The curtain draws back,

An agonizing scene begins to unfold.

A father is struggling to be stoic,

the mother’s eyes are cold.

Their child lays in the stretcher,

a veteran of many a procedure.

The bruises on her innocent skin,

a most prominent feature.

They look quite surprised,

even a bit startled to see my face.

“Don’t worry,” says my colleague,

“This is not his first case.”

“We’ve heard of your services,” says the mom,

while barely holding back her tears.

“We’re so glad you could stop by,” says the dad,

while he struggles to confront his fears.

I know my role and calling,

I’ve trained for it extensively.

I aim to help calm the soul,

and do so inexpensively.

Surgery is a very scary time,

the anxiety tends to run high.

“We have no choice to proceed,”

the parents exclaim with a sigh.

I bravely approach the child,

I comfort her as she ponders her future.

Her failing chest and heart

will soon meet the scalpel and the suture.

I channel all of my strength, empathy, and affection,

straight into that innocent child.

She sheds a tear and accepts what is coming,

with a long road ahead, her recovery won’t be mild.

Alas it is time for me to leave,

the surgery is about to start.

I jump off the bed and wag my tail rigorously,

I am a good boy and have hopefully done my part.