Putting the Dog Down by Jason Fisk

My wife said she would make the call if I took the dog in.
My wife had to leave the room to make the call.
She came back: Go now. They’re waiting for you.
I drove with the dog in my lap.
I paid.
I waited.
There was an adjustable metal table in the room.
I wanted the vet to talk me out of it.
He didn’t.
He gave me a few minutes.
A nurse came in and administered two shots.
The dog fell asleep.
The vet came back in – Blah, blah, blah, he said
He gave me time with the dead dog.
I didn’t want to sit with the lifeless body.
When he left, I left too.
I looked straight ahead and bolted through the door.
I started to drive home.
I hoped they cradled her body when they moved her, I thought
That metal table was so cold.
Winnie … my little dog … gone.
I was overcome.
I couldn’t see through my tears well enough to drive.
I pulled over.
I cried for twenty minutes in the industrial park.
I ignored my wife’s texts.
I ignored her phone calls.
Her phone calls…
Photo by Pranidchakan Boonrom on Pexels.com

About the Poet:

Jason Fisk lives and writes in the suburbs of Chicago. He has worked in a psychiatric unit, labored in a cabinet factory, and mixed cement for a bricklayer. He was born in Ohio, raised in Minnesota, and has spent the last 25 years in the Chicago area.

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