Maggie lays on my lap. She’s only a small dog—smaller still tonight, lost in the folds of an oversized hospital blanket. We’re alone in a private room. I don’t know how long we’ve been in here, but the air-conditioning is too cold. Maggie wees herself. It soaks through the blanket and warms my thighs. I don’t get up.
The vet enters holding a small kidney-shaped bowl from which overhang the ends of two syringes. He speaks softly.
‘I understand you’re ready to put Maggie to rest?’
A cannula protrudes from a blue bandage that’s wrapped around Maggie’s front leg. Her purple collar isn’t around her neck. From the end of the cannula snakes a long, clear tube that had been used for her treatment, but it has only one purpose now. Maggie gazes at the wall with heavy-lidded eyes. She licks my hand. Her tongue is as white as snow.
I nod to the vet, and he takes a syringe from the bowl.
‘This is anaesthetic. It will put her to sleep.’
Maggie is so limp in my arms, she may as well already be asleep. The vet inserts the syringe into the cannula tube and applies the anaesthetic. There is almost no difference in Maggie. Even her eyes remain open. The empty syringe rattles as it’s placed back into the bowl. The vet takes the other syringe. He doesn’t give it a name.
‘This will stop her heart.’
Against my legs, the sodden blanket cools in the frigid draught from the air-conditioning. I shift in my seat, and Maggie’s head lolls to one side. Muscle memory leads my hand to scratch her behind the ears. I don’t notice the vet administer the final syringe.
Maggie gasps. She often snored when she slept—loudly too, for a little dog. This sound, though, is weak and solitary. I breathe in. It smells like Maggie farted, but even that last vestige of her soon dissipates, leaving nothing. No odour. No sound. No movement. I run my fingers over her face to close her eyes. My hand is shaking.
The vet takes the stethoscope from around his neck and rubs it over Maggie’s chest.
‘She’s gone,’ he says, making to leave. ‘Take as much time as you need.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, but I don’t know why.
When I remove my hand from her face, Maggie’s eyes bounce back open. I try to close them again, pressing my palm against her eyelids, but again they open when I raise my hand. Her eyes are dull, like unpolished marbles, and stare in every direction. Why don’t they close?
I look away. On the wall, the air-conditioning controls are set at 21 degrees. The chill from the piss-soaked blanket spreads throughout my body. Goosebumps prickle my skin. Tears sting my eyes. I caress Maggie’s fur. It’s still warm, but no heat conducts to me. I think about getting up to turn off the AC. I don’t. I start to shiver and cannot stop.