JENNY NGUYEN; her husband, Josh; and their dog, Max, lined up outside a blocky white building in Seattle’s Sodo neighborhood at 7:30 a.m. on a recent spring morning — two hours before the doors were scheduled to open.

It’s cold and there aren’t enough folding chairs to go around, but they don’t mind the wait.

“It’s worth it,” Nguyen says, scratching Max’s broad, brown noggin.

This former radiator shop in view of Lumen Field is the newest home of Doney Coe Pet Clinic, a small nonprofit that for nearly 40 years has been providing free veterinary care for beloved animal companions of the region’s havenots.

These days, its clients are mostly people left behind by the prosperity boom transforming the Seattle area — where the top fifth of earners now rakes in 53% of the income while the poorest households, the bottom fifth of earners, share a paltry 2%.

Some of the people here today are unhoused. Others depend on the goodwill of friends and relatives for a place to sleep. The lucky ones have lowincome apartments to come home to, but still scramble for gig work and struggle to buy gas and food.

“A lot of people need Doney Coe,” says Nguyen, who started using the clinic when she and Josh were homeless and sleeping in a truck with their previous dog, Star. Doney Coe arranged surgery to remove tumors from Star’s stomach, and she lived another four years. “She protected us from being attacked,” Nguyen says. “And when I have a dog to hug, it relieves my anxiety and calms me down.”

The couple lives in an apartment now and recently adopted Max from Seattle Humane. But when the pit bull mix started scratching his ear and whining, a private vet wanted $300 to treat the infection — which they didn’t have.

So they’re here on the street along with about 20 other people and pets.

It’s first-come, first-served, and clients often get turned away when the clinic reaches capacity. It happened yesterday to Makaylyn DeBoard and her Malamute mix, Aspen, so she’s trying again this morning. “I was just a little too late,” she says, with a shrug. “They stopped seeing patients right before me.”

Aside from proof of their financial status, the only requirement clients must meet is to spay or neuter their pet before a second visit.

With low-cost veterinary care so hard to find, people travel to Doney Coe from Tacoma, Renton, the Eastside and across Seattle. Friends DeeDee Conant and Tina Edejer came by bus with a 16-year-old mutt named Cosmo in a stroller, a cat called Coffee Cake in a carrier and a tiny Chihuahua named Buck tucked into Conant’s coat. “The people who work here are just incredible,” says Conant, who has been a regular at the clinic as it bounced around between temporary sites the past few years. The new location is not only more convenient, she says; it’s also a relief to know the clinic will stay put for a while.

AFTER DECADES OF nomadic existence, the Sodo building — provided rent-free by King County — represents a new chapter for the clinic, allowing it to provide more comprehensive care on a more frequent and reliable basis, says board president Marti Casey. The clinic started in 1986 as a twice-a-month affair at downtown’s Union Gospel Mission, but its future was thrown into doubt when the COVID-19 pandemic hit and the shelter locked down to control the spread of the virus.

Trupanion pet insurance in Georgetown threw out a lifeline, offering a transitional perch in its parking lot, where veterinarians examined their furry patients in tents. In fall and winter, the team offered basic services at Phinney Ridge Community Center twice a month.

But mobile clinics require setting up and breaking down equipment every day. When mice got into the truck used to store and transport gear, the team lost a valuable stash of supplies and pet food. Finding volunteer staff also became much harder as the pandemic pet boom overwhelmed veterinary offices, and professionals fled the field due to burnout.

"Aside from proof of their financial status, the only requirement clients must meet is to spay or neuter their pet before a second visit."

In response, the clinic recently shifted from all-volunteer to include some paid staff — which raised costs significantly.

It seemed Doney Coe had finally found a permanent home in 2022, when a veterinarian closed her practice on Third Avenue in Belltown and donated all the equipment. The clinic took over the lease and moved in but was forced to vacate less than a year later, when leaking pipes, black mold and other maintenance nightmares turned the century-old building into a health hazard.

“This space has a much better vibe to it,” Casey says, as she helps direct clients and answer questions outside the new location. “It’s like a dream to have it.”

The building is part of a larger block of property King County leased in hopes of expanding a homeless shelter, adding parking for people living in RVs and creating a social services hub. The plans were dropped in the face of opposition from residents of the nearby Chinatown International District.

Letting Doney Coe use a small portion of the space is a win-win solution, says King County Facilities Management Division Director Anthony Wright.

County crews modified 1,700 square feet of the building to create exam rooms, a small office and a waiting area. The clinic provides security and is responsible for some routine maintenance — and the service it provides is invaluable.

“For marginalized, low-income communities, pets are such an important part of their lives, part of their families,” Wright says.

The lease on the building is for three years and four months, and Wright doesn’t know whether it will be extended. But after so much turmoil, having a guaranteed home for three years seems almost too good to be true, says Dr. Lara Kreyenhagen, the veterinarian on duty this Thursday morning.

“It’s amazing just having our own space,” she says. “Not having to set up and break down every single time and being able to do things like surgery and dental procedures and X-rays.”

The clinic, funded almost entirely by donations, operates 10 days a month — Wednesdays, Thursdays and the second and fourth Saturdays. That’s a fivefold increase over operations at the Union Gospel Mission, and the budget has grown accordingly, to about $500,000 a year. But the team has an even more ambitious goal: to offer care five days a week if they can round up enough staff and money.

AFTER A THREE-HOUR wait with his owner, Colleen Lloyd, it’s Monster Truck’s turn on the exam table.

“Hang on, turkey; you’re OK,” veterinary technician Romy Strickland murmurs as she wrangles the squirming cat onto a scale. Strickland calls all her patients “turkey.” It’s a term of endearment, not an insult.

Lloyd is worried the young cat might be developing cataracts, so Strickland squirts fluorescent drops in Monster Truck’s eyes, then shines a light to check for any damage. Kreyenhagen takes a look, too, and concludes there might be a slight abrasion on the cornea, but nothing to worry about.

Strickland plants a kiss on the top of the cat’s head and whisks him back to his owner with the good news.

Kreyenhagen enters details about the visit into a computer, pointing out new, donated software that makes it much easier to track medical histories. When she started volunteering more than 20 years ago, the only records were stacks of 3x5 cards, stapled together and carted around in a cardboard box.

“It’s amazing just having our own space.

Not having to set up and break down every single time and being able to do things like surgery and dental procedures and X-rays.”

The idea for the clinic originated with Dr. Bud Doney, a kindhearted veterinarian who was troubled to see so many homeless people with pets but no access to veterinary care. When Doney died soon after the clinic opened, his friend and fellow vet Dr. Stan Coe took over.

It’s hard to know for sure, but the clinic might have been the first of its kind in the country, says Coe, now 92 and retired.

After it was featured in People magazine early on, he got calls from veterinarians around the country eager to follow suit.

“As word got out, people in the community also started sending us money to help support it,” Coe recalls.

With volunteers and donated supplies, the clinic sometimes would treat 45 pets in a two-hour span. Veterinarians worked side-by-side on folding tables in the Union Gospel Mission basement.

While the enthusiasm never waned, the bookkeeping fell into disarray, and the clinic lost its nonprofit status in 2015.

The organization recruited Casey, a former Microsoft manager who already was volunteering at the clinic, to put the finances in order and get the nonprofit designation restored. Now she’s helping the organization navigate a new reality, where fewer veterinary professionals have the time or energy to volunteer on a regular basis.

“Marti’s contributions have been huge,” says Kreyenhagen. Along with all the other veterinary staff here today, she’s able to work part-time at the clinic through a unique agreement Casey helped negotiate with her employer, Urban Animal.

A veterinary practice with three locations in the Seattle area, Urban Animal frees up some of its staff to work one or two days a week at Doney Coe.

The nonprofit pays their base salaries, and Urban Animal forgoes the revenue they would have brought in.

“The benefit to Urban is that our people are allowed to give back, to help, which I think contributes to overall job satisfaction,” says owner Dr. Cherrie Trusheim, who also serves on Doney Coe’s board. “People don’t become veterinary professionals because they just want to help wealthy pets. We want to help all dogs and cats.”

Doney Coe’s Saturday clinics are still mostly staffed by volunteers, including fourth-year veterinary students from Washington State University who gain real-world experience before starting their own careers.

MOST OF THE PATIENTS in the queue today have manageable problems, with ear infections heading the list.

Max’s treatment is typical. Strickland sluices his ears with a soothing solution, then stands back as he shakes his head and sprays droplets everywhere. She weighs him — 85 pounds — and jabs him with a couple of vaccines. The Nguyens get medicated ointment to administer at home and are on their way — four hours after they lined up.

But not all the stories end as happily.

“This is the hardest part of the job,” says licensed veterinary technician Janna O’Connor, as she prepares to end the life of an 18-year-old, honey-colored poodle mix named Brutus.

Trained as a service dog, Brutus helped his owner, Bean Fairbanks, navigate the world. The former nurse has multiple sclerosis and also is dealing with a traumatic brain injury. “I’ve had him since he was a puppy,” she says. Now Brutus’ own infirmities, including kidney failure, have taken their toll. Over the past few days, his legs started giving way beneath him, and Fairbanks didn’t want him to suffer.

In a quiet exam room, she cradles Brutus in her lap for his final moments.

“He was the sweetest dog I ever had,” she says.

Having to euthanize animals is one of the most stressful situations veterinary professionals face. Another is seeing pet owners who have to refuse care because it’s too expensive.

“It’s so frustrating to have a sick pet that you know you can help, but the owner can’t afford it,” says Kreyenhagen. It happens all the time in private practices.

“People don’t become veterinary professionals because they just want to help wealthy pets.

We want to help all dogs and cats.”

One family spent an entire month’s rent on an ER visit, then didn’t have enough money for the follow-up treatment.

Being able to refer those clients to Doney Coe now is a joy. So is the feeling of satisfaction that comes from helping animals — and their people — in such a direct way, Kreyenhagen says. Some of the staff members actually prefer working at the free clinic to their day jobs.

The animals are often mellower, and the clients are so appreciative.

“They’ve been told no a lot. ‘We can’t help you. There’s nothing we can do,’ ” Kreyenhagen says. “So, when we’re able to say: ‘Yes, we can help,’ you just see them exhale.”

THE MENTAL, PHYSICAL and emotional benefits of dog and cat ownership are myriad, no matter your income. But some critics still argue that people shouldn’t have pets if they can’t afford to keep them healthy.

“We hear that all the time,” says Kreyenhagen. “I hear it from other vets.”

That viewpoint begs the question of what to do with animals already living in low-income households, all the pets abandoned at shelters and the nearly 1 million cats and dogs euthanized in the United States every year.

“Pets shouldn’t be a luxury item,” Kreyenhagen says. “The animalhuman connection is so unique; it’s unconditional love.”

For many of Doney Coe’s clients, their pet is their closest companion. In a life of hardship, the love of a dog or cat might be the thing that keeps people going.

Just ask Tom Ruth, who came to the clinic with his 5-year-old Chihuahua mix, Junior, in his arms.

They’ve been together since Junior was a puppy.

“He’s my lifesaver,” says Ruth, who often is laid low by COPD, emphysema and other health problems. “We’re together 24/7.”

He and Junior ride the bus together to go shopping. They walk to the dog park every day the weather allows. And, of course, they sleep together.

The only downside, Ruth says, is that Junior hogs the bed.

Sandi Doughton: 206-464-2491 or sdoughton@ seattletimes.com; on Twitter: @SandiDoughton.

Karen Ducey is a Seattle Times staff photographer: kducey@seattletimes.com.