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He cleaned the needle thoroughly before he filled the syringe from the bottle on the table. The vet had proposed him to euthanize the old mongrel in his practice, but he decided to take Max home and give him a proper way out in a familiar place. People deserved to die peacefully, and his dog, well, Max was a person too. Part of the family, how lamentably small that was, and he’d be damned if he denied the ugly mutt that last bit of comfort.
He sat back in the armchair, Max a familiar weight on the blanket on his lap. The animal was sleeping now, a deep sleep brought on by the anesthesia he’d mixed through his food earlier. His last meal, his favourite: a big bowl of smelly chunks drenched in meat juice. He’d fed the dog from his hand, bit by bit, because Max could hardly stand and eating exhausted him very quickly.
Before accepting the first bite, Max had looked at him questioningly. He was a dog. Of course he would smell there was something off about his favourite dish. But he’d encouraged the old mutt to eat it anyway. There was a hint of acceptance in Max’ eyes, and he knew the dog knew.
Max was snoring and drooling. He always did that. His nose was hardly fit to breathe through, and he would lie on his back, paws in the air, snorting and wheezing his way through his dog dreams. He remembered how amused he and Chuck had been when they first witnessed the phenomenon that was Max asleep. Especially Chuck had found it priceless and every so often the image of sleeping Max would turn up in the Drift.
He straightened the floppy skin and inserted the needle, measuredly pressing the plunger until all liquid was sent into the bloodstream of the small, faltering animal body in his lap. Then he dropped the syringe on the floor and sank back in the chair, his hands protectively cradling the dog. As Max’ breathing slowed, so did his own. He’d timed it carefully. This time, neither of them would have to stay behind to mourn.