It wasn’t just squirrels; I loved spotting birds in the wild too. My best friend in university was an avid birder. She would wake up early every weekend, bring her binoculars to a nearby trail, and watch birds for hours. She knew so many species, some just by the sound of their calls alone. Katherine showed me the beauty of birds. She opened my eyes to a world far beyond the pigeons and sparrows, the only two species I’d ever known growing up in Viet Nam.

Curiosity, it was. Of the beauty and the majesty of animals. How different they are made, yet how fully alive they all are, going about their business, unaware of the circle of life pressing in around them. I mean, who am I to say I understand it better than they do? But curiosity, at least on the surface, was what drew me to animals.

One time, a sparrow flew into our backyard in Viet Nam. Our backyard had two big cây cau (betel nut palm trees), so animals often found refuge there. A bat once took a nap on the large leaves and accidentally flew into our house. But this time, a little sparrow had fallen from somewhere and couldn’t walk, couldn’t fly. Had it tumbled from a nest? I couldn’t find one, but I was in Grade 2, probably three-four feet tall, and the trees were more than quadruple the height of Victor Wembanyama.

My maternal grandmother carried the bird inside, and I remember freaking out: What if it dies? How do we take care of something this tiny? Grandma dropped a bit of sugar water onto the bird’s beak to check its response. It was conscious, just not flying. We sat with it for about half an hour, not knowing whether it would get better. But it did fly away, after all. Maybe it was just shocked after hitting the walls or something.

(Warning: the next section contains animal death and some graphic details. Please skip ahead to the next line break if you’d prefer.)

Another time, I think I was seven. I was on the back of my other grandmother’s motorbike in a narrow market alley, the kind so thin only a single car could pass through. Vendors pressed in on both sides, calling out prices and haggling with customers. We had stopped briefly to pick up vegetables for dinner. As I looked out at the busy alley, I noticed a tiny kitten on the road. It was so small. I felt connected to it; I was a tiny kid too, after all.

Then, very suddenly, a motorbike shot through the alley.

When I looked again, the kitten was still on the road. Blood was spurting from its tiny head. Its cries thin and unceasing. I froze. My grandmother, unaware of what had happened, drove us away.

I have travelled back to that moment, on and off, for years, and never once left it feeling lighter. What if I had told her to stop? What if we had scooped the kitten up and rushed it to the vet somewhere? Would it have survived? Would she have allowed it, or waved it off as just an animal, a lesser life form not worth the trouble? I’ll never know. My fear got in the way of potentially helping that little one, and I’ve carried that regret ever since. It doesn’t get talked about enough: how in certain places and cultures, animal lives are not seen as precious, but as something lesser. A life not worth considering.

I have recurring nightmares about not being able to save an animal. Sometimes it’s that kitten; the image of its suffering still burned into my mind. Sometimes it’s a squirrel seizing on the pavement; I pick it up, helpless, not knowing what to do. Sometimes it is my own cat. I dream she has cancer I can’t cure.

It is, truly, my absolute worst fear: to stand in front of a suffering creature and have nothing to offer.

Perhaps that fear, more than anything else, is what drives me to become a vet. Not just curiosity. Not just love. I want to learn and be trained so that when I see an animal suffer, I don’t freeze. So I can do something to end its suffering; either help heal it, or help it leave pain behind with more peace than that kitten in the alley had.

I know this is something I will struggle with, and will have to make peace with at some point. Because sometimes, even when you have given everything you have, even when you have tried your absolute f*cking best—you still can’t save them. And that’s just the universe moving in its wondrous, mysterious way. “It’s time,” it says. “That being’s life and death belongs to me, not yours to carry.”

Is that a healthy mindset, or just a coping mechanism? I honestly don’t know.

Cancer isn’t solved yet. Neither is human ego, nor our stubborn inability to let go of what we cannot control. But I need to keep reminding myself: I’m here to help in the best way I can, not to rewrite the fate already written in the stars.

Trust me, I’ve been there.

The first time I ever worked in a clinical setting was at an animal emergency clinic in Burlington, Ontario.

I was exposed to the gory stuff from the get-go. I saw chaos daily: On-call veterinarians stabilizing a hit-by-car dog on the table while simultaneously guiding technicians treating a respiratory distress cat in the corner, and juggling difficult euthanasias and time-sensitive toxin ingestions in between.

Despite the intensity, I loved it. Through the chaos, through the pressure, I was learning and growing so much. Working at this clinic ignited my passion for veterinary medicine, specifically emergency medicine.

But I still remember how hard it was starting with limited clinical experience.

So, I’ve put together 10 tips to help you survive (and succeed) at your first job in a veterinary emergency clinic.

This will be split into 2 parts since I want to share as much as possible! I want you to carry these tips through every shift, not just at this job, but into all the new experiences coming your way (and just you wait, there will be many!)

Wait...Tell me more!

1. Learn at least one thing per shift.

Make learning one thing your goal of the day (I’d recommend aiming for at least 3). This is SO important if you want to level up quickly! You can always improve yourself, and that’s also how your coworkers start trusting you with more responsibilities.

Remember to WRITE IT DOWN. Notes app, Google Docs, or a notebook, whatever works for you. Organize them into sections if you can (e.g. Drugs, Procedures, Animal handling, Diseases, Customer service/Communication, etc.). Sometimes I literally scribble on my hand or a small piece of paper at work, then transfer it to a bigger document at home.

Note: This also helps familiarize you with many “hard to pronounce, hard to remember” medical terms early on. I still struggle with “Levetiracetam”. That still sounds like a spell to me. Want seizures gone? LEVETIRACETAM!

2. Know your role inside and out, and do it well!

For example, as an animal care assistant (ACA), your role is to help vets and technicians handle the patients, provide nursing care, and keep the hospital clean and organized.

I know cleaning doesn’t sound…thrilling. But it matters so much! A clean hospital means nobody trips or slips on anything, or worse, spreads anything infectious. Organized carts ensure that when emergencies come (which is literally every day here DUH), you’re not running around in panic mode looking for supplies. YOUR work is keeping the hospital running smoothly!

Focus on mastering what’s in front of you, and you’ll quickly earn trust with more tasks!

Note: If you have never handled an animal before, or are struggling with this, I’ll make a separate post about how to improve on that. Stay tune!

3. Know the protocols!

This is especially important at an emergency clinic when things get hectic all the freaking time.

Note: Protocols will vary by clinic, but for example: Client walks in => Get number + name to make a kennel tag => Take pet in for technicians => Call client for history to book them in the system => Print clipboard info and hand to vets.

As well, know the protocols for some emergencies, especially the clinical signs that point you to something very serious. For example, if it’s a “straining to urinate male cat”, get the name/number quickly, then bring the cat straight to the vet to feel the bladder. This could mean the cat has a urethral blockage, and that’s BAD BAD BAD.

Note: I’ll make a separate post breaking down common clinical signs, what they could be, and what to do, so keep an eye out for that!

4. Destress ‘n’ Debrief after every shift.

Emergency shifts can be 6-12 hours, often late nights or overnights. And unless you have perfected the ability to exert healthy boundaries, you’ll probably stay later a few minutes to an hour when things are busy.

It’s A LOT, physically and emotionally. This is emergency medicine we’re talking about. You’ll see tough cases, and you’ll feel heavy things. That’s completely normal!

So make a relax-routine after a shift: shower (hot, cold, or none, whatever floats your boat), eat something good, and PLEASE get enough sleep (blackout curtains, earbuds, melatonin are your new BFFs).

If you have energy, reflect a bit. Ask yourself, how did that shift go? What did I learn? What can I improve? Anything I need to clarify with a coworker or vet? Write down just a few sentences.

Note: If you have a great memory or if you are too exhausted after a shift, reflect the next day. I usually just jot it down quickly before passing out so I don’t forget.

5. This one is special, because I love you all so much:

Never EVER, and I mean ABSOLUTELY NEVERRRR, say the word “quiet”.

As in “Wow, it’s so quiet today”.

If your coworkers don’t take you out immediately (pretty high chance), you probably will wanna die in the next few minutes anyway when 6+ emergencies come through the door AT THE SAME TIME (100% will happen).

I don’t make the rules. I just suffer the consequences.

This is it, your “starter pack”: learn, do your job well, know protocols, destress, and avoid the Q word.

In the next part, I’ll get into how to really grow into your role and become a person others can rely on!

Until next time…