The unmentionable

In Zimbabwe, where I lived for a few short years, there are many species of poisonous snakes. Fat and lazy puff adders that sun themselves in the middle of foot paths, Mozambique spitting cobras, the ubiquitous boomslang and that lightening-quick merchant of death, the black mamba.
The dread of these creatures has produced a curious habit in the population of this nation. One does not say the word "snake" rather they are referred to as nyoka which, when roughly translated from Ndebele, means "unmentionable one." It is felt that to name the creature out loud will, in fact, call it into being - so this trick of the tongue gives the speaker a sense that there is a choice in the matter when meeting something terrifying.

In veterinary medicine we deliver death, daily. There are the animals brought in too ill or hurt to treat, ones that are dangerous, lame, terminally ill or just guilty of not having a home. These latter ones pass by in unmentionable numbers.
I admit that I can be guilty of a cavalier attitude. We see death everyday, each rotation, it becomes the norm. If you can not compartmentalize this part of your life - keep it moat-bound in logic - then feelings of despair can creep in.
To combat this inertia I try to remember the first time mine was the hand to deliver deadly medication. 
For me it came while gaining experience at a mixed animal practice. A stray cat was brought in hypothermic, emaciated - in the process of leaving this life. The doctor on duty allowed me to euthanize him - but this poor guy was so dehydrated that putting in a catheter was a bleak prospect. The good doctor showed me how to palpate the heart, through the too thin chest - to trace the landmarks for my cardiac stick. It is surprisingly easy - I felt the heartbeat vibrating up though the syringe, pulling back the plunger - deep red blood rushes in, mixing with the potassium chloride. I give the injection and it is over. We wait, listen for breathing, or beating but there is none.
Later that day a beloved horse comes in. After attempting medical treatment of a progressively worse colic the owner decides to try surgery. Her big gelding is in relentless pain, we can't keep him standing and I worry that his petite, distraught owner will be crushed before we can get her horse into surgery.
I am running the anesthesia - listening to his heart when they open him up, only to find feet of necrotic bowel, too much to repair.
Dr. X hands me the euthanasia solution and for a moment I think "no, I don't want to be the one!" But this too is my job, to know how to do correctly this most important thing. I push his forelock away from his eyes and say "Good bye Merlin"- I'm glad he isn't hurting anymore.
Dr. X looks at me, nods - says "It's never easy."
I hope he's right - that it wont be - that my heart always hurts a bit. I hope that, as I did with the first horse, that I will place my hand, say good-bye and that, in the end, I am brave enough to call them by name.