I took my dog and had him put to sleep today. He was seventeen years old and I'd had him since I was eight or nine, I can't remember which. My mom had been telling me for a while that it was time to take him, he's had a softball sized tumor on his side for several year, and once I saw that he couldn't walk two feet without falling down and that he couldn't see anything and that he didn't want to eat I finally agreed with her. Of course she then got cold feet and didn't want to take him.

My sister and I both gave him last meals, chicken and beef topped with shredded cheese, each without knowing the other one had. I was trying to get him to walk to the car, but his legs wouldn't hold his weight anymore so I carried him. I thought about how undignified it was, me carrying him, upside-down, looking at me, coughing and sneezing in my face, how he couldn't even walk himself to the end.

I sat with him in the car and I sat with him in the waiting room and I got hair all over my clothes and it really didn't bother me at all.

My mom and dad and I went and the nurses and the doctor were all very nice. They made the proper faces of sadness and professionalism. They gave Mikey as shot that they said would take about ten minutes to work. He sat there panting like he was sitting on the sun like he always does until about nine minutes and thirty seconds had passes and he worked himself onto his side. I kept petting him like I had been pretty much since I got him in the car, but I doubt he could feel anything at that point.

The nurse and the doctor came back in and they gave him the final shot. They said it wouldn't hurt but he twisted and writhed and it didn't look painless at all.

I had told myself I didn't want to look at him, especially not in the eyes when they did it. I didn't want to watch the life go out of him. I told myself that but when the time came I had positioned myself at the end of the table looking right into his eyes and I saw the exact second when he stopped being my dog and became a thing on the table.

I really didn't think I was going to cry. My mom was crying and my dad was crying. My mom reached for some strategically placed tissues and gave one to my dad. She might have offered me one but I didn't look at her. When I did cry they weren't big skinned-knee-sobs but the kind of of stream-tears that happen when you're trying not to cry. The kind that get worse when you wipe them away; the ones that make your eyeballs feel like liquid.

The nurse looked at my mom and said, "Thank you for letting us have the honor of doing this," and I thought it was a pointless and stupid thing to say. Maybe it made her feel good but it just made me hate hippies. The doctor said we could have as much time as we needed in the room, to do what I have no idea, sing a song, say a prayer, whatever you do in that situation.

As soon as the doctor and nurse left I left.

On the way out I saw my dad givng Mikey one last pet. I'd bet my mom did the same thing. I can't think of anything I'd want to do less than pet that pile of meat and chemicals that used to be my dog. I went outside and didn't look at anyone but I'm sure they were looking at me or maybe that's just how it felt. I went outside in the abrupt heat and stood next to the van.

I felt better being outside and I spit wishing I could vomit.

I didn't say anything and still haven't really said anything. On the ride back I noticed the huge box in the seat next to me that I was resting my arm on. It was annoying so of course I had to know what the box was for. It was a box of doggie diapers for Mikey cause he would pee all over the house.

That should have struck me as ironic or some other sort of college word but I just thought it was dumb and it made me hate the box more.