Mixed Practice

“Oh god, you have to help him, you have to put him out of his suffering.”
The owner is openly crying as I walk out to the van.
“He’s just been screaming in pain since I got home, I don’t know what’s wrong with him but I can’t stand it, he’s in so much pain, you have to put him to sleep.”

I open my mouth to say something comforting or to convince him I can help, that we don’t have to take such drastic measures. But as I near the van I can hear the yowling for myself. It’s a bone chilling, soul rocking sound when you hear an animal in unmistakable, unimaginable agony.

I slide the van door open gently. The cat screams and runs headlong into the back of the van. Crying, the plaintive cry of a creature in pain. He looks at me, looks at the open door. In the same split second the owner and I realise that he’s going to make a dash for it. I leap into the van and the owner slams the door shut behind me. I can hear the owner sobbing, becoming fainter as he is obviously walking away.

Alone in the dark now. It’s the weekend and I have no nurse to help me catch the poor frightened animal. I look at the euthanasia solution in my hand, at the needles in my pocket. This animal is in pain - and an animal in pain will bite. It’s dark. I have no way of catching it, and restraining it while holding up the leg vein, and injecting the solution into that vein... It will probably try to kill me if I touch where it’s sore. I don’t even have sedation on me, and I’m reluctant to open that door lest the cat make a run for it. My policy is to never do euthanasias in cars, because you just don't have control. But I don't have a choice here. What on earth do I do? Some days I have trouble euthanasing an animal that’s on its last legs and can’t even lift its head - and those are pretty much the only animals I would volunteer to do on my own without a nurse, someone to hold and comfort the animal, and to raise the vein so I can see where I'm injecting.

I move into the square of light from the tiny window. The cat has stopped crying for a moment, but I can hear it gasping. “Puss puss,” I whisper. How on earth can I help this poor animal?

A flicker of whiskers appear in the light. The cat is crawling to me, panting heavily. His paw touches my foot.

I reach out and pat him. He doesn’t move.
I reach out and take his leg. He doesn’t move.
I hold up the leg vein with one hand. With the other I insert the needle into his leg, a blind shot, I can't see what I'm doing. In the dim light a rush of blood into the syringe confirms that I’m in the vein.
The cat mews, soft little mews between laboured gasps.
I inject the solution. His panting softens, slows, and fades away.