I’ve spent most of my career working inside Veterinary clinics, and it’s work I’ve loved. The medicine, the puzzle of difficult cases, the relationships with people and the animals they care for are the reasons many of us entered this profession in the first place.
But over the years I’ve also noticed something that has worn on me. It’s not dramatic or intentional, and most of the time it happens in passing. You hear it in the hallway between appointments, in the treatment room, sometimes even during conference lectures. It’s the way we talk about cats.
Not all the time, and certainly not everywhere. But often enough that it becomes part of the background noise of our profession. A cat hissing during a painful exam becomes a “drama queen.” A patient that freezes in the carrier is “being difficult.” A cat that growls when its abdomen is palpated gets labeled a “caution.” We use terms like “fractious,” “aggressive,” “mean,” or even “spicy,” often without thinking much about it. Over time those words become routine, and once they’re routine, we stop questioning them.
That’s what makes the commentary recently published by Ellen Carozza, LVT, VTS (CP-Feline), and Kristin Wuhrman CCBC in dvm360 “The Hidden Harm of Inappropriate Language About Cats in Veterinary and Social Media Spaces” such an important and timely piece. I want to be direct: I encourage every veterinarian, technician, assistant, and practice manager reading this to stop what they are doing and go read it. Much of what they describe will feel familiar, but they explain the issue clearly and with the kind of clinical perspective our profession needs.
The Words We Reach for First Reveal What We Actually Believe
When a frightened cat becomes defensive and we describe her as “ungrateful,” we’ve already created a story about what’s happening. We’ve assigned intent and personality, when the more useful question is usually much simpler: what is the cat experiencing in that moment?
In most cases the answer isn’t attitude. It’s fear, pain, loss of control, sensory overload, or some combination of all four. Those are the real drivers behind most behaviors that get labeled “difficult” or “mean.” When we skip over that and reach for quick labels instead, we’re not just being imprecise, we risk missing useful clinical information.
Carozza and Wuhrman acknowledge something important here: Veterinary medicine is stressful work. Humor and shorthand language are often coping mechanisms, and none of this is about blaming the people doing the job. Veterinary teams are full of thoughtful, compassionate, kind professionals. This isn’t about good people versus bad people. It’s about recognizing a cultural habit that quietly shapes the decisions we make before we ever walk into the exam room
The language we use in medical records is a good example. When a chart simply says “fractious cat,” the next clinician walks into the room expecting conflict. But if the note instead says something like, “Highly stressed with handling; responds best to slow approach, towel support, and breaks,” that changes the mindset completely. One label shuts down curiosity. The other encourages better preparation.
And for a species already navigating an environment designed largely for dogs, that distinction is not minor. It can be the difference between a cat who gets better care and one who doesn’t.
Outdated Language is Especially Stubborn in Feline Medicine
Feline medicine has made real progress in understanding behavior and stress, but the language hasn’t always kept up. Terms like “dominant,” “alpha,” or “bully” are leftovers from older behavioral models that science has largely moved beyond. Yet they still show up when we talk about tension between cats in a multi-cat household.
Those labels simplify something that is usually more complicated: territory, resources, environmental stress, social dynamics. When we frame the issue as “dominance,” we often guide caregivers toward the wrong explanation and the wrong solutions.
The same applies when we describe a patient as simply “aggressive” without context. That word tells us how the interaction felt, but it doesn’t actually describe what happened or why. These terms don’t describe what we actually observed, they describe how we felt about what we observed. And that’s an important distinction when we’re trying to make good clinical decisions.
A Note on Humor—Because It Matters
Veterinary medicine needs humor. Anyone who has spent time in a busy clinic knows how important it can be for morale and resilience. There are educators and creators in the feline medicine community who use humor in ways that genuinely help people learn while still respecting our patients. That kind of content has real value, and I don’t think anyone serious about this issue is arguing otherwise.
The concern isn’t humor itself. It’s when the humor turns a frightened or distressed cat into the punchline.
Social media tends to reward quick reactions. A video of a hissing cat spreads faster than a thoughtful explanation of stress signals or handling techniques. Over time, if we’re not paying attention, that kind of content can start to shape how people think about feline behavior, even within the profession.
The message isn’t complicated: pay attention to the language we use and be intentional about the words we choose. The article that Carozza and Wuhrman authored is so valuable; read it, share it, make it the topic of your next staff meeting.
Words influence expectations. Expectations shape how we approach a patient and ultimately affects the care we provide.
Cats can’t advocate for themselves in exam rooms, medical records, or professional conversations. That responsibility falls to us.