At my local veterinary clinic last week, a nurse told me about the emergency clinic.

"They are lovely," she reassured me.

I told her I was a reporter, and had written a story about them only the week before.

The Canberra Vet clinic had published an open letter calling for compassion following months of alleged abuse.

"I didn't know that was you," she said, surprised.

I had transformed from a byline in the paper into a very real person, my skin mottled red and eyes black with mascara, sobbing into my hands.

My dog had been in a fight with another canine and my skirt and legs were like a Jackson Pollock painting, splattered with his blood.

I couldn't get a particular image from the incident out of my mind. I could still hear it and smell it.

When I arrived at the clinic, another nurse had kindly sat with me as I cried and Albie was taken to be assessed.

The nurse calmly listened to my story and explained the different options available for him, including prices for each.

I decided to take my dog to the emergency vet because of the likelihood he would need surgery.

I knew it would cost thousands but was fortunate to have had money saved.

The receptionist made it very clear that despite his puncture wounds, Albie would not be the highest priority patient that night.

They had just opened, and she already had another emergency referral.

A television screen played a slideshow of the triage process in the waiting room.

First priority were animals who needed immediate treatment. They may be in cardiac arrest or unresponsive.

Animals suffering heat stroke, excessive blood loss, paralysis, respiratory issues and other urgent concerns are second priority.

Third were semi-urgent patients, that may have fresh wounds, persistent vomiting or potential fractures.

Other non-urgent concerns are last on the list.

We waited in the car, my dog sweaty and panting. Usually affectionate, he wouldn't go near me.

The circumstances of the fight were complicated, and I was messaging people frantically, trying to work out what to do next.

Overwhelmed by guilt and regret, I kept crying.

The vet came out to meet me. She made it clear Albie would likely undergo surgery at about midnight as she had a more urgent case.

She was sympathetic when I explained what had happened, immediately understanding what it might mean for the other dog.

I had to sign a consent form, including agreeing to pay a deposit of $1000.

I was told the range I could expect to be billed for.

On the reception desk were pamphlets for VetPay, an installment payment service for vet bills.

The vet reassured me I could call them anytime to check on my dog. She offered to call after surgery, even if it was midnight.

Albie was coaxed into the clinic.

I felt sick thinking about him that night, imagining him cold and confused without me.

When I did call the clinic before bed, the nurse reassured me he was settled in his crate.

The next morning, I received a call to pick Albie up in my own time. He had been stitched and we discussed medication. I paid the outstanding bill.

There was a young man there. He had brought in his cat because she had vomited that morning.

On the scale of emergencies, a cat chuck-up is pretty low. But you could hear in his voice the concern, like a father with a sickly newborn.

How long would he wait, and how much did he pay for that appointment? Did he regret it afterwards? Did he yell, scream, or abuse the staff?

If he gave them an ounce of empathy he clearly had for his cat, probably not.

Five days later, I received a text from the clinic. "How are things going since your visit with [Albie]?" it said.

I told them he was fine, and sent a photo. "Aw, thanks for the piccy," they wrote back.

Unintentionally, I went undercover to test the claims of the emergency vet clinic.

At $1400, the bill hurt.

But when I needed compassion, communication and a competent veterinary team, I got it.

So please don't abuse the vet staff, because I might need them again. And you might, too.