Editor's note: Jody Lulich grew up in Chicago, the son of a Black woman who committed 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.
