EUTHANASIA

by Karen Duxbury

He could feel them watching through the scratched, yellowed, pane.

His big dark eyes opened wide with confusion, then fear. He stood up and paced the four square feet of the chamber. His collar was stretched and twisted. He must have struggled when they forced him in here. In the dim light he could see that his legs were scraped and dirty. Flecks of saliva dried in his hair.

He turned to the window and stared back at their eager faces. Why were they doing this to him?

A mechanical voice echoed through the chamber announcing the seconds remaining before release of the gas.

He struggled to speak. He had to make them stop.

Thirty Seconds

Are you afraid of me because of my kind? I know they’ve attacked you before but that doesn’t mean that I will. I never hurt anyone. I only defended myself.

Twenty Seconds

Why are you doing this to me? I didn’t ask for much. I followed the rules. I followed your lead.

Fifteen Seconds

This is a mistake. I don’t belong in here. You have to let me out.

Ten Seconds

I didn’t want to hurt you. It was my job.

One Second

Please?

The final, strangled, cry of the shelter’s night manager was drowned out by a triumphant chorus of yips and howls and barks and meows. Once the din died down, the animals stretched and circled before settling into their beds to await the arrival of the morning shift. They slipped into the deep, satisfied dreams of a job well done.

Karen Duxbury is a happily reformed accountant living in Houston, Texas.  She has been a writer, albeit an unpublished one, for many years. When not indulging her creative side, she works as treasurer for the Guppies (Great Unpublished) Chapter of the Sisters in Crime.