mom thought I’d sit around and smoke pot all day, but I’m actually excited to get up every morning and go to work. It’s like I’m living my future adult life, and for once it’s easy to get out of bed and start my day.
Rachel, the daytime co-op student from an uptown school, greets me right away. “Melissa!” She’s just inside the door, as if she was waiting hours for my arrival. “Oh my God! You’ll die! Penelope had her pups! They’re adorable.”
“Hey!” I am so excited I push past her and rush toward the basement, where the cages are. I am practically skipping down the stairs. “I was hoping it was today!”
“The black and white one is mine,” she claims, chasing after me.
I suppose you could say Rachel and I are “friends.” I started to volunteer at Willow Animal Hospital almost two years ago now. My school guidance counsellor set it up, and it’s been the best thing that has ever happened to me. When I turned sixteen, they hired me on as part-time casual, and started me off on a higher wage because of all my previous help. Rachel has been there for only a month, so basically she’s my “student.”
Rachel is a “normal” girl. She has two parents. She takes piano lessons. She’s on the swim team. She drives a Mini. She’s still a virgin. She seems a billion years younger than me. I think she’s a little afraid of me. She’s seen me not take crap from Tawyna, the dog groomer who thinks she can boss us around like slaves. But Rachel would never guess what I’m really like. The drugs. The parties. My mom. Because here at work, I am me. I don’t have a mythic name. At work, I am Melissa.
The pups, all pink and squeaking, are intertwined in a writhing huddle in a blanket on the floor of the kennel. Their mother, Penelope, is in a separate cage, recovering from two broken legs.
“Look at them! They’re soooo cute!” I open the kennel door and sit cross-legged on the concrete floor. I spend the next fifteen minutes holding each one, bringing their new-babysmell bodies up to my face and giving them a thousand kisses. Rachel sits in the pen with me, doing the same thing.
I love my work. I want to be a veterinarian. This job will give me the experience I need to get into the university program. I work in the lab. I administer medication. I give animals needles. I assist in minor surgeries. If I stay on for a late shift, I even get to help with car accident victims or neutering.
For the most part, though, I’m downstairs taking care of the cats and dogs. Some of them are boarders, some surgery, some sick. When I arrive each day, Rachel gives me a rundown on the animals: which ones to walk, which ones need meds, which ones bite. We go by each cage and pretend we’re interns giving medical summaries on each patient.
I start my shifts with walking the dogs on a little square patch of grass surrounding a single tree out behind the parking lot. It’s not as easy as you’d think. Each dog has his own problem. Some have cones around their necks, or bandages around their legs, or even IV drips in their little doggy elbows. Some dogs, like the ones who have had hip surgery, I have to carry up and down the stairs. After walking, I clean the cat and dog cages and feed everyone. Then I bathe the ones who shit all over themselves. In between all this, I do loads and loads of laundry.
Another reason I love my work is because it’s where I met Michael. He’s an animal technician, which for the most part he thinks makes him a failure. He wanted to be a vet too, but because of his depression, a few years ago he dropped out of university.
I met him on a late shift. I was filling in for Christie, the overnight lady. Jetson, a terribly mangy cat, was brought in, its eyeball popping out of its head. Blood everywhere. Smashedup teeth. Michael was the only medical staff there. The oncall vet was nowhere to be found because he was having an affair with the convenience store owner’s daughter next door, so it was just the two of us, and we worked like a team from ER to bring this mess back to life. It was amazing. And at the