Murder

It's a funny word. A word that frequently goes around my head. I am a murderer. Im a veterinarian, but I kill innocent animals? I kill healthy animals – because you can't afford to fix them. I'm the one who does the dirty work – who takes away their last breath.

Whilst you sit on the otherside of the table crying, I'm trying to make you feel better- I can't judge you for your decision, but your decision affects more than just you.

Like shadows, their feet follow me. When I turn a corner, it's their faces I remember. It's those long drives on the highway, or when I'm all alone that their faces come back to haunt me. I didn't help them. I'm meant to preserve life, yet I took it away – because it wasn't my decision to make.

I killed her – because the owner chose to buy a packet of cigarettes instead of fixing a dislocated elbow.

I killed him – because the owner didn't want to pay to have his bladder unblocked.

I killed him – because he was a stray, and he was scared and aggressive, and I didn't want him to die in the pound.

I'm the one who killed them.

Often at nights in the emergency, the lights would occasionally flicker and a certain heaviness was in the air. It was on those nights, when it was quieter that I left the door open a little bit longer – in case there was something that needed to get out. I like to think they have a soul, I like to think as they take their last breath that it exits the body and follows their owner home.