SandScript 2020

with after doing house calls for so many
years. “Good name,” I said, rubbing Buck
again. He rolled his eyes so he could look at
me without moving his head and panted a
few breaths, then closed his mouth again.
I filled out the consent form with
information they gave me—Evie told me
Buck was 13 years old and was a neutered
male. I filled in their names and phone
numbers. Ray told me he already had a
grave dug, so I noted that on the form.
Home burial. When it was finished, I held
the paper up, with a pen, waving it gently in
front of me. “I need a volunteer to read this
and sign it,” I said.
Ray came over and took it. “Always
gotta do the paperwork, eh, Doc? CYA?
Cover your ass?”
“Well, for some things, you want to
have a document that shows that everyone
agrees about what we are doing, since there
is no going back. We…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I was just
yankin’ your chain,” Ray said, talking over
me.
“No, no,” Evie said. “Finish what you
were going to say, Derek.”
If “CYA” means “make sure people
understand what is happening,” then yes,
that’s exactly what I was doing. But the
euthanasia consent form also forced people
to confront their animal’s death, and it often
had them facing their own mortality. A
powerful piece of paper, indeed.
I looked at the two of them for a
moment. It was getting darker outside.
Festus-dog was now lying down close to
Buck. Jack was quiet but vigilant, still
watching me and my canvas bag, which
I had kept closed; I didn’t want any
inquisitive dog noses going into it and
making chew toys out of my expensive
medical equipment. Little Jack sat in his
spot by Evie and studied the bag, the power
object that had thwarted him.
“I was just going to say that when
we talk about this, we use words like, ‘put
to sleep,’ and ‘saying goodbye,’ which are
nice ways of speaking,” I said. “But this
paper uses words like ‘death’ and ‘dead,’ so
that there can be no mistaking what we are
talking about and what we are about to do.”
Evie took the paper and read it. “It’s
only two paragraphs, Ray,” she said.
“I know,” Ray said.
Evie finished reading the consent
form, and then she looked at me. “Do you
think we’re doing the right thing? Do we
have to kill our dog?”
“Is that what the paper says?” I said.
“No, it says that we consent to
euthanasia,” she said, looking at the paper in
her hands, “and then in parentheses, it says
‘humane death.’”
“Amounts to the same thing,” Ray
said.
I waited, listening, but no one spoke.
The atmosphere was full of sadness, which
was appropriate. It was also full of a lot of
other emotions: guilt, anger, regret, shame.
“My answer is yes, you are doing the
right thing,” I said quietly. “And no, we’re
not killing your dog. Words matter. Killing is
violent. Euthanasia is merciful.”
They just stared at me. I imagined
their feelings. How were they supposed
to know how to do this? It went against
everything they wanted.
“You have told me that he is showing
every sign of pain and suffering,” I said. “He
FICTION
31