This post is fictitious. Any resemblance to pets, people or practices is purely coincidental. If stories of fictional euthanasia make you uncomfortable, please consider skipping this story. Alternatively, If you like scary vet stories, you might enjoy last year’s post on The Disturbing Case of Dr. Levana Crow.
I don’t know why, but somehow I know writing this is a bad idea. It’s kind of like how I don’t exactly know what would happen if I drank liquid nitrogen or climbed into a giant microwave, but I still shudder at the thought. I think I’m going to regret this but here goes…
I first started seeing dead pets in 2019. It was while my wife and I were walking with my young children on Halloween afternoon. The kids were too young to stay out late, so the sun was up and that’s how I could see her.
We don’t have many outdoor cats in my neighborhood, and definitely no tabbies. That’s why I noticed Dolly watching me from beside a maple tree as we walked past. My wife said it could have been any cat, but I knew it was Dolly. She had passed away after I removed her urinary catheter and then she re-blocked. I warned her owners that we were being a bit hasty, but they needed her out of the clinic so I went along. The following Monday I found out they put her to sleep at the emergency clinic over the weekend.
I’m not one of those veterinarians who remembers all of their patients. My memory for names and faces (both human and animal) is pretty shaky, and my wife even pointed this out when I tried to tell her about my certainty I’d seen Dolly on our walk. But when I saw that cat, I remembered. I remembered every moment with her, all of the choices I made, and all of the times I could have pushed a little harder to keep her in the clinic. It was like someone was showing me a movie filmed through my own eyes.
In October of 2020, I saw Dolly again. I also saw a Cane Corso named Nero (who I euthanized because he was dangerous and had bitten two children) and a German Sheppard with such terrible hip dysplasia that he cried when he defecated. I saw each of them, and I suddenly remembered them as if they were my patients just an hour ago.
I called out to the dead pets, but none reacted. They all just gaze at me stoically. They won’t approach, and they do not wag their tails. They simply watch me, unblinking, as if to hold me in judgement.
Every year, I see more dead pets. I’ve counted over two dozen so far this month. They cluster together in threes and fours and watch me. I see them on my morning walks, beside the road, and even in my house. I know when there is one pacing my hallways, because my living dog goes to his crate and that never happens. I wonder if he sees them too.
I don’t know what they want. Maybe it’s just to make me remember them, but I don’t think so. It feels like they are waiting for something. I can’t change what happened to any of them. I didn’t do anything wrong. I just did my best. I tell them this, but they don’t leave or even look away. I chase them but can never reach them. My children wonder why I tear apart the house. I know I am scaring them.
I don’t know what they want from me, but I know the time for me to find out is drawing near. At first I thought they might be waiting for me to join them in the afterlife. I hoped that all of my patients might be there and we could cross the rainbow bridge together, but I have never seen a patient that loved me. Not once.
I have been telling myself that they are powerless while my heart beats and my lungs draw breath. I have believed that they may have come to test my mind and my heart, but they pose no actual risks. But I don’t believe that anymore.
Last night, as she let the dog out, my wife was attacked by an animal no one saw. She thinks a raccoon must have been startled in the garden and bitten her, but I know what was in the garden. It was not a raccoon. It was Dolly.
