Out of Her Misery

I never like killing animals. It's not something I enjoy doing. But it is my job.
I'm in one of the most loathed occupations in the world, certainly the most hated in the vet clinic. I mean, when it comes down to it, nobody wants to kill animals. It's just something that... well... it's just a thing. In the 5 years I've been doing animal euthanasia, I've been kicked by children, punched by grown men, snubbed by countless women, scorned by PETA (even to the point of property vandalism when they found out where I lived and decided to throw animal corpses tied to bricks through my living room window), and my right thumb cut off by a punk rock guitarist who screamed, “Try killing defenseless animals now!” as he was being dragged away by mall security.
“I'm left-handed,” I had said sullenly, picking my severed finger off the ground, and the look of utter dismay flooded over his face as though I had just killed his dog. It was the exact same face I'd seen thousands of times. Deal with that face. I dare you. Deal with it once, and then understand that I have to everyday.
Animal euthanasia is the worst job in the world.
I do it because I know that it's best for the animals at a certain stage. It's worse for them to continue living in overwhelming pain that will never get better than for them to simply fall asleep and never wake up. I believe this, and that's how I'm able to keep doing this hideous job, day after day. I do it for their good.
But this time is completely different, and honestly, I can't quite put my finger on why. I brought this dog in myself, a Border Collie about a year to a year and half old, blood red on white on black, breathing heavy, more like gasping. Not moving a muscle, barely making a sound, but looking at me like I was Jesus come to take her home.
She looked at me like I was some sort of angel. Like I was hope, I was everything she needed to be okay, like if she never saw anyone ever again, it would be fine because she would have still seen me. Her eyes were glass in the deep black of her hair and deep red of her slowly caking blood.
She looked at me like I was a savior, but it was me who made her like this in the first place. I hit her with my car. It wasn't her fault, I just wasn't paying enough attention. She... was just there, in the wrong place at the wrong time. I heard her head hit my bumper, and at that moment, I knew I had killed her. She might as well have been already dead. Unfortunately, she wasn't.
I carried her into the Clinic, blood washing over my hands, coating my shirt. All I could feel was her breathing, and how it matched my heartbeat: too quick.
I laid her on the table and checked to see if she had a collar with a name or anything. No. She was alone in the world, no friends, nothing. We were more alike than I had thought. She kept starting at me. I think I was all that she could see, but I believe that she saw me with perfect clarity.
They brought the syringe for me. This is what we do when there's a dying animal and there's nobody to call, after all, we're not a charity case. We can't save animals that need saving just to do it, we have to do it for money. When there's no money, there's no surviving.
She and I locked eyes for a long time. She looked at me because I was all she had, and I looked at her knowing what was coming and wishing someone, anyone, else would do it. But it's my job. This is what I do.
Her breath fogged out on the metal table. Like she's breathing smoke.
I took a breath and drew some pentobarbitol into the syringe. Tap the needle to get air bubbles out, more out of habit than for any purpose, and slid the needle into a vein on one of her front legs. All I had to do was push the plunger and she'd go to sleep, her pain would disappear, and maybe somewhere in doggy heaven, she'd be happy and playful again. All I have to do is kill her to set her free. But I couldn't stop thinking, “Haven't I hurt her enough?”
Her breathing was heavy but consistent, her bloody chest heaved with the effort to continue, but it was all so mesmerizing. I couldn't move. Locked in a trance, I was frozen, her frail body draped in front of me waiting for me to do something... anything.
If only she would stop looking at me. If only she would break eye contact, I could finish this. I could end it. My thumb is on the plunger, the needle is in the flesh ready to overload her system with barbituates... but I don't think I can do it this time. I don't know if I can end this... even if it is best for her and best for me. The pained look in her eyes only beckons me to stay my hand just another second or two. Maybe she'll be fine, maybe I'm misinterpreting the signs. I know I'm not, but I'm telling myself anything to keep her here. But why? There's no special connection between me and this dog other than the whirlwind romance between her and my fender.
But still I freeze. Looking at her and knowing I could save her from her pain by moving my thumb an inch, but not being able to bring myself to do it for some reason. Some reason I'm not certain of.
I just don't know if I can end this.