A Witness and a Bridge
Last night, a photograph slipped out of an old book. It was our dog, Marley, standing at the top of our yard, taken in 2002. He looked calm, yet profoundly lost—caught between a past that had ended and a future he didn’t yet understand. He was stepping into a new existence, far from the life he had known. I couldn’t help but feel it was his little spirit reminding me of my own former life.
I’ve lived a packed life, moving through many careers as I searched for direction. After high school, I went to vet tech school, but my hard-partying ways got me kicked out.
Still determined to work with animals, I answered a job posting for an animal care technician at a research facility. I was nineteen, naïve, and in need of money, with no real understanding of what I was walking into.
My job was to clean cages and provide food, water, and daily weights for rodents and rabbits. Over time, I began to notice that my favorite rabbits and rats didn’t return after surgery.
For better pay, I moved to another research facility. This time there were calves, pigs, primates—and eventually, dogs. I played with them, talked to them, and gave them treats. A veterinarian warned me that I was becoming too attached.
art by Lilia alfaro
Two Coonhounds arrived, and I was assigned their room. After a few days, they settled as much as they could. I can only imagine how cold and lonely they felt—surrounded by slamming doors and the cries of other animals echoing through the building, voices of fear and distress.
Secretly naming them became my way of staying sane. It was my small act of resistance, a way to see them as friends rather than disposable “subjects,” especially when others treated them as replaceable. As someone who had always lived with dogs and other animals as companions, this work tore at me.
By the second week, their nightmare began. I won’t describe it, but we all should know the painful and deeply stressful procedures inflicted on animals in the pursuit of human cures.
One morning, I walked into work and saw that one of the dogs was gone. His kennel was empty. The cage cards had been removed. A scientist approached me and said, “You can euthanize the other dog—we won’t be using it.” I hated the word it. It was part of the process—stripping living beings of identity, reducing them to models and data points.
I ran to my boss and pleaded to let me adopt the remaining dog. After some back-and-forth, she finally agreed, but only if I took him that day and told no one. I called my dad, begging him to say yes. He did. I put Marley in my truck and brought him home.
He ran straight to the top of the yard. He was confused and trembling. He didn’t recognize our bond. He fell into the pool. He wouldn’t eat. Everything was new. He had never felt dirt under his paws or heard the wind move through trees. This photograph was taken that day.
Slowly, he began to heal. Over time, he seemed to forget the trauma of his former life, and he spent the next twelve years as a beloved member of our family.
When I look back now, shame arrives before grief. I carry the weight of what I witnessed, the eyes of animals I could not save. I tried to leave, again and again, but money and the promise of security pulled me back. I learned to perform ‘success’. I learned to silence myself.
From the outside, I was thriving. Inside, I knew better. I knew I was participating in something fundamentally wrong—violating lives in exchange for comfort. I drove a BMW. I smiled. I felt counterfeit. There was no guidance at all, no conversation around this paradox—the phrase “compassion fatigue” hadn’t even been coined. I was told that I was “too sensitive”. The system depends on people feeling trapped, silent, compartmentalized. And highly rewarded for forcing your spirit to consent.
I left the field in 2025- finally…and for good.
What I wanted—what I will forever seek—is alignment. A life that does not require forgetting. A life where I am no longer divided from myself. Marley feels like both a witness and a bridge between who I was and who I’ve chosen to become, and I will forever remember him, and all the animals. I wish their spirits eternal freedom, just as it should be.
Seeing this painting immediately brought me to tears. Lilia captured Marley's face, gentle spirit, and quiet presence with such tenderness that it felt as though he had come to visit me one last time. For a moment, the distance between memory and presence disappeared, and I felt the same love and comfort he always gave so freely. Thank you.
AUTHOR OF a witness and a bridge