Short Story: What Kate Wants

by Barbara Conrey

Here’s the thing: my story’s not about an eleven-year-old kid who is so gutsy she beats the shit out of cancer. My story’s about a kid who already knows the ending and just wants to get to the last page.

Think about it. Think about your dog if you’re lucky enough to have one. Imagine your dog sick with an incurable disease. That’s hard to think about, I know, but do it anyway. Your dog can’t eat or sleep or walk or bark or play; she can’t catch rabbits or birds or anything else that dogs like to chase—you know what I mean—your dog looks at you and silently begs you to do what you signed up for when you brought her home all those years ago.

So you take your dog to the vet. Don’t worry, even though you are dying inside, you won’t forget to bring along her favorite blanket. And don’t worry about being stuck in the waiting room with a bunch of healthy dogs whose only reason for being there is to remind you of everything you are now about to lose. For the kind of visit you’re there for, they get you right in. As soon as the receptionist spots you, she takes you and your dog into a nice quiet room where the lights are low, and the music plays softly.

You snuggle with your dog in that nice quiet room and try to make her feel safe and loved. You tell her what a good dog she’s been and how happy she’s made you, and you keep repeating these love words—especially the ones about how she’s been such a good dog. Dogs understand praise, and they need to hear it. Now more than ever. And then, when your dog is calm and relaxed, and you can barely say another word, your mouth is so dry, you figure you are ready.

Forget I just said that. Putting your dog to forever sleep is not something you will ever be ready for; it is just something you have to do. For your dog. Because your dog trusts you to do the right thing, so you press the button just like the vet told you, and you wait for him to come and end this pain. And yet, when the vet walks through the door, you want to pick up your dog and run, but you don’t. Instead, you sit there in that little room with the soft lighting and the music that makes you think God is hiding under the table, and you hold your dog close while the vet gives her a nice gentle injection.

Right about now, you really want to pass out from the agony of it all, but you don’t do that, either. You stay strong because you know staying strong is your job. And your dog, your dog looks at you with love and gratitude. And then she closes her eyes and goes to sleep. And never wakes up.

That’s what I wanted.