One last conversation with the dog..."

It was my first day on the job. The old man entered my office and timidly slammed the door. He was wearing faded, light-colored jeans and a wrinkled flannel shirt that evoked my childhood, full of warmth, love, and golden corn fields.

The old man staggered toward my desk. It looked as if he was carefully choosing each step so as not to trip over the toys scattered throughout the room. This surprised me, because I value order in my workspace.

Everything must be in its place... pencils in an aluminum box that always sits at the right corner of my desk, a stack of paper always in front of me. In the drawer, I keep erasers, a ruler, matches, paper clips, and my beloved M&Ms.

When I'm feeling bored, frustrated, or when someone or something annoys me, I often find myself obsessively rubbing sulfur from matches with my fingernail.

The man sat down in a comfortable black armchair I'd bought at a sale. I shook his cold hand... covered in liver spots and scars, the only reminder of his youth. He stared for a moment at a poster depicting all breeds of dogs,

from the smallest to the largest. This must have spoiled his mood, because he immediately lowered his head and looked down at his suede shoes. His Adam's apple moved as if swallowing liters of water. It slowly moved upward and even more slowly returned to its original position. The old man must have felt me staring at him. Without lifting his head, he spoke in a hard, dull voice:

"My dog... is getting tired.

" I knew what he meant by those four short words. He slowly raised his head. He tried to smile, but all he could manage was a pained grimace. I reached for the form in the drawer and a pen. I wondered which one to give him…red?, blue?, maybe black? I chose navy blue.

I placed the paper and pen in front of the old man, trying to make it look neat and tidy. The paper was turned towards him, directly in front of him…and the pen was on the right side of the paper. The old man grabbed the pen with his left hand…I looked foolish. As politely as I could, I said, "

Please fill out the form…enter the dog's information. Please indicate whether you are the direct owner…"

I placed great emphasis on the word "please." The old man nodded without saying a word, pulled his glasses from his pocket, placed them on his vulture-like nose, placed the paper on his knee, and began writing.

"Please move closer to the desk…" I said pleasantly.

The old man meekly complied. Writing was difficult for him. His hands were shaking, his glasses slipping down his nose. I looked at his aged face. It was covered with numerous wrinkles that intertwined to form a veritable spiderweb. He had... at most a three-day-old white stubble. I sat before him and watched his sadness. It was almost tangible. It was as if someone were holding his shoulder and whispering sad, depressing things in his ear. A tear rolled down his weathered face and fell onto the paper. The old man clumsily began to wipe the tear away. Where he had rubbed it, the print began to smudge, leaving a dark stain. I wanted to hand him another form, but I changed my mind. Long moments passed. I looked at my watch, at the window, at the old man, at the floor.

It was one of those moments when a second seems to last longer than usual.

Suddenly, I saw the filled-out form lying on the desk. I picked it up. I tried to look professional... but somehow it didn't work. I stared blankly at the small, block letters. I didn't even check if he'd entered his information or the dog's name correctly. I put the form aside and put the pen in the drawer. I surreptitiously pulled out a blue M&M.

Honestly, I don't like blue ones... I prefer green and red ones.

I rose from the comfortable chair, which I hated to leave.

I asked,

"Where is he?" The dog..."

The old man looked at me with his deep-set, faded eyes, running his tongue over his yellow teeth.

Standing, he replied,

"...In the car...with my grandson."

I followed him without saying a word. I squinted as I stepped outside. The sun at this time of day was worse than the fluorescent lights used in supermarkets.

In the yard, in front of my office, stood a dirty and battered old pickup truck. The young man leaned against the car, smoking a cigarette. He pressed the filter to his lips one last time.

A deep breath... and an even deeper exhale. I imagined the disease developing in his lungs. The sickening smoke, the tar covering his lungs like a caring mother her child in the rain. We approached the dilapidated vehicle. The man threw a smoldering cigarette butt at his feet and stubbed it out with his boot. He turned toward the car door and grabbed the broken door handle. A moment later, a tan wolfhound peered out from the dark interior… My first patient… a thin, sickly, old dog that until recently had been the pride of its owner. The man offered me his hand. The strong, heavy handshake of a mechanic. I don't know if he was one, but judging by his clothes and hands, everything pointed to it. The old man knelt beside the animal. The dog timidly wagged its tail. His faithful eyes gazed sadly at the old man. The man, who was probably the grandson the old man had mentioned, opened his mouth. A plea emerged:

"Please do it quickly… Don't let him see this…"

I nodded. What more could I say?

I asked the old man to come with me to the office. Walking with him, I realized how nervous I was. I felt like a newly discovered pop star before his first concert. The old man was my audience, and the syringe was my instrument, playing the final tune. I said that if he wanted to say goodbye to a friend, this was the perfect moment. The old man crouched down in front of the dog… I could hear the animal's name faintly repeated over and over, forming a sort of "mantra." I stood beside him. I remembered my last graduation exam, but I couldn't remember the questions. What was the order of events? What should I do now? Should I ask him out and quickly euthanize the patient… or let them enjoy their last moment? What would the professor do? What would another vet do?

So many questions… so little time… The old man rose from the ground and said he was finished. I opened the door I didn't want to open… not today… not on my first day. I turned on the light. The fluorescent light flickered for a moment before it glowed completely.

Before me stood a simple metal operating table with thick leather straps.

A bed of eternal sleep for countless four-legged friends… unwanted, loved, hated, small and large.

I asked the old man to place the dog on it. He seemed deaf to my words, but a moment later, the dog's thin body lay on the table. The order was carried out; the time invested in training was paying off. They understood each other without unnecessary gestures or commands.

What was I thinking? Tightening the leather straps was pointless. The dog was calm.

His master was with him… Did he realize that in just five minutes the end would come? I opened the glass cabinet. I looked at the syringes… Which needle should I use? I prayed I would endure… my first day… my first serious task.

My first test. I chose the thinnest one. I picked up Morbital, whose effects are well known to all veterinarians, and whose name gives me the creeps.

My hands were shaking as I filled the syringe. The old man saw this:

"The first day..."

he said in a sad, hoarse voice. I nodded. I slowly pressed the plunger of the syringe to expel the excess air. I think I panicked. I came across as a rookie, a scared student who was too stupid to treat people, so he became a vet.

"You have to start sometime, it's just a shame it's like this...right?

" "True..."

What was I supposed to say? The old man was right. Everything was supposed to be different.

First, I was supposed to be visited by some obese woman who had invented another absurd, imaginary, harmless disease for her animal. I was supposed to prescribe medication and that was it...come in...next."

I approached the animal, which immediately fixed me with its trusting gaze… I guess it sensed my intentions… It wasn't hard to figure it out.

I stood over it with a clear syringe, a cold steel needle attached to it. Instinctively, I stroked the dog's back, which resembled a short ladder with thin rungs. I felt its ribs under my fingers… I could learn anatomy all over again. Five seconds… remember the last time you swam in a cold river, four… what the first sausage you filched from the table tasted like… three… remember your master's smile when he first took you in his arms… two… I turned to the old man. My heart was pounding. One second… as gently as I could, I inserted the needle. Prepare for soul evacuation… zero… do dogs have souls? So many questions... and answers from nowhere...