Juno

The house had learned how to be quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful; the soft, late-night kind where everything settles, but something thinner. Stretched. Like if anyone spoke too loudly, it might split.

I sat halfway up the stairs, not really upstairs, not really downstairs. Close enough to hear them. Far enough that I could pretend I wasn’t listening.

The third step creaked if I shifted my weight too much, so I stayed very still. There was a faint mark on the wall where something had hit it weeks ago, and the kitchen light flickered slightly at the edges, just enough to notice if you were looking for it.

Their voices carried from the kitchen.

They weren’t shouting anymore. That had stopped weeks ago. Now they kept their voices low, like that made it any better. It didn’t. I couldn’t hear every word, but I heard enough to understand.

Juno jumped up beside me a moment later, circling once, then again, before settling against my side. Her weight was warm and steady, and her tail brushed lightly against my arm in a slow, familiar rhythm.

She always tapped her paw twice before settling, like she was checking it was safe.

I let out a shuddered breath and rested my hand on her back. Her fur was softer behind her ears and slightly rougher along her back where it caught if you moved your hand the wrong way, so I traced the same path I always did, just to smooth it down again.

“They’re going to leave, aren’t they?” I whispered to her. Juno didn’t answer. She just pressed closer as if she understood. Like she could hold everything together if she stayed still long enough.

I swallowed.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” I said, quieter this time. “Okay? I’ll look after you.” She tilted her head, watching me in that way she always did, as if she understood more than she should.

From the kitchen, something scraped sharply against the floor.

I flinched.

Juno didn’t move.

After a moment, I leaned my head gently against her side and closed my eyes.

Downstairs, something ended.

I stayed where I was, counting each breath, matching it to hers, like that was the only thing keeping the world from breaking apart completely.

-

Juno stopped eating two days later.

At first, I thought she was just being picky. She did that sometimes; turn her nose up at food she’d eaten perfectly fine the day before, like she’d suddenly decided she was above it.

But by the second day, the bowl was still full.

She didn’t follow me around the house anymore either. Didn’t wind around my legs when I stood still too long, didn’t jump up beside me on the sofa. She stayed curled in the corner of my room, eyes half-open, like she was watching something I couldn’t see.

“Mum,” I said, standing in the kitchen doorway, “I think something’s wrong with Juno.”

She didn’t answer straight away. Just stood there, staring at nothing for a moment before blinking and looking at me.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s not eating. And she’s just… lying there.”

Mum pressed her lips together, like she was trying to decide something.

“Alright,” she said after a second. “We’ll take her to the vet.”

-

The waiting room smelled strange. Clean, but not in a way I liked. Too sharp. Like it was trying too hard to cover something else.

Juno shifted inside the carrier on my lap, letting out a small, quiet sound that was not quite a meow. I slid my fingers through the gap in the door, letting her press against them.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “We’re just making sure you’re alright.”

A dog barked somewhere behind us. Someone laughed softly. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly.

“Zachary Hart?”

I looked up.

The vet stood in the doorway, holding it open. They gave a small smile, but it didn’t reach their eyes.

The room was even worse.

Bright lights. Metal surfaces. Everything too clean, too still.

“Let’s take a look at her,” the vet said.

I hesitated before placing the carrier on the table. Juno didn’t come out straight away. I had to reach in and lift her gently, holding her against my chest for just a second longer than I needed to.

“She’s usually not like this,” I said quickly. “She’s normally— she eats everything. And she follows me everywhere, and—”

“That’s alright,” the vet said, already reaching for her.

I froze for a second before handing her over.

They placed Juno on the table and began checking her over. Hands moving quickly. Efficiently. Like they’d done this a hundred times already that day.

“Has she been eating at all?” they asked.

“No.”

“And how long has that been?”

“Two days.”

They nodded, like that confirmed something.

I watched their hands. Not Juno. The way they pressed, lifted, checked, moved on.

“Is she going to be okay?” I asked.

There was a pause.

“We’ll do what we can.”

Something about the way they said it made my chest tighten.

“That’s not what I asked,” I said.

The vet glanced at me then, properly this time.

“I understand that,” they said. “But I can’t give you an answer yet.”

They turned back to Juno.

Just like that.

Something sharp twisted in my chest.

“You don’t even care, do you?”

The words came out before I could stop them.

The vet’s hands stilled.

“I do,” they said, after a moment.

“It doesn’t look like it,” I muttered. “You’re just—” I swallowed, my hands tightening into fists. “You’re just trying to get it over with.”

Mum said my name quietly, a warning, but I didn’t stop.

“You haven’t even— you’re not even looking at her properly.”

The room felt too small. Too bright.

The vet straightened slightly, letting out a slow breath.

“I am looking at her,” they said. “I just need to stay focused.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

The words hung there.

For a second, I thought they might argue back.

But they didn’t.

Instead, they just nodded once, like they’d heard it before.

Like it didn’t matter.

-

“I’ll never be like that,” I said, my voice low as I sat on my bedroom floor.

Juno lay curled beside me, her breathing uneven but steady enough to make me believe she’d be okay.

“I’ll actually care,” I added, resting my hand gently against her side. “I won’t just… treat them like they don’t matter.”

Juno shifted slightly, pressing into my hand.

I took that as agreement.

-

A few years later…

I thought the first time would be the hardest.

They told us it would be.

We stood in a line outside the lab, all of us pretending not to be nervous. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else kept checking their phone, like that would make the door open faster.

I kept thinking about Juno.

About how small she felt in my arms. About the way her breathing sounded when it wasn’t quite right.

“Alright,” someone called from inside. “In you come.”

The room smelled like disinfectant.

Stronger than the waiting room I remembered. Sharper.

There were stainless steel tables laid out in rows. Instruments already set beside them. Everything organised. Everything ready.

“Today,” the lecturer said, “you’ll be observing a routine procedure.”

Routine.

I focused on that word.

The dog didn’t know it was routine.

It shifted slightly on the table, eyes wide, chest rising and falling too quickly. Someone stroked its side, murmuring something soft, but their voice sounded distant. Like it wasn’t really meant for the dog at all.

“Watch closely,” the lecturer said.

I did.

I watched everything.

The way the vet’s hands moved with precision. No hesitation. No wasted motion. Like they were following something already mapped out in their head.

I told myself that was what caring looked like.

-

The first time I assisted, my hands shook.

“Relax,” the supervisor said. “You’re fine.”

I didn’t feel fine.

The cat on the table was lighter than I expected. Its fur was warm beneath my fingers. I could feel its heartbeat; fast, uneven.

“Hold here,” they instructed.

I did.

“Good. Don’t think too much. Just follow.”

Don’t think too much.

I nodded.

-

Later, it got easier.

Not all at once. Not in a way I noticed at the time.

Just… gradually.

My hands stopped shaking.

I stopped hesitating.

I learned where to look, what to ignore, how to move from one task to the next without stopping in between.

“Efficient,” one of the lecturers said once, watching me work. “That’s good.”

I took it as a compliment.

-

There was a girl in my class who cried after her first euthanasia.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quietly, in the corner, like she was trying not to be seen.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she said.

No one really knew what to say to her.

Eventually, one of the supervisors did.

“You’ll get used to it.”

I remember thinking that sounded wrong.

-

A few weeks later, she didn’t cry anymore.

By the end of the term, I stopped noticing things.

Not everything. Just the parts that made it harder to do what I needed to do.

The way animals looked at you. The sounds they made when they were afraid. The way their bodies felt different when something wasn’t right.

None of that helped.

So, I learned to focus on what did.

Charts. Symptoms. Procedures. Outcomes.

Cause and effect.

It was simpler that way.

-

One afternoon, a cat scratched me.

Not badly. Just enough to sting.

“Careful,” someone said. “You’ve got to keep a bit of distance.”

I nodded, wiping the blood away with a piece of gauze.

Distance.

That made sense.

-

That night, I washed my hands three times.

I told myself it was because of the scratch.

-

Morning appointments started at 8:30.

I arrived at 8:10. Lights on. Computer up. Notes from the previous day reviewed before the first consult.

Three vaccinations. One follow-up. Two new cases booked in.

The first dog was nervous. Pacing. Pulling against the lead.

“Hold him steady,” I said.

The owner apologised twice. I told her it was fine. It usually was.

Injection administered. No complications.

“Keep an eye on him for the next 24 hours,” I said, already turning back to the screen.

-

Second appointment. Cat. Not eating.

“How long?” I asked.

“Since yesterday,” the owner said.

Weight slightly down. Mild dehydration.

“Could be stress-related,” I said. “We’ll run some tests if it continues.”

The cat tried to pull away. I adjusted my grip. Completed the exam.

“Monitor food intake. Bring her back if there’s no improvement.”

-

Third appointment ran over.

Old dog. Breathing issues. Owner wanted reassurance.

I explained the options. Medication. Further investigation. Quality of life.

They asked what I would do.

“I can’t make that decision for you,” I said.

They nodded. Didn’t look convinced.

We scheduled a follow-up.

-

By midday, I was behind.

Lunch didn’t happen.

It usually didn’t.

-

Afternoon surgery list.

Two procedures. One routine. One not.

I reviewed the notes. Confirmed dosages. Checked equipment.

“Ready?” the nurse asked.

“Yes.”

-

The first procedure went as expected.

No complications. Clean closure.

“Time?” I asked.

“Forty-two minutes.”

I nodded. Within range.

-

Second procedure.

Cat. Female. Age noted on the chart. Condition listed. Consent form signed.

Placed on the table. Anaesthesia administered.

Vitals monitored.

“Scalpel.”

-

Everything followed sequence.

Incision. Assessment. Adjustment.

No deviation from standard procedure.

“Heart rate?” I asked.

“Dropping slightly.”

“Monitor.”

There was a moment, briefly, where the cat shifted.

A small movement of the paw. Repetitive. Light.

I adjusted positioning.

“Continue,” I said.

Complication.

Unexpected.

“Heart rate falling.”

“Administer—”

Too late.

Silence, then—

“Time of death?”

I checked the clock.

“14:17.”

I removed my gloves. Disposed of them. Washed my hands.

Next case was already waiting.

I dried my hands and stepped out into the corridor.

“Owner’s waiting,” the nurse said, not looking up from the notes.

I nodded.

A woman was sitting near the end of the row.

Hands clasped. Shoulders tight. Eyes fixed on the floor until I approached.

“I’m—” she started, then stopped, like they weren’t sure how to begin. “She’s not actually mine. I’m just looking after her while my neighbour’s away.”

I nodded once.

“Alright,”

“There were complications,” I said. “We did everything we could.”

The words came out the same way they always did. Measured. Practised. Clear.

For a moment, she didn’t react.

Then—

A sharp intake of breath.

“No… she was fine this morning,” she said. “She ate her breakfast and chased the laser, I..”

Her voice broke.

“I said I’d take care of her,” they added, quieter now. “I said she’d be fine.”

I didn’t respond.

There wasn’t anything to add that wouldn’t make it worse.

“I’m sorry,” I said instead.

-

Paperwork needed completing.

I returned to the room.

The cat was still on the table.

Position unchanged.

I moved closer.

Checked the chart.

Name: Juno.

I looked back at the body.

Same colouring.

Same size.

The paw shifted slightly as I adjusted the sheet beneath it.

Twice.

Light. Repetitive.

For a moment, nothing happened.

No shift. No reaction.

Just recognition, arriving too late to be useful.

I stood there, waiting.

For something.

It didn’t come.

I reached for the sheet and pulled it gently over her.

Smoothed it flat.

Turned away.

“Next case is ready,” the nurse called from down the corridor.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said.

I washed my hands again.

And went.

The end.