Lessons From a Veterinarian

People imagine the hardest part of my work is knowing when an animal cannot be saved. It isn’t. Animals tell you. A dog who no longer rises to greet the morning, a horse that keeps looking at the same corner of the field, an old cat who begins sleeping where the sun reaches only for an hour before moving on. They have a gentleness about suffering that we have never learned. Owners are different: They apologise. They bargain. They promise one more operation, One more month, One more miracle. Love makes accountants of us all. We begin measuring life against calendars and receipts, asking impossible things of exhausted bodies. I never hurry anyone. Grief should never be rushed. Sometimes I tell families to go home for the evening. “Sleep in your own bed and eat something warm. Remember the years, instead of this one room.” Most return in the morning, certain of what must be done. They always thank me afterwards. Not immediately, eventually. There is a peculiar peace in ending pain before it learns to call itself hope. I have carried that lesson home. It has made me a much better husband.