The rottweiler sprawled on my floor is approaching a diabetic coma. Its owner can’t afford an IV drip, let alone insulin. The closer an animal is to death, the harder a vein is to hit. I keep my relief to myself when the blue juice goes in first time. It is pentobarbitone, in an amount that is effectively an anaesthetic overdose. The heart stops; the dog slumps. I listen with my stethoscope and nod solemnly. The rottweiler’s owner cries out in anguish that she should have got pet insurance. She is right, but now is not the time to agree. I touch an arm and, once it feels appropriate, I withdraw.

I hadn’t been expecting this. The receptionist was told that the dog was vomiting, so they’d only booked a 10-minute consultation. Now I’m running half an hour late for my next appointment. As I enter the waiting room a lady jumps up, eager to show me a cute new kitten. It’s fine; there’s a spare consulting room we can use and I’ve already switched on my excited face. I will pause to inquire after an inpatient or to apologise to someone who is looking at their watch. All this juggling can feel like waiting tables.

After cleaning a 91-year-old's bondage gear, I couldn't look at him the same way again Read more

I work as a locum at various different practices, which makes clients suspicious of me. They need to perceive that I adore their animal and can treat whatever is wrong. Some vet surgeries have a culture of giving the fastest or cheapest treatments, like inappropriate antibiotics or steroids, and many clients seek this out. It isn’t worth criticising unless I see something directly negligent, but I don’t take those jobs twice. Other practices want me to sell everything from pet food to insurance to screening programmes. This is my preferred end of the spectrum: people can always say no to me checking their apparently healthy cat’s urine for early signs of kidney disease but they can’t say yes if I don’t offer it. The earlier the diagnosis, the better for the cat.

People moan about their vet’s bills a lot; it might be different if they knew what an ovariohysterectomy (or “spay”) costs the NHS. Of course I’m not in it for the money: most vets are intelligent enough that we could have chosen a better-paid career. I chose veterinary medicine because I wanted to work with animals, and I do my best for them. But it is the owner interactions I actually find most rewarding now. Humans are my favourite animals, despite all their flaws.

Most surgeries have morning consultations followed by operating time, with more consultations through the afternoon and evening. You never know when a C-section or road traffic accident is going to turn up. Often I’ll do surgery in my lunch break then peel off my gown, wash my hands and consult. I rarely get bitten: I can read animals’ body language and I know when to use a muzzle. When something does bite me, it’s usually a hamster. Animals are sometimes abandoned with us and most vets have a collection of much-loved strays. I don’t: my husband isn’t into animals. To me, it’s natural that owners are so close to their pets, even though many people don’t get it.

It is surprising for a profession employing a majority of women that 15-hour night shifts are often advertised as the family-friendly option. I am a mother of small children and work beyond nursery hours every day. Luckily I have a house husband. I locum for a few months and then he goes off to train as a mountain guide while I do the childcare. We live like students and pass like ships in the night but I have the best work-life balance of any vet I know.

I never know what’s coming through the door next: “eyes hanging out” could mean just that, or it could be a spot of mild conjunctivitis. The variety is exciting and the grisly stuff is fascinating. If I lance a particularly large abscess or find a partially digested stiletto piercing a stomach wall, the staff will gather round to look.

The variety is fascinating. If I find a partially digested stiletto in a stomach wall, the staff will come round to look

Dramatic surgery is nerve-wracking: I prefer routine operations and dog castrations in particular – now that I’ve done a few thousand they feel like a familiar handicraft. Given the choice, however, I’ll always consult. It’s never boring: even the day’s 20th case of fleas will involve a different animal, owner and situation. I work out what is best for the individuals in front of me and explain it to them as best I can.

Breaking bad news is something you get used to. The rottweiler’s owner bought me flowers because she said I was kind. Euthanasia is a raw and vulnerable time, and kindness is important. I can be fighting back tears myself but it feels a privilege to be able to help.

Driving home, I stop acting and think the day through. Will the stiletto-dog’s stomach heal OK? Did the owner understand what I said about feeding it? If I get things wrong, an animal could suffer or even die. People assume that putting animals down is the worst part of my job. They’re wrong. The worst bit is lying awake worrying whether you’ve missed something.

• Have you ever worked as a vet? If so, please share your strangest experiences with us below. We also want to hear your candid stories of what work is really like in other professions. Share an account of your role and the best will be published anonymously. Find full details on how to share your story here