I don’t hang my hat where the marble floors shine,
But where feeders creak and the work smells like pine.
Where calves are born in the glow of dawn,
And the weak hold on until strength draws on.

The clinic is clean, the instruments aligned,
But the soul of this job ain’t sterilized shine.
It’s in fence-line talks and horse trailer dust,
In prayers whispered quiet when the case’s a bust.

I’ve hauled myself through blizzards and heat,
Boots caked in the mire and manure on my seat.
I’ve fought for lives deep into the night,
Through shadowed stalls and flickering light.

There’s a silence that speaks in the lamb’s first cry,
In the mother who stands, though she looked sure to die.
There’s courage in small things—stitches and scans,
And in wiping your brow with manure-cracked hands.

The world doesn’t see what a vet becomes—
Not just tendons and tubes and dental drums—
But the keeper of trust, of loss and grace,
Of the life in a heartbeat, the look on a face.

They think it’s just science—drugs, charts, and steel,
But there’s faith in this work that no book can reveal.
Like standing tall when hope runs thin,
Then crying alone as the grief sinks in.

I pledged my heart in muck and fleece,
To guard the wild, the worn, the peace.
And ever since that oath was sworn aloud,
It’s carved in me deep — humble and proud.

I answer when the call comes through,
Even if it’s late and the sky’s lost its blue.
This life ain’t perfect, but it fits me true—
Where the oath I carry is all that I do.

DocBott