Killer Angels

I had just graduated from veterinary school, and I was
volunteering at the local shelter in Twin Falls, Idaho. As I
looked down at the dog napping in her run, I knew I was going to
have to wake her up to put her "to sleep." What a cruel
euphemism.
She was a Heinz-57 mixed-breed with no name, no home, no
hope. She was horrifically malnourished, and her coat was a
mass of mats and burrs.
In a way, she was lucky to be here. Found on the side of
the road - like living garbage - she'd been left to die in a
remote area of our county.
The kind rancher who found her brought her to the local
shelter where she joined dozens of other cuties and uglies
pressing against the front of the cages hoping to catch the eye
of someone who had a heart and home big enough to give them
another chance.
Problem was there were too many homeless pets and not
enough homes. Day after day for a week the dog waited and
waited, her still-wagging tail marking the time.
But on this day, her time was up. No one had adopted her;
like many in the shelter, the animals were too big, too small,
too hairy, too young, too old. Without enough cages to hold all
that came through our doors, we were prepared to end her life
quickly and without suffering. "Better than starving to death
in the country," I said, finding little solace in the words.
I was inspired to enter this profession because of a deep
love of animals. I had been highly trained and entrusted to
save lives and prevent pain and suffering. Yet here I was about
to end the life of this innocent creature. I hated this part of
the job, but I had to do it. Choking back my emotions, I
readied myself to perform the procedure for which I'd been
trained.
I set her on the table, and she wiggled her gaunt frame
with delight as I spoke some soothing words and patted her head.
The tempo of her tail quickened as she looked up at my face.
Looking into her eyes, I saw total trust, unconditional love and
absolute loyalty. I felt the cruel irony of what was taking
place. God's precious creatures, embodying the kindest virtues
on the planet, being killed for the crime of not being wanted.
She held out her leg for me to inject and licked my hand. She
was ready. I wasn't.
I collapsed onto the dog and held her tight as I bathed her
with tears. Never, ever would I do a convenience euthanasia
again. I'd euthanize a pet if it was suffering terribly, or had
an incurable disease, but never again because of an uncaring
owner's mere request.
I took the dog back to my veterinary practice and named her
G.H. - short for Good Home. I'd observed over the years that
people who raised litters of puppies or kittens always said, "I
just want to find them a 'good home.'"
I soon entrusted G.H. to a loving client who had a heart
and home big enough to welcome yet another four-legged family
member.
Saving G.H. set me on a new path as a veterinarian.
Although my hands still held the power of death, my heart
didn't. Now, whenever I look into the dancing liquid eyes of a
pet, brimming with love, I realize that looks can save. They
did me.

by Marty Becker, D.V.M.