EXECUTIONER OR SAVIOUR. Pt. 1

As a lover of dogs, and having owned (or been owned by, as the case may be) four dogs in the past six decades I hate that, because of over population, multiplied hundreds of precious pooches are euthanized in America on a daily basis. 

This is the story of one of them.

After retiring from the army, Colonel E., a former Army veterinarian, (and my mother’s first cousin) worked part-time for a local animal shelter. Admittedly, his least favorite duty involved euthanizing dogs and cats which had ‘run out of days;’ (since as you may know, the countdown begins as soon as an animal is picked up by, or surrendered to a given shelter). 

I suppose the good Colonel had worked at the ‘pound’ a year or two, and had, by then, ‘dispatched’ thousands of animals. He expected today would be very much like the multiplied days which had come before. As usual, he readied his equipment. Syringes, hypodermic needles, a combination of lethal chemicals. 

Having consulted with the on-duty attendant, the vet walked over to Cage #7, opened the door, and lifted his next ‘candidate’ out of her 3x3x4 cell.

‘Roxie’ was a blonde cocker spaniel of perhaps 8 or 9. She had been surrendered to the shelter by an elderly widow who was preparing to move into an assisted living facility. More often than not old dogs, big or small, mutt or pure bred, are the least preferred and last to be adopted, and the majority succumb to the executioner’s syringe. 

Colonel E. lifted Roxie in his arms, and as he walked to ‘the execution chamber,’ he scratched her ears. Suddenly, the twenty pound pooch laid her head on his shoulder, and looked directly into his eyes. Needless to say this wasn’t ‘the usual m.o.’ and he found himself temporarily unnerved with this turn of events.

Nevertheless, the retired military man knew he had a job to do, and he was prone to render a proverbial salute, and follow through on a daily basis.

As he reached Room 101, the vet opened the door, walked over to the ‘exam table’ and laid the pooch on her back. He placed his right hand on the little creature’s chest, and retrieved the lethal syringe with the other hand. 

As he bent over, and prepared to inject the toxic agent into Roxie’s left front paw, the Colonel lifted his head. And this is when he noticed the little tyke was staring at him intently, as if to say, 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” 

(and) 

“Do you really want to do this?”

The slightly bewildered vet thought, “Well, this is a new experience,” and he laid the needle on the table. 

As ‘Mrs. Faixfax’ of the novel, “Jane Eyre” mused, “What to do? What to do?” Having reflected on his dilemma a moment, he picked up his ‘weapon’ again, and lightly touched Roxie’s paw with the tip of it.

And then…

he shook his  head, touched the foot pedal of the bio-waste container, and dropped the full syringe into the receptacle. 

Not this time. Not this time.

It was then that it occurred to him. In the amount of time it took to retrieve Roxie from her cage, walk the twenty steps to Room 101, open and shut the door and retrieve the tool of his trade, he’s sensed something different about the dog, and something different about himself. 

Colonel E. felt a tear spring to his eye as he bent to scoop the fortunate animal up in his arms. Retracing his steps to Cage #7, he opened the door, set Roxie in the momentarily unoccupied cell, rubbed her head, and whispered,

“Hang in there you lucky little girl. My shift is over in an hour, and

…you’re going home with me!”

(to be continued)



By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 46. Copyright pending
 
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