It's been almost fifteen years since I first started working around here. I remember, I wanted to go to an Ivy League school ever since I was a brat. Studying was my hobby, good grades were as essential as water, and any volunteer opportunity became mandatory. So when, fifteen years ago, I heard the local animal shelter was desperate for workers, I was one of the first kids to sign up. I didn't even like animals; the family dog and I never really got along. All that mattered was that I could soon add another achievement to my application, and I'd be just a little closer to Yale.

It's been almost fifteen years now. I'm wearing an old stained shirt from my alma mater. In big bold letters, it reads CU, for Canterlot University. It's been almost fifteen years now, and every morning I still return to the local animal shelter to feed and groom the stray dogs and cats and make sure everyone's healthy. I thought I wanted to be a lawyer. I got a degree in veterinary medicine instead.

I'm one of the older workers. If I ever need a reminder, I just look over my shoulder at one of the younger helpers, and suddenly I feel very old. Most are in high school, from Canterlot High, just like I was. A few are just here for more volunteer hours to log down on their resume. After fifteen years, I can tell the difference between the ones forced to be here, either by parents or themselves, or those who truly enjoy helping animals. The latter always arrive a few minutes ahead of schedule, wearing goofy grins, and always have a spring in their step as they work.

She's one from the latter category, one of the best volunteers we have, that young lady with pink hair. She's just started, and the animals already adore her, and she them. I've seen wild strays lulled asleep as she gently stroked their backs with brushes and fingers and sing quiet lullabies. The only times I've ever seen her smile waver are when one of the strays finally finds a home. As she watches their new owners take them away, she fights back tears. I remember asking her once if she was alright. Do you know how she responded?

"I'm alright. I'm just so happy Opal finally has someone to love."

She's new, but I trust her with all the in and outs of this place. I can trust her to feed all the animals on time and with the right amount. I can trust her to be gentle when grooming. She can clean the dogs and even the cats without my supervision. If my usual nurse is missing, she's my substitute assistant, making sure I have all the right drugs and tools. Don't tell anyone though.

Yes, there's no job I can't trust her with. Well, except spaying and neutering, that responsibility falls solely onto me. She knows how, mind you. Curious girl, she's watched me perform those procedures maybe half a dozen times. There are times I feel like handing scissors over to her. I don't, of course, but don't tell anyone regardless.

There is one other job I won't let her touch. It's my least favorite job, but sometimes it's necessary. If I have to do it, I do it at around noon, when I know she's at school, and I'll have plenty of time to clean up before she arrives.

She names them, all of them. Wallis, Jen, Popo, Olive, Maxwell, Sam, Anne, Hans...

It makes it harder, when they have names, and she names every single one of them. I asked her once to stop. When she asked me why, I explained that it would confuse the poor creature if their new owner gave them a different name. Innocent little girl, she swallowed that half-truth obediently like a sugar pill.

Of course, old habits die hard, and it wasn't long before she started naming them again. Jonah, Penny, Ema, Watson, Bolt, Coco, Arne, Oreo...

I didn't bother asking her to stop a second time. Maybe I should have been a little stricter. Too soft, but not soft enough for this.

I wonder why I try to keep it all a secret. She probably knows. She's in high school already, the concept of death probably isn't all that foreign, considering what's on television and cinema screens and the Internet these days. She's seen the needles, she looked through the inventory, she knows we keep an excess of pentobarbital in stock.

So why do I insist on keeping it a secret? Why do I keep trying to keep her in the dark?

I remember the first time seeing the process. It was a total accident. I was looking for a broom and thought I found the closet. It wasn't. The veterinarian had forgotten to lock the door and made me keep the entire incident just between the two of us. I always make sure the door is locked. I know she's at school, there's no way she could be here, but I lock the door anyways.

I remember looking into those sad haunting eyes as they closed for the very last time, the same eyes you're giving me know. I've seen them many times now. I've gotten used to it. I've gotten good at it, this least favorite job of mine, so don't worry, I'll make sure there won't be any pain.

Another lie. The needle will hurt, of course, but you already know that. I've given you how many shots already? Of course, she was always right beside you, holding your paw and gently cooing. Not today. Not ever again.

If we had more space, if we had more volunteers, if we had more resources, maybe you would have had more time. Maybe you could have been rescued. Maybe, instead of being strapped down on this cold sterile table you'd be playing fetch with a little boy or girl in a big back yard.

Canterlot's animal shelter needs more volunteers. Won't you help an animal that can't help itself, so maybe I won't have to jump in and "help".

She'll ask me where you've gone, you know, when she arrives, half an hour before her scheduled shift begins, and sees your empty kennel. She'll spend a few minutes wandering back and forth, calling out your name and asking all the others if they've seen you. I wonder if she expects them to give an answer. I doubt it, she's not that naive.

Then, she'll turn to me and ask if I know where you've gone. Do you know what I'll say? I'll tell her you were adopted, that some kind old lady looking for companionship found you and took you away her her arms and how you licked her face with joy and how the lady was laughing happily.

I'll see her tears and ask her what's wrong, but I know what she'll say.

"I'm just so happy Max found someone to love. I just wish I could have been there to say good bye."

Why do I persist in this lie? It isn't a secret that this is what we have to do sometimes. Resources are finite. Room is limited. We've always been pressed for help but now more than ever since community service is no longer mandatory for graduation.

She must know these needles administrate more than medicine. So why do I insist in hiding it from her? Because she's better off believing you're living the life with some wonderful new owner? Because she's better off thinking that the little abused dog she found and helped treat is alive and well? Or is it simply because I'm afraid of how she'll look at me once she's seen what I've done, once she knows I took her friend away forever, the friend she helped walk again, the friend she named.

It's so much harder when they have names, but I won't stop her. I won't tell her how much more difficult she's making this.

I don't know how long I can keep this lie up. I'm sure one day it'll all collapse on me, and I'll regret not tell her what happened to all her little friends that I've never even given her the chance to say good bye to, but that's the point. That's future me's problem, and I can be sorry later.

I'll let you in on a secret, I don't like needles. Surprising, isn't it? After all these years working with them, needles and syringes still make me a little uncomfortable. I dread vaccinations almost as much as you do. But at least it's quick, almost painless. You won't feel a thing.

Are you ready, Max? Remember, don't tell Fluttershy.