I don’t know how you can say you’re a doctor. Maybe it’s a shield you sought to protect yourself from humanity. One must be sentient before they may claim humanness, so, perhaps you brush your profession as protection.
I don’t know how man or beast could have heard the wheezing sounds coming from my dog, who was barely breathing, and walked away. I don’t know how my tears mingled with sweet attentions and pleas to be okay didn’t stop you in your tracks.
I don’t know how you can say you are in a profession that helps people. You might not be in charge of animals. But don’t give them that label. Do they not cry if you hurt them. Do they not plead to feel okay? With her barely open eyes, and her lungs groaning under the weight of their mortality.
You may not like me. You may not like dogs. That might be the case. But I don’t know anyone who could turn on their heel and hide away, when they heard what I heard.
When I finally managed to get her inside, still wheezing and coughing, I held her and tried to make it okay. She’s okay now. She’s asleep on my bed.
My thoughts weren’t with you that whole time, but I thought you, of all people, a person who works within the borderlines of life and death, could have had the empathy to even nod that you understood.
Her heart is too big. She chokes under its pressure. At least she has a heart.
It’s been a long morning,