Daydreams

Disenchanted

My eyes begin to sting as I near the thirtieth second of rubbing them. I sigh and lean back lazily in my chair, staring up at the dim ceiling. The gloom of my office seems to encourage the spread of uneasiness throughout every limb in my body, but I am already too far gone to care. I count the ceiling tiles and designate each one as a different reason why my life fell apart.

One, I love animals.

Two, I am a veterinarian.

Three, I kill animals.

I stop without continuing my list. That's all it ever takes; the simple reminder that my dream job, the job I threw away eight years of my life in school for, involved me killing the one thing I wanted to save.

It's always the same. Mr. and Mrs. Goodie-Two-Shoes and their perfect children never realized that Fido stopped eating because they were too busy doing important things, like trimming the hedges better than the neighbors', and hosting block parties for people they hate so they can show off their new grill and in-ground pool. Meanwhile, Fido drags himself around, whining to the empty house that he is sick. When the Goodie-Two-Shoes family finally gets around to bringing him in, it's because he vomited on that new $300 Indian rug and, finally paying attention, the family realized he was quite thin. Just a whiff of his breath and I'm positive of his affliction, but I test anyway for the sake of accuracy. Of course, our dear Fido is suffering from acute kidney failure and will shortly fall into a coma unless euthanized because his loving family didn't notice the signs when he could be saved.

There is a gentle knock on my office door, and I glare at it. The air is still and silent as I sit motionless, senselessly hoping for whoever knocked to disappear. There is another knock, harder this time. Still, I remain motionless.

"Doctor Warner? Is everything alright?" Sylvia, a veterinary technician asks through the door.

"Come in," I grumble grudgingly.

The door opens slowly and Sylvia walks in, holding a clipboard in her hand. She grips a pen and looks as if she is trying to compose herself. I scrutinize her face. She's worried. I lean back in my chair.

"What do you need?" I ask in my normal, kind façade.

"Doctor, Mrs. Raincort is back with her puppy, Mini Moo. She'd like the puppy to be euthanized," she says in a measuredly calm tone.

"Without an appointment?" I snap.

"She doesn't want the puppy to suffer anymore, and we have an opening right now," she says, almost pleading.

For a few moments, I silently consider a way out. It's much too late in the day for this sort of thing. I can feel the negativity pulsing through me. I can't do it again.

"Has she paid in full for the last appointment yet?" I ask Sylvia calmly.

"She has," she informs me. "Some family helped her pay for it. She's already paid for today's visit, too."

My heart sinks. "She has... fully considered all of her options? She understands that this is a serious decision and may not be worth it?" I press.

Sylvia hesitates. "Uh, well, I would think so. It seems a little ridiculous that she would come all this way if she hadn't."

"Okay then. I'll be in with the solution in just a moment," I say quietly. Sylvia nods and leaves without another word.

I lift myself from my chair with great effort. My legs feel as though they are made of lead. My stomach churns painfully, but I carry on toward the supply room door located in the back of my office. Just as I walk through, another veterinary technician, Marcurio, grabs a handful of cotton swabs and walks through the door that leads to the hallway.