during the night simply because she could not find veterinary help when she needed it most.

Her story sheds light on a critical gap in Malta’s veterinary services. It highlights the urgent need for a 24-hour emergency system that ensures no pet suffers due to a lack of available care. Through her ordeal, she is now calling for establishing a centralised medical system for animals, where veterinary professionals can access an animal’s medical records, regardless of whether they are the pet’s regular doctor.

A Desperate Search for Help

On the night her dog fell critically ill, the woman frantically sought veterinary assistance. She quickly realised that despite the widespread claims of animal welfare being a priority, there were no available emergency veterinary services at that hour. She called every clinic she could find but to no avail. When she finally reached a veterinarian, it was too late—her dog was in a critical situation. Eventually, it passed away.

This tragedy is not an isolated incident. Many pet owners in Malta have faced similar difficulties when accessing veterinary care outside regular business hours. The lack of a centralised emergency response system for animals makes pet owners feel helpless when their pets need urgent medical attention.

The Need for 24-Hour Veterinary Services

The woman’s experience has led her to advocate for establishing a 24-hour veterinary service in Malta, similar to emergency hospitals for humans. Such a system would ensure that pet owners have access to medical assistance for their animals regardless of the time of day or night.

In addition to 24-hour veterinary clinics, she proposes creating a centralised medical system for animals. This system would allow any veterinary professional to access an animal’s medical records instantly, ensuring continuity of care even if the pet’s regular vet is unavailable. Such a system would improve emergency response and enhance overall veterinary care in Malta.

A Call to Action

This tragic case raises important questions: How can a country that claims to prioritise animal welfare leave pet owners stranded in moments of crisis? If we recognise animals as sentient beings deserving of care and protection, then veterinary support structures should reflect that commitment.

The woman’s story is a wake-up call. It is time for Malta to move beyond words and take concrete action to ensure that no pet suffers due to a lack of accessible medical care. A national priority should be establishing 24-hour veterinary services and a centralised medical record system. Pet owners should not have to experience this woman’s helplessness and pain.

Malta’s policymakers and veterinary authorities must immediately implement these much-needed reforms. Until then, pet owners will continue to face uncertainty, and tragic losses like this will persist. 

What follows is this woman’s story, told in her own words on her Facebook page. 

“I finally decided to share what we went through on Friday, January 24th of this year.

Our dog, Bear, a German Shepherd-Labrador mix, was an epileptic warrior. From as early as four months old, he experienced occasional seizures, which we managed with daily, timely medication. We were diligent about his bi-yearly blood tests, and on his many good days, he led a happy, goofy life—running, playing, and even making random visits to doggy daycare.

Unfortunately, in the early hours of that Friday morning, Bear had what we called a mild seizure while asleep. He recovered quickly, wagging his tail and walking around as if nothing had happened. But knowing that seizures often came in clusters, we braced ourselves for what could be a difficult night.

Shortly after, everything changed. Bear began seizing again, but this time, it was different. The seizures were stronger, longer, and relentless. He had no time to recover before the next one hit. We tried using Diazepam, a suppository meant to stop the fits, but it was all in vain.

I immediately texted our vet, and when she didn’t respond, I called her, but at 3 AM, she was unreachable. Desperate, I called the emergency vet number. On my second attempt, the on-call vet finally answered. He told me I had two options: keep trying to reach my vet or bring Bear to his clinic in Mosta, where he would administer sedation until our vet could see him in the morning. But transporting Bear wasn’t possible—he was a 43kg dog, actively seizing, and we lived on the third floor. Moving him was out of the question.

Understanding my situation, the emergency vet provided me with a list of veterinarians who did house visits. I called every number, hoping for help. Most didn’t answer. When one finally did, I barely had time to explain before she started laughing.

She assumed I was a client who had visited her clinic in November. When I corrected her and explained that I wasn’t her client, but I had gotten her number in desperation because my vet was unavailable, she mockingly replied, “Imma l vet tieghek trid iccempel!” I told her, “Yes, I’m sorry. The system is so f*cked up—there’s no emergency hospital at this hour, and I need help.” She laughed again and said, “Ukoll…ha toghqod tghajjat?” I wasn’t shouting. I was panicking. I was hurting. I was begging for help, and all she did was mock me.

I even apologized—though I had nothing to apologize for—and pleaded with her, “Please, I beg you! My dog is suffering. He needs help!” Her response? She told me to try calling my vet again and, if I failed, to call her back.

Of course, my vet still wasn’t answering. With no other choice, I called this vet again as instructed. This time, she laughed again and said, “Imma issa lili qajjimt fl erbgha ta filghodu! U jien ma naghmilx house visits lanqas!.”

I froze. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“So, you’re not going to help?” I asked.

Silence.

I ended the call and blocked her. She was a humiliation. I was beyond anger. I was desperate. Helpless. And worst of all—I was powerless to save Bear.

Finally, at 4 AM, my vet called back. I apologized for the situation, but after an hour and a half of non-stop seizures, it was clear Bear was in serious distress. She instructed us to give him two pills from his usual medication within 15 minutes. To put this into perspective—one of these pills is the size of a human antibiotic, and the other is slightly smaller. Even when he was awake, I had to give them in halves, and sometimes it took several attempts. How was I supposed to make him swallow them while he was seizing?

But we had no choice. We tried. On the first attempt, he bit me so hard I thought I’d lose my finger. Blood was everywhere. The pill was spat out. We tried again, tilting his head back and forcing it down, but his rapid breathing pushed it right out.

After several attempts, we think he managed to swallow some. Now, we could only wait.

By 5 AM, the violent seizures had stopped. He was still trembling, paddling slightly, and his eyes remained fixed, unblinking. I stayed beside him, cooling him with wet towels, massaging his body, trying to get him to react. But he was different. He looked lost. Defeated. Fragile.

At 7 AM, I sent my vet a video of his condition and asked what to do next, since usually it was time for his medications. Her response? Three words: “At 10, give.” Nothing more.

At 10 AM, I crushed his medication and used syringes to administer it. By then, Bear had started whimpering and weakly barking. I dared to hope that he was improving, but I knew he needed medical attention. I called the clinic, explaining that after over 50 seizures, he needed immediate care. The receptionist’s response? “We can squeeze you in at 1 PM.”

With the help of two male family members, my daughter and I carried Bear downstairs and transported him to the clinic. He was wheeled inside on a stretcher, and his vet examined him. She told me he was still experiencing mild seizures and that they would run blood tests before inducing a coma. When they tried waking him, they would assess the damage and decide on the next steps.

I asked about the possible outcomes. Her answer was simple and devastating: “Things won’t be good.”

We left Bear there, still clinging to the hope of a miracle.

At 6 PM, the clinic called us back. When they tried bringing him out of the coma, he started seizing again. His blood tests showed liver inflammation. He had suffered brain damage and lost his eyesight. There was nothing more they could do.

When we saw him, he was awake—barking weakly, lying in his cage. But they told us he wasn’t our Bear anymore. He had changed.

The system had failed him. And I had been powerless to stop it.

I don’t know if he could have been saved with the right help earlier that night. But I do know this:

We need an emergency veterinary service available for home visits in Malta and Gozo.

We need a 24/7 animal hospital for severe emergencies.

We need a roster system for after-hours, Sundays, and public holidays—just like human healthcare.

We need a centralized system where any vet can access a pet’s medical history, eliminating red tape and the excuse of ‘not my client.’

We need to end the stigma that if you’re not a registered client, you don’t deserve help.

No pet owner should be left alone to cope. No animal should suffer because of a broken system. Bear deserved better. All pets do.”