"In the Company of Grace" by Jody Lulich; University of Minnesota Press (232 pages, $19.95)
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Editor's Note: Jody Lulich grew up in Chicago, the son of a Black woman who died by suicide when he was 9 and a white father who withheld his love. Lulich, a professor of veterinary science at the University of Minnesota, writes in this scene about a dog owner who is moving away and asks that her dog Maud — one of Lulich's favorite patients — be put down, because the owner cannot take her with her.
The silence in the room felt eerie. Did I really hear that unless I take Maud she would be euthanized? I stood in a state of bewilderment and shame. Was Maud's owner telling me the truth? Her tears were real. Was her explanation real, because mine was not. I was now in direct confrontation with a dilemma and a lie. Not her lie, although her reasoning didn't seem to hold water. It was my lie that I was ashamed of. I could not take Maud because I did not know how long I could endure the pain of living. The death of my mother had weighed heavily on my conscience. I did not want the responsibility of caring for a dog to get in the way of my plans.
Two weeks later, Maud and her owner were back.
"I can't take her," I told her again. "Donate her and I will find her a good home."
"No," she said.
I can't euthanize Maud either. Not today. As before, we parted in tears.
I wondered if Maud had any idea about what we were saying. I wondered how Maud felt about this.
When Maud and her owner called a third time, I relented. "If anyone should euthanize Maud it should be me," I said. I hope that Maud can forgive me, I told myself.
When they arrived at the clinic, I escorted Maud's owner to a private comfort room, and I walked Maud down the hallway to put an intravenous catheter in her front leg. To euthanize a dog you need a direct line to the heart. I needed to know that the euthanasia solution, once injected, would work quickly. Maud would fall into a permanent sleep within seconds.
As Maud and I walked side by side, I kept saying, I am sorry and you don't deserve this. Maud looked up at me seemingly unaware of the consequences that I dreaded. I lifted her up and gave her a tight hug before placing her on top of an exam table. A colleague came over to help. She knew that I was having trouble doing this.
I shaved a small patch of hair in the middle of Maud's forelimb. Maud kept looking at me and licking my nose. I slid the catheter into her vein and secured it in place with narrow strips of white medical tape. I covered the catheter with another bandage. I drew up the clear blue euthanasia solution into a syringe and stuffed it in the pocket of my lab coat. Maud and I walked back to the comfort room where her owner waited. She was sitting in a chair facing opposite from our entrance. When she turned around, her eyes were red and swollen. The tissue in her hand was pressed tightly over her mouth. She stood up and in an outburst of tears said, "I am donating her. Promise me that you will find her a good home."
"I promise," I said, as tears welled up in my eyes.
She reached down and hugged Maud for the last time. When she got up to leave, she said it again, "Promise me you will find her a good home."
"I promise."
I walked Maud to the back of the hospital to the dog kennels. I removed the catheter from her leg. I placed a bowl of fresh water and a small dish of kibble in the kennel. She climbed in as if nothing had transpired. She was energetic and happy as always.
Before heading home, I went to check on Maud. I opened the kennel door and sat on the ledge of the cage. Maud snuggled close to me. I petted her. She put her front paws in my lap and licked my hand.
"Okay, I am not letting you spend the night alone and in the dark," I said. I hooked a leash to her collar, and we walked home together.
Excerpted from "In the Company of Grace: A Veterinarian's Memoir of Trauma and Healing," by Jody Lulich. Published by the University of Minnesota Press. Copyright 2023 by Jody Lulich. Used with permission.
