over the area surrounding the Humane Society animal shelter. It was around
two o’clock, but the heavily overcast skies made it darker than usual. A
fine mist drizzled continuously, creating a pervasive damp and chill.
Despite the gloomy weather, there had been a steady stream of people
coming through the front door since noon. Most of these patrons were
bringing in animals—either surrendering their own pets or dropping off
strays; a few other were milling around in the kennels, trying to find a dog or
cat to adopt.
I had spent most of the afternoon behind the front counter, processing the
many bring-ins. I evaluated the animals as they were signed over, making
secret predictions about which ones would find homes and which would likely
be “put to sleep�. With the rate of arrivals that day, we were quickly
running out of housing space. Tomorrow morning, we would be forced to
select the animals that would die to make room for still more newcomers. It
was an endless cycle. Even though we tried to keep adoptable animals for
as long as possible (usually about two weeks), it was unfair to deny other
animals the opportunity to be seen and, hopefully, adopted.
With the knowledge of tomorrow morning’s grim task festering in my
mind, I was filled with dread each time the office door opened; I knew it was
someone bringing in another helpless animal that would likely end up dead—
and probably by my hand.
I heard the familiar groan of the metal door opening again, and I looked up
apprehensively.
An older gentleman entered the office and stood silently just inside the
door, awaiting recognition. He did not lift his eyes to meet mine, but instead
stared uncomfortably at the floor in silence. I noticed that his crumpled grey
work pants were streaked with dirt and his heavy boots were covered with
mud. He wore an oversized brown coat which hung on his tall, this frame like
a heavy, unkempt drape.
“Can I help you?� I asked, leaning forward across the wide counter.
With a leathery hand, he removed the greasy cap from his head and lifted his
eyes to meet mine. His face was very dark and deeply creased around his
mouth and eyes, which were a cloudy, watercolor blue. He ran his hand over
his head, smoothing a few short grey hairs and drew in a long breath. His
eyes lowered again, and his lips barely parted as he muttered something that
sounded like “pups in the car.�
I couldn’t tell if he was just shy or if he might be hiding something, but I
offered to accompany him outside to retrieve whatever it was he had
mumbled. He made no response except to replace his cap, and then he
turned and went outside. I followed him out, not bothering to grab a coat,
which I quickly regretted since the drizzle had turned to a light rain. But I was
afraid that, if I hesitated, this strangely quiet man might not wait for me.
As I caught up with the man in the parking lot, he began to relate in a raspy,
muffled voice the story of how he had found the pups. He said he’d
noticed a burlap sack near the road about a quarter mile from the shelter. He
had stopped to investigate and found that the sack contained four puppies.
He had brought only two with him; the other two had already died, so he left
their bodies back at the roadside. Then, from behind the driver’s seat of
his rusty, mud-covered car, he produced the filthy cloth bag.
He held the sack open, and I reached tentatively into it and scooped out the
two tiny beagle-mix pups. There was a male and a female, probably no more
than five weeks old; they were muddy and wet, and I held them close against
my chest as we returned to the office.
A coworker, Cathy, glanced up as we entered and saw the pitiful animals. I
motioned toward the man, and she immediately pulled out two surrender
forms for him to sign. I saw him wipe his moist eyes with his coat-sleeve as
he approached the counter.
He signed the forms without uttering a word, then he made a final hopeful
glance toward the pups and me. He regarded the unmoving forms that I
cradled, and his expression wilted. I managed a slight smile that was meant
to be comforting. He made no response except to lower his eyes, and then
he silently exited the shelter.
I was gently rocking the puppies while I waited for the paperwork to be
completed. Cathy filled out the vital information, then she turned to me. She
gently lifted the female from my arms and held it close, stroking the small
head and body while I told her what the man had told me. The scrawny, tiny
puppy seemed to use all of her energy to raise her head and look up at Cathy
with dark, hollow eyes…then her eyes closed again in sleep.
I was still holding the male close to me, but he had given no indication yet
that he knew I was there. He just lay there in my arms, motionless except for
the almost undetectable movement from his shallow and sporadic breathing.
Cathy and I looked to each other, both of us imploring silently for a glimmer
of hope that we could save these two, but her mournful expression mirrored
my own. The pups were almost dead, already: neglected, starved and nearly
frozen. It was unlikely that medical intervention would be of any benefit to
them at this point. Knowing the limited funds and capabilities of the shelter,
we silently acceded that we had only one choice.
Neither of us said a word; there was no cause for discussion. The fate of
these pups had been decided in the moment that their unwanted lives had
been so unceremoniously discarded at the side of the road. They would
never know how much we wanted to save them or that they were loved—if
only for these few moments.
We silently rose and carried our tiny bundles toward what we called the â
€œEâ€�-Room. Calling it the “Eâ€�-Room, rather than the Euthanasia
Room, was one of the coping mechanisms of the staff; it helped us to not
think so often about the sober purpose of the small room at the rear of the
building.
In order to get to the “E�-Room, we had to walk the entire length of
the kennel, along the bare concrete corridor separating two rows of chain-link
walled runs. I braced myself as we entered the kennel, since the dogs there
were usually noisy and active; however, as we carried the limp forms of the
puppies through the kennel, there was no sound except the thud, thud of
boots on cold concrete.
The dogs’ silence was both chilling and comforting as we approached
the euthanasia room. It was as if they didn’t want to further worry or
frighten these tortured, miserable young ones—or perhaps they were, like
Cathy and I, grieving the hopeless plight of the pups.
Arriving at the wrought iron guard of the “E�-room entrance, I
cradled the little body in one hand and unlocked the outer door. I turned the
metal doorknob and the door swung open with a foreboding creak. I held my
intended victim’s diminutive body closer and nudged open the inner door
with my shoulder.
As we entered the room, Cathy flipped the switch by the door and an
overhead fluorescent sluggishly flickered on, illuminating the small room. The
concrete clock walls had been painted a musty yellow in a useless attempt to
make the room less dreary; they provided a ludicrous contrast to the
unpainted grey floor. There was a small cabinet on the wall adjacent to the
door, and below it stood a large silver exam table. The top surface of the
table was smooth and clean, and a shelf underneath held a supply of tattered
and faded towels. Another of our coworkers had taped a picture of a male
blue-jeans model on the opposite wall: another futile attempt to provide
distraction from this room’s grim duties.
The stifling coolness had no effect on the pups; they seemed unaware of
any of their surroundings. The male remained unconscious as I set him on a
towel on the table next to his sister. The female sat up halfway, wobbling
defiantly against her desire to give up. Her front legs quivered for a moment
before she collapsed, legs sprawling in front of her. Her unfocused eyes
gazed fixedly at the wall, and she did not stir again.
I wrapped each pup in a towel and picked them up again. While I tried
uselessly to warm and comfort the ill-fated creatures, Cathy opened the
cabinet and withdrew two syringes and a bottle of blue liquid. She drew a
small amount of the solution into the syringes and placed them on the table
before turning to me.
Cathy and I had worked together for almost a year, and we had become
good friends. We had worked together in this room many times, so we were
both confidant of the skills and compassion of the other. While we both
detested this part of our jobs, we had labored to become proficient at
administering the intravenous injections that were used to put the animals to
death.
She regarded the pups as I embraced them. We had been here many
times before; there was no need to discuss our plan. Because the female
was still semi-conscious, we would euthanize her first, ensuring that she
would not have to watch her sibling die. I gently placed the male on the table
and then turned my back to him, facing Cathy. I arranged the towel around
the puppy so that she was still mostly covered and presented her scrawny
front leg to my partner. The puppy gave no complaint as I held off her foreleg
vein with my thumb, and I used my free hand to cup her round little head and
gently rub one ear.
In a few seconds, her life was over. Before half of the contents of the
syringe had been instilled into her vein, she went lifeless in my arms. I
delicately deposited her body on the table with the towel still in place and
picked up her brother. Soon, they were both lying sided by side on the table,
dead.
Cathy and I avoided each other’s eyes while we packaged the
diminutive bodies for disposal. Not a sound emanated from within the room
or from without. It wasn’t until we opened the room’s door and re-
entered the kennel that we were overcome by the tumult of the barking of
every dog. The din was a welcome relief from the torturous silence, and as
we made our way back to the front office, we stopped at every cage to
receive forgiving kisses and extend grateful head-pats and ear-rubs.
Although this is not the story that inspired “Just Another Day�, it
illustrates the heartbreaking chore of euthanizing animals which is what
inspired the poem. For these pups, death was a release from their suffering,
but in too many cases, it is a matter of space and resources.
The poem refers to an adult German Shepherd named Amos Moses. I fell
in love with him the first day he arrived at the shelter as a stray. He was
skinny and dirty and his coat was dull and shaggy. He was frightened by his
new environment and seemed somewhat hand-shy as well, indicating that
someone had probably abused him in the past. Still, his beautiful, dark brown
eyes expressed gentleness, intelligence and perhaps even sadness. He
instantly won my heart.
During his stay at the shelter, I spent time with him every chance I had.
Whenever I finished my morning cleaning duties early or when business was
slow in the office, I would walk him on the shelter grounds or brush him while
sitting on the grassy hill that hid the shelter from the road. He thrived on the
attention and a playful, affectionate dog emerged. I wanted desperately to
adopt him, but my living circumstances wouldn’t allow that…so instead, I
appointed myself as his advocate.
I championed him for three days past his initial euthanasia deadline, hoping
he could be placed in a home. Finally, after more than three weeks at the
shelter, he was adopted. Unfortunately, he proved to be destructive when
left alone in his new family’s home, and they were forced to return him a
month later. My heart sunk the moment I saw him again, but I could tell that
the adoptive family had agonized over bringing him back. It did seem,
however, that they had taken good care of him: he was no longer
underweight, and his black and tan coat was now full and glossy. They had
named him Amos Moses.
Amos Moses returned to the kennel, and I again hoped beyond hope to find
him a second adoptive home. Almost two weeks later, however, he had to be
put to sleep to make room for another dog. It was just not fair to keep him
locked up in a kennel for so long, especially when we were taking in more
animals every day that needed the same chance he’d had.
Although he was a healthy and gentle dog, Amos Moses was not wanted.
Like hundreds of thousands of domestic animals in this country, he was
destroyed because we could not find him a permanent home and because—
as a privately operated and funded organization—our Humane Society
shelter had to carefully expedite its resources in order to continue housing
and caring for the ceaseless influx of unwanted animals.
After a while, one might think a person could become desensitized to the
endless cycle of “making room� at the shelter…but I never did. I saw
many kinds of neglect and cruelty, and I know that my endeavors were not
always fruitless: I did help to save some of the innocent animals, and the
ones who died by my hands and in my hands were loved and comforted until
their final breath.
It was just like any other day--
Another morning like the rest.
The birds sang the same way,
And the sun did not rise in the West.
The sky that day was blue--
Though laced with cloudy grey--
But it was just a lid for the world,
And this was just another day.
You were really nothing special,
Just another in the crowd,
But you found your way into my heart--
Where others weren't allowed.
Sad brown eyes that held me
When I should have passed you by;
You trusted me, not knowing
That, by my hand, you'd die.
It was no lengthy affair:
Circumstances dictated your stay;
So I greeted you the same--
After all, it was just another day.
Your faith in me unfaltering,
You walked with me to the room;
It assumed a sudden coolness,
And it smelled of a tomb.
My hands began to tremble
As I gathered my executioner's tools.
I was filled with guilt and misery,
But I was only following rules.
My accomplice comforted you with gentle words;
I kissed you and whispered, "I love you."
Then I slid the needle in and injected
And watched the life drain from you.
And, still, the birds were singing
As I left my job that day;
Lightning did not strike me down--
No floods swept me away.
At home that night, I drank and wept,
But that is not enough
To escape a damned, pernicious world
Where I must kill the ones I love.
1987
Dedicated to Amos Moses, who touched my heart
and loved me until the end. God forgive me.
These frightened cats were experiencing their first real human
contact. They were brought in in cages and box-traps by their
"owners," who had allowed their unspayed and unneutered pets to
produce dozens of offspring. Many had been killed on roadways
or had disappeared--the likely victims of poisoning by neighbors
who didn't like the cats coming onto their property. Since all of the
cats were completely feral and therefore unadoptable, they were
all humanely euthanized.
favorites because of its
positive associations. This
kitten was the first participant
in the "Pet Of The Week"
campaign I orchestrated for
the Humane Society where I
worked. After posting this
picture on our posters
throughout the city, almost
every kitten we had was
adopted! It is one of the
accomplishments in my life of
which I am most proud.
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