A Visit to the Vet: Comfort in Uncertain Moments

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“Are we going home after this injection like before, right Mom?” I wonder, sitting on the cold table, my paws slipping slightly because they’re trembling. The room smells sharp—metal and soap—and it makes my nose twitch. I don’t like it here.

Mom’s eyes are red again. She’s been crying a lot lately, and every time I try to lick her face, she just holds me tighter. I can feel her sadness as if it’s my own, and it makes my heart ache. I wish I could make her feel better.

I hear the soft beep of the machine and the crinkle of paper under my paws. The lady in the blue shirt smiles at me, but it’s that sad kind of smile people wear when something bad is happening. I’ve seen it before—when Grandpa stopped coming home.

Even though everything here feels strange and scary, I cling to Mom. I try to be brave, because I know she needs me to be calm, to be her little comfort in this uncomfortable place. My small body pressed against her is my way of saying, “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

In the end, all I want is to leave this place and go home, where the smells are familiar, the floor is warm, and Mom’s hugs are enough to make the world feel safe again. Together, we can face anything, even when the world seems confusing and frightening.