Monday started slowly. A couple of standard checkups, one overweight pug who wheezed like a broken accordion, and a very old cat named Jasper who tolerated exactly three seconds of petting before swatting your hand away.
Then came the shepherd.
The owner, a woman in her late fifties with a frayed hoodie and that brittle, sleep-deprived look, had called ahead of time saying that her dog, Scout, was limping. But it was more than that.
Scout came in with a deep, dragging limp and a wound hidden in his thick fur, looked like he'd tangled with something mean. The woman kept wringing her hands, eyes darting around the exam room like she expected someone to yell at her.
"I should've brought him in sooner," she said, voice shaking. "I just... I didn't know if I could afford it."
I felt that crack in my chest again, familiar and dangerous.
I kept my voice steady. "You did bring him in. That's what matters."
Dr. Rao glanced at me and gave me a subtle nod. She knew.
We worked in silence, cleaning the wound. We had to sedate Scout gently. No judgment, no theatrics, but my hands were colder than usual, slower. Somewhere between the antiseptic and the blood, I saw flashes of that night…that last shift. The husky with the ruptured spleen, the owner who never made it in time, and the look on my old supervisor's face when I froze up.
Breathe. Focus. You're not there.
Scout whimpered, and I flinched. My hands stopped moving.
Dr. Rao stepped in, calm and quiet. She didn't take over, just stood close enough to anchor me.
I found my rhythm again. One breath, one motion, one suture at a time.
Afterward, the woman looked at me like I'd done something impossible. "He's all I've got," she said, whispering like it was a confession.
I nodded. "I get it."
And I did, more than I could explain.
**
Jo leaned back in her chair, her pen still this time.
"That sounds like a hard case," she said.
"It was."
"But you got through it."
I hesitated, searching for the right shape of the truth. "I didn't break. I just... needed a minute. And I asked for help."
Jo raised an eyebrow. "That's new."
I smiled, small and tired. "Yeah. I guess it is."
She let that sit for a moment, then asked, "How did it feel?"
"Useful," I said. "Not destroyed. Just... tired. But okay."
"Progress," she said.
"Maybe."
**
That night, I made tea I didn't finish and opened my laptop.
I pulled up the vet school site again.
Found the application deadlines.
Left the tab open and didn't close it this time.