The Euthanized Dog: My Husband's Regret

Nine hours after I drove away from my house, I parked the SUV on a dirt shoulder at the edge of town.

A weathered sign hung from one rusted nail on the fence: THE SANCTUARY.

I killed the engine. The wooden urn sat silent on the passenger seat. I left it untouched.

I stepped out of the car. The freezing morning air bit through my thin jacket. I pushed the rusty wire gate open. The metal hinges shrieked against the frame.

A chorus of barking erupted. Dozens of outdoor kennels lined the perimeter of a large concrete yard.

Adam stood at the center of the chaos in the same canvas jacket he'd worn at the clinic, its bloodstains dried dark and stiff. He sluiced mud from the pavement with a rubber hose. Three unopened pallets of dog food stood against the chain-link fence behind him.

"Quiet down!" Adam shouted over the noise.

The barking lessened into a series of low grumbles.

He swept the water toward a large storm drain. Mud and debris swirled down the metal grate.

I walked closer. My sneakers splashed in a shallow puddle.

Adam twisted the brass nozzle. The water sputtered and stopped. He dropped the hose. It slapped against the wet concrete.

He turned and met my gaze.

"You," he said.

I stayed a few feet away. "Is the black dog alive?"

"He made it through surgery," Adam replied. He wiped his wet hands on his jeans. "They pinned his hip. The vet says he'll walk again."

"Good."

"You left quickly last night."

"I had nowhere to be," I said flatly.

Adam came closer and studied my face. He mentioned neither my swollen eyes nor the clothes I'd been wearing since midnight.

"You run this place alone?" I asked, gesturing to the rows of cages.

"Mostly," he answered. "Volunteers come on the weekends. Weekdays are just me and the mud."

"Looks like a lot of mud."

"It never ends." He reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a wooden grooming brush with stiff wire bristles. He held it out toward me.

"Since you're here, help me brush Rusty," he said.

"I didn't come here to volunteer."

"Why did you come?"

"I just started driving," I admitted. "I saw the sign."

"Then make yourself useful," he countered. He stepped forward and pressed the wooden handle into my palm. "Pen number four."

I turned the brush in my hand and surveyed the chain-link enclosures.

"Go on," Adam urged. "He won't bite."

I walked slowly down the wet path. Dogs jumped against the fences, tails wagging, tongues lolling. I ignored them.

I stopped at the fourth pen.

A scruffy, rust-colored mixed breed huddled in the far back corner. The dog pressed his spine against the cold wire mesh, trying to make himself as small as possible. His gray muzzle rested on his paws. He trembled, ribs shivering with each shallow breath.

"He's fourteen," Adam called out from the main yard. He picked up a bag of kibble from the pallet. "Owner dropped him off yesterday. Said he was too old to deal with."

My chest tightened. Aiden's voice echoed in my head: Buddy is old anyway. You can't ruin everyone's night over a dog.

I unlatched the metal gate. It clicked, and Rusty flinched.

I stepped inside and pushed the gate shut behind me.

Rusty flattened his ears. He let out a low, pathetic whimper.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I said.

I crouched on the damp concrete floor. My knees popped. I set the wooden brush down beside my shoe.

I reached into my right coat pocket. My fingers brushed against the clear plastic bag holding Buddy's faded red collar. Next to it sat a half-empty foil pouch of beef liver treats. I had stuffed it in my pocket before leaving the house yesterday.

I pulled out a small, dried piece of meat.

I placed it in the center of my open palm. I rested the back of my hand on the ground, extending my arm toward the corner.

Rusty stared at my hand. His amber eyes darted from the treat to my face. He stayed where he was.

"Take your time," I whispered.

The barking around us eventually settled into a low hum of pacing paws and panting. The wind whipped through the open yard. My calves cramped from squatting. The cold seeped through my jeans. I held my position and kept my hand still.

"He's stubborn," Adam said. He stood outside the pen now, leaning against the fence.

"He's scared," I corrected.

"Same thing."

"No, it isn't."

Ten minutes passed. My arm began to ache.

Rusty lifted his head. His dark nose twitched.

He took one agonizingly slow step forward. His hind legs wobbled under his weight.

"That's it," I said softly. "Come here."

He took another step. Then another. He closed the distance between us, his belly nearly scraping the floor.

His cold, wet nose bumped against my knuckles. He sniffed the beef liver. A rough, warm tongue darted out and licked the treat from my palm.

He kept licking my empty fingers, searching for crumbs.

I raised my left hand and gently stroked the top of his head. His wiry fur was coarse and matted with dirt.

"Good boy." My voice broke.

Rusty leaned his head against my knee. He let out a long sigh and stopped shaking.

"He likes you," Adam noted.

"He's just hungry," I replied. I picked up the wooden brush. I ran the bristles slowly down Rusty's back. Large tufts of loose, dead fur gathered in the wire teeth.

"Most dogs in his state won't eat for days. They shut down."

"He was abandoned," I said, pulling the loose fur from the brush and tossing it aside. "He knows his people aren't coming back."

Adam tilted his head. "You know a lot about getting left behind?"

"I know about leaving."

"Your dog last night," Adam started. "The one you lost."

"Buddy."

"Buddy," Adam repeated. "He was loved. I saw the way you looked at him on that table."

"It didn't save him."

"Love rarely saves anyone," Adam said flatly. "It just makes the end hurt more."

I stopped brushing. I looked up at him through the chain-link. "Are you always this cheerful?"

A faint smirk crossed his face. "Only on Tuesdays."

He reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a faded red nylon leash with a brass clip.

"Take him for a walk," Adam offered. "Just around the perimeter. He needs to stretch those old joints."

"I don't think he wants to move."

"He moved for you."

I pulled another treat from my pocket. I held it in front of Rusty's nose. "Do you want to go outside?"

The old dog let out a soft huff. He pushed his nose into my palm again, demanding more.

"See?" Adam pointed the leash at me. "He's ready."

Adam unlatched the gate. He stepped into the pen. He extended his arm to hand me the metal clasp.

A loud buzzing erupted from my coat.

My phone vibrated furiously against my ribs.

I ignored it. I reached for the leash.

The buzzing stopped. Two seconds later, it started again. A relentless, continuous vibration that shook my entire side.

"You should answer that," Adam said. He lowered the leash.

"It's nobody."

"Nobody calls back-to-back like that."

"I blocked my husband and my son," I said. "There's no one else."

"Check it anyway."

I pulled the phone from my pocket. I expected to see a blocked notification or a random telemarketer.

The screen displayed a local landline. The caller ID read: Oakridge High School Administration.

A cold knot formed in my stomach. Why would the school call me? Aiden never got in trouble.

I swiped the green icon. I pressed the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Is this Mrs. Kate Evans?" a woman asked. Her tone was clipped and formal.

"Speaking."

"This is Mrs. Gable, the attendance secretary at Oakridge High."

"What happened?" I demanded. I stood up quickly. Rusty scrambled back a few inches, hitting the fence.

"We've been trying to reach your husband, but his phone goes straight to voicemail."

"Mark is working," I lied instinctively. "Why are you calling?"

"Mrs. Evans, Aiden didn't come to school today."

"He probably skipped first period," I said. "He does that sometimes after a late hockey game. He's just sleeping in."

"No, Mrs. Evans," the secretary interrupted. Her voice dropped an octave, tight with urgency. "He never showed up for morning practice. His coach checked the locker room. All of his gear is gone."

I met Adam's gaze. He stood still, reading my face.

"Mrs. Evans, are you listening to me?"

"I'm here."

"He's missing."