Prologue
Euthanasia Day
Friday, October 11, 2002
8:00 a.m.
Today is Friday. Euthanasia day at the Waterbridge Animal Shelter.
The Shelter stands at the corner of two New Haven streets in a century-old house. The house is tall, gabled, and has large windows with many panes. It is weathered, and has a wraparound porch in need of painting. Many families have walked its halls and slept in its rooms since it was built.
A pretty young woman with dark brown hair moves through the rooms of the shelter. Her face is expressionless. Not empty or blank, though - it is more ... neutral.
The linoleum in the house is cracked and worn. It is a hideous brown and green pattern, a style that was very popular in the fifties. She sometimes thinks what a pity it is that the house’s beautiful hardwood floors were covered by the atrocious linoleum ... but animals are messy.
The young woman wears a light blue smock with a name badge attached to it: Tory. The smock is spotless. In one pocket of the smock is a box of Tic-Tacs, the orange ones – not many people like the orange ones – and a small spiral notebook. Around her neck is a set of small bud headphones, worn like a choker. In the other pocket of her smock is a pink iPod. She always brings it to work, but rarely gets a chance to listen to anything on it.
Tory is known to be pleasant and agreeable, both with her co-workers and visitors to the shelter, but sometimes, she seems a little distant. She only really smiles for the animals.
Tory knows that certain of her duties are terrible, but she takes some comfort in knowing that they are also merciful. Her face sometimes shows this conflict. It is a state of uneasy surrender. She is resigned to what she must do, but it is difficult, and lately, with each day that passes, it becomes more so. She is not a Stephen King fan by a long shot, but she sometimes thinks about a line she heard in the movie Pet Sematary: “Sometimes dead is better.”
This is a new job for Tory. After college, she took a job with a pharmaceutical company as a sales representative. The job had nothing to do with what she studied in college, American literature, but it paid well, and it came with benefits. She traveled around New England, visiting doctors and introducing new medicines to them; and she also worked with large hospitals, handling their drug needs. Her psychology minor often came in handy when dealing with doctors, and hospital buyers, as well as with their staffs. One of the company’s biggest sellers was the generic form of Pavulon, pancuronium bromide, which is used to paralyze patients before surgery.
Tory did well with the drug company, and managed to put aside a fair amount of money. She lived at home with her mother, Viviana, who would only accept a small contribution to the household expenses each month from Tory, insisting that she save as much as possible. That money came in handy when Tory’s position was eliminated after the company launched a secure, interactive website for ordering pharmaceuticals.
She was out of work almost a year - a year she spent writing, and reading, and trying to decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. She completed a few things she was happy with ... a novella, a short story ... but she couldn’t stop herself from wondering if she would ever fulfill her college writing professor’s hope for her. “Don’t tell me a story, Tory” Mr. Mundané used to say to her, always giving the “story/Tory” rhyme a sly little grin. “Show me life. I know you can do it.” She still wasn’t sure she knew precisely how to do it, but some of her writings were things she would not have been embarrassed to show Gabriel Mundané.
Then, one day during that solitary time, she saw an Animal World documentary on cable that truly touched her, and she suddenly knew she wanted to work with animals. In fact, it felt like what people who have had a calling say it feels like. She applied at Waterbridge the following day. When she was offered training to become a euthanasia technician, she accepted, and has been working as one ever since.
This morning it happens to be raining. Heavily. Tory mostly ignores the rain, but every now and then, she walks to a window, stares out at the gray sky, and watches the sheets of water pour off the house’s clogged gutters.
It is cold today. The song may have lamented rainy days and Mondays, but Tory always felt that a cold and rainy Friday, especially one in October, was much sadder.
Today is Friday. Euthanasia day. The gas chamber is in the back of the building on the ground floor. It holds a few animals at a time, and Tory is the euthanasia technician who operates it.
Tory knows the black Lab will go today. And probably the terrier. The black and white kitten, too.
Rainy Fridays are the worst, she thinks to herself as she prepares the coffee. Marcy should be here any minute. Jake’ll probably be late.
Tory has already checked on and fed the animals. For some, the food she gave them would be their last meal.
Shelter workers who must deal with the unavoidable reality of euthanizing sick, unwanted, or violent animals usually adopt one of three modes of coping. Some become withdrawn and robotic, and completely distance themselves from the animals. Some become sadistic. Tory has heard stories about these kinds of workers, and her loathing for them runs deep.
Then there are workers like Tory, who believe wholeheartedly that they are working for a greater good; that a merciful and humane death is better than ... well, better than any alternative other than the impossible one of finding a home for every animal.
The Waterbridge Shelter uses carbon monoxide to euthanize animals. Tory Troy is a state-certified animal euthanasia technician, and she knows it is only a matter of time before the shelter switches to lethal injection, which some say is more humane. Waterbridge is state- and city-funded, though, and change takes time. So, for the foreseeable future, Tory euthanizes the animals in a gas chamber.
Tory hears voices, but continues to stare out the window at the pouring rain. The voices belong to Marcy and Jake. They arrived together, Tory thinks. Imagine that. Jake is on time.
She steps away from the window and calls out, “I’m in here, guys ...”
3:30 p.m.
The gas chamber is silent. Tory knows that the lethal carbon monoxide has done its job. Now comes the removal, the disposal, and the cleaning of the chamber.
Tory pulls on heavy yellow rubber gloves, dons a face mask, and steels herself for the task before her. This is getting harder, she thinks. Much harder.
Jake doesn’t leave his office when Tory is emptying the chamber, and none of the front office staff come anywhere near the back of the building.
This part of her job sometimes summons to Tory’s mind a quote from a favorite poem of hers, Tagore’s “Stray Birds”: “This life is the crossing of a sea, where we meet in the same narrow ship. In death we reach the shore and go to our different worlds.” She takes comfort in the image of all the euthanized animals finding their way ashore, and spending the rest of eternity happy and content. Sometimes she scolds herself for being such a sentimentalist, but this does not stop the thought; her mind automatically makes the leap to such a comforting ideal.
Tory pauses a moment, her gloved hands hanging by her side, her silent headphones embracing her neck. She feels something welling up inside her, but she can’t identify the feeling. Is it sadness? Anger? Panic? Fear? She doesn’t know, but she does know she has never felt like this. Yes, there have been moments when she has felt all of those emotions, in brief flashes stabbing at her consciousness ... but today is different.
And then, a sudden kaleidoscope of images and sounds flood her mind ... the dogs and cats that have passed through the shelter over the past many months ... the inside of the death chamber ... the families walking through the kennel area, the children looking for the absolutely perfect pet ... the pleading expressions in the eyes of the caged animals as they mentally beg these strangers to take them home – and away from this place ... the workday chatter of the office staff, oblivious to the reality of what is happening at the back of the building ... the image of Tory herself sitting on the couch in her mother’s living room on any Friday night over the past few months, hugging a pillow, her legs curled beneath her, utterly unable to eat a thing until, at the earliest, Saturday night ... the looming shadows the old house throws when the sun hits it a certain way ... and then, once again, the animals ... the animals ...
Tory reaches out and grabs the door handle of the gas chamber.
She closes her eyes a moment and takes a breath. Then she opens her eyes ... and then she opens the door.
©2005 Stephen Spignesi. All rights reserved.
Excerpt from Dialogues. Used with permission.
Friday, October 11, 2002
8:00 a.m.
Today is Friday. Euthanasia day at the Waterbridge Animal Shelter.
The Shelter stands at the corner of two New Haven streets in a century-old house. The house is tall, gabled, and has large windows with many panes. It is weathered, and has a wraparound porch in need of painting. Many families have walked its halls and slept in its rooms since it was built.
A pretty young woman with dark brown hair moves through the rooms of the shelter. Her face is expressionless. Not empty or blank, though - it is more ... neutral.
The linoleum in the house is cracked and worn. It is a hideous brown and green pattern, a style that was very popular in the fifties. She sometimes thinks what a pity it is that the house’s beautiful hardwood floors were covered by the atrocious linoleum ... but animals are messy.
The young woman wears a light blue smock with a name badge attached to it: Tory. The smock is spotless. In one pocket of the smock is a box of Tic-Tacs, the orange ones – not many people like the orange ones – and a small spiral notebook. Around her neck is a set of small bud headphones, worn like a choker. In the other pocket of her smock is a pink iPod. She always brings it to work, but rarely gets a chance to listen to anything on it.
Tory is known to be pleasant and agreeable, both with her co-workers and visitors to the shelter, but sometimes, she seems a little distant. She only really smiles for the animals.
Tory knows that certain of her duties are terrible, but she takes some comfort in knowing that they are also merciful. Her face sometimes shows this conflict. It is a state of uneasy surrender. She is resigned to what she must do, but it is difficult, and lately, with each day that passes, it becomes more so. She is not a Stephen King fan by a long shot, but she sometimes thinks about a line she heard in the movie Pet Sematary: “Sometimes dead is better.”
This is a new job for Tory. After college, she took a job with a pharmaceutical company as a sales representative. The job had nothing to do with what she studied in college, American literature, but it paid well, and it came with benefits. She traveled around New England, visiting doctors and introducing new medicines to them; and she also worked with large hospitals, handling their drug needs. Her psychology minor often came in handy when dealing with doctors, and hospital buyers, as well as with their staffs. One of the company’s biggest sellers was the generic form of Pavulon, pancuronium bromide, which is used to paralyze patients before surgery.
Tory did well with the drug company, and managed to put aside a fair amount of money. She lived at home with her mother, Viviana, who would only accept a small contribution to the household expenses each month from Tory, insisting that she save as much as possible. That money came in handy when Tory’s position was eliminated after the company launched a secure, interactive website for ordering pharmaceuticals.
She was out of work almost a year - a year she spent writing, and reading, and trying to decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. She completed a few things she was happy with ... a novella, a short story ... but she couldn’t stop herself from wondering if she would ever fulfill her college writing professor’s hope for her. “Don’t tell me a story, Tory” Mr. Mundané used to say to her, always giving the “story/Tory” rhyme a sly little grin. “Show me life. I know you can do it.” She still wasn’t sure she knew precisely how to do it, but some of her writings were things she would not have been embarrassed to show Gabriel Mundané.
Then, one day during that solitary time, she saw an Animal World documentary on cable that truly touched her, and she suddenly knew she wanted to work with animals. In fact, it felt like what people who have had a calling say it feels like. She applied at Waterbridge the following day. When she was offered training to become a euthanasia technician, she accepted, and has been working as one ever since.
This morning it happens to be raining. Heavily. Tory mostly ignores the rain, but every now and then, she walks to a window, stares out at the gray sky, and watches the sheets of water pour off the house’s clogged gutters.
It is cold today. The song may have lamented rainy days and Mondays, but Tory always felt that a cold and rainy Friday, especially one in October, was much sadder.
Today is Friday. Euthanasia day. The gas chamber is in the back of the building on the ground floor. It holds a few animals at a time, and Tory is the euthanasia technician who operates it.
Tory knows the black Lab will go today. And probably the terrier. The black and white kitten, too.
Rainy Fridays are the worst, she thinks to herself as she prepares the coffee. Marcy should be here any minute. Jake’ll probably be late.
Tory has already checked on and fed the animals. For some, the food she gave them would be their last meal.
Shelter workers who must deal with the unavoidable reality of euthanizing sick, unwanted, or violent animals usually adopt one of three modes of coping. Some become withdrawn and robotic, and completely distance themselves from the animals. Some become sadistic. Tory has heard stories about these kinds of workers, and her loathing for them runs deep.
Then there are workers like Tory, who believe wholeheartedly that they are working for a greater good; that a merciful and humane death is better than ... well, better than any alternative other than the impossible one of finding a home for every animal.
The Waterbridge Shelter uses carbon monoxide to euthanize animals. Tory Troy is a state-certified animal euthanasia technician, and she knows it is only a matter of time before the shelter switches to lethal injection, which some say is more humane. Waterbridge is state- and city-funded, though, and change takes time. So, for the foreseeable future, Tory euthanizes the animals in a gas chamber.
Tory hears voices, but continues to stare out the window at the pouring rain. The voices belong to Marcy and Jake. They arrived together, Tory thinks. Imagine that. Jake is on time.
She steps away from the window and calls out, “I’m in here, guys ...”
3:30 p.m.
The gas chamber is silent. Tory knows that the lethal carbon monoxide has done its job. Now comes the removal, the disposal, and the cleaning of the chamber.
Tory pulls on heavy yellow rubber gloves, dons a face mask, and steels herself for the task before her. This is getting harder, she thinks. Much harder.
Jake doesn’t leave his office when Tory is emptying the chamber, and none of the front office staff come anywhere near the back of the building.
This part of her job sometimes summons to Tory’s mind a quote from a favorite poem of hers, Tagore’s “Stray Birds”: “This life is the crossing of a sea, where we meet in the same narrow ship. In death we reach the shore and go to our different worlds.” She takes comfort in the image of all the euthanized animals finding their way ashore, and spending the rest of eternity happy and content. Sometimes she scolds herself for being such a sentimentalist, but this does not stop the thought; her mind automatically makes the leap to such a comforting ideal.
Tory pauses a moment, her gloved hands hanging by her side, her silent headphones embracing her neck. She feels something welling up inside her, but she can’t identify the feeling. Is it sadness? Anger? Panic? Fear? She doesn’t know, but she does know she has never felt like this. Yes, there have been moments when she has felt all of those emotions, in brief flashes stabbing at her consciousness ... but today is different.
And then, a sudden kaleidoscope of images and sounds flood her mind ... the dogs and cats that have passed through the shelter over the past many months ... the inside of the death chamber ... the families walking through the kennel area, the children looking for the absolutely perfect pet ... the pleading expressions in the eyes of the caged animals as they mentally beg these strangers to take them home – and away from this place ... the workday chatter of the office staff, oblivious to the reality of what is happening at the back of the building ... the image of Tory herself sitting on the couch in her mother’s living room on any Friday night over the past few months, hugging a pillow, her legs curled beneath her, utterly unable to eat a thing until, at the earliest, Saturday night ... the looming shadows the old house throws when the sun hits it a certain way ... and then, once again, the animals ... the animals ...
Tory reaches out and grabs the door handle of the gas chamber.
She closes her eyes a moment and takes a breath. Then she opens her eyes ... and then she opens the door.
©2005 Stephen Spignesi. All rights reserved.
Excerpt from Dialogues. Used with permission.