concerned as to how I might respond, and were reluctant at first to agree to my presence. Ultimately they made me promise that I would not cry, a promise that I sincerely hoped that I could keep.
When I arrived that day I was understandably nervous, and as it turned out, I was about to get my story.
The cats were first, a paw was pulled out of the cage, and the injection was administered quickly. Next were five dogs, and Number 4717 was among them. Four dogs in turn were placed on the examination table, and given an injection to the heart. Each dropped instantly. It was all so quick, and so business-like, that I was able to hold strong emotionally as I had promised, although I imagined that I would pay for my current emotional distance later, in private.
And then it was Number 4717’s turn. And the injection missed the heart as sometimes happens. She did not drop instantly, it would take more time for the injection to take effect. So, they put her down on the floor so she could wander around freely, and everyone continued on with their morning chores.
The puppy was thrilled to be out, and ran from person to person, tail wagging happily. Her movements got slower and slower. Finally she went to the man who was washing up the food bowls, and with a quiet sigh she laid her head upon his foot, and died.
At that point I lost it, in order to honor my promise I had to go cry in the bathroom. Even now as I write this I am crying, even after all these years. I will never forget that moment as long as I live, a moment that spoke so eloquently of all the years of devotion and love that those shelter animals had to offer, lifetimes that now would never be.
When I emerged from the bathroom, somewhat under control, the