I wanted to share this story with you because it is so touching and because someone else might be motivated to do something nice because of it.

The stainless steel was cold. That was what I remember most about sitting in the veterinarian’s office that scorching summer day. That steel countertop that my four year old sheltie, Elvis, was resting on was cold and the room had an antiseptic aroma about it. This uncomfortable ambiance was punctuated with antiquated vet medicine posters on the wall and a mason glass jar filled with some mysterious fluid and a giant, deceased tapeworm sitting on a shelf in the corner. It had been a traumatic morning and the events of the day were burning themselves in my mind.

Elvis was having difficulty breathing and two of his legs were obviously broken because of the angle at which they were resting on the table. The man who hit him that summer morning was speeding through our neighborhood and clipped his back end while crossing the street, spinning him like a top. The sound of the car hitting him was unmistakable. Also unmistakable was the sound of the driver shifting into a higher gear as he sped from the crime scene. Now, here in the vet office, the only thing more excruciating than listening to him whimper and writhe in agony on the exam table was knowing that he was trying to be as still and quiet as possible. Elvis was a very polite dog that was exceedingly well mannered and well trained. If he was carrying on like this, it was clearly involuntary.

Just then, a giant man walked through the swinging double doors that connected the exam room from the rest of the office. “Well, well, well… what do we have here young man” he said. “It’s my dog, mister. He got hit by a car and he’s hurt real bad. Please help him.” I said, wiping away the evidence of a twelve year olds sorrow from my eyes.

The large man did a cursory inspection of Elvis making serious thinking sounds as he hovered over him. “I’m afraid there’s not much I can do son. He’s hurt too bad. The only thing we can do is put him out of his misery”. “But he was a gift on my eighth birthday”, I cried out, “He’s my best friend!” “Well, if he’s your best friend you don’t want him to suffer then do you?” I was silent as I wrestled with the logic of his argument. “Well… do you?” he boomed. “Do you want your best friend to suffer - yes or no?” He said with accusingly crossed arms. “No” I squeaked. “But… you’ve just got to do something! Surely you can do something mister, PLEASE! I love my dog!” “Well, there IS something I can do… WE can do,” he said as he opened a drawer and pulled out a needle and vial of fluid. He drew the fluid out and thumped the top of the hypodermic with his finger as he squeezed out a thin line that trickled on the floor. “What do you mean?”, I asked.

He handed me the needle and said, “Here is some medicine that will make all his pain go away. You can give it to him”. As he handed me the needle, my hands shook and he began to talk me through giving an animal a shot for the first time. Immediately after the injection, Elvis began violently shaking. He jerked himself upright in a spasm, promptly collapsing under the weight of a body that couldn’t be supported by two broken limbs. He violently shook and made the kind of unusual shrieks that stay in your mind forever; the kind that only come at the end of life. Elvis snorted and spasmed until he didn’t anymore, and then his eyes opened and he looked at me in a lifeless death stare.

It was traumatic, sure, but it’s like what that man said to me afterwards, “no one has arms long enough to fight with God, so you’d better just learn to deal with death and move on.” God just needed him more than I did. It was a good lesson to learn and one that I will never forget. I will also never forget the day, THAT day. The day my little Elvis left the building.

Phillip
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