Michael A. Arnzen (flash fiction) "How To Put A Cat to Sleep" in Literary Potpourri

First, you never actually use the words "sleep" or "death." You circumvent them. You avoid eye contact and point at charts and x-rays. You try to sell a little bit of hope, but you let the illuminated plastic film contradict your words. The lungs are half full of tumorous growth. The couple standing there can see the balloon inside her airway, just waiting to burst. You tap it with a pen to point out the obvious, but the action speaks louder than your words. But even more than this gesture, they can hear their pets clotted pants and they can still feel the moist blood she'd coughed up, slick between their fingers from all the petting they're doing.

Next, you let them ask. Is it time? Should we do it? Please give it to us straight: what are her chances?

Some things you have to figure out as you go along. That's the part you hate most.

So you spill the beans in numbers and percentages. You give them your trusty anecdote about a dog named Buttercup who lived years after a similar diagnosis; you then mention Petunia, who surprised you by croaking in your arms when you put the thermometer up her bum. You let them ask questions, but you mostly let them come up with their own answers.

You leave them in the emergency room to talk to their cat while you and your assistant go into the hidden recesses of the clinic. Your assistants uncomfortably wipe old test tubes and organize charts. You risk eye contact and that says it all: they're gonna do it. You fetch the poison and prep the anesthesia. Your main assistant grabs the tissue box and rubber gloves.

When you return, the tears say it all. You ask what they want to do anyway, because it isn't really you that's killing the cat, it's them, and you want them to know that. The husband assents and the wife just nods and loses whatever she was holding back, pouring it into the cat with a hug. You explain the procedure and ask if there are any questions. There aren't any that you can answer.

You slide the blue needle in. To numb. Then the red one. To nod her off.

The cat blinks at the couple one last time. Slowly.

Eyes freeze half-open. The couple frowns in an unfathomable way.

You just nod and clench your teeth and balance your objective features against your empathetic eyes. When you withdraw the needle, blood leaks out in a way that only a dead body leaks it. You cover this up with cotton, but they see it.

Finally, you express your sympathies by reciting a Hallmark and then let the assistants explain the disposal and billing options.

As you return to your desk you realize that you've still got the red needle in your grip. There's still a little liquid unplunged, like hope. Not enough to save.

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	Flash Fiction by Michael A. Arnzen HOW TO PUT A CAT TO SLEEP First, you never actually use the words "sleep" or "death." You circumvent them. You avoid eye contact and point at charts and x-rays. You try to sell a little bit of hope, but you let the illuminated plastic film contradict your words. The lungs are half full of tumorous growth. The couple standing there can see the balloon inside her airway, just waiting to burst. You tap it with a pen to point out the obvious, but the action speaks louder than your words. But even more than this gesture, they can hear their pets clotted pants and they can still feel the moist blood she'd coughed up, slick between their fingers from all the petting they're doing. Next, you let them ask. Is it time? Should we do it? Please give it to us straight: what are her chances? Some things you have to figure out as you go along. That's the part you hate most. So you spill the beans in numbers and percentages. You give them your trusty anecdote about a dog named Buttercup who lived years after a similar diagnosis; you then mention Petunia, who surprised you by croaking in your arms when you put the thermometer up her bum. You let them ask questions, but you mostly let them come up with their own answers. You leave them in the emergency room to talk to their cat while you and your assistant go into the hidden recesses of the clinic. Your assistants uncomfortably wipe old test tubes and organize charts. You risk eye contact and that says it all: they're gonna do it. You fetch the poison and prep the anesthesia. Your main assistant grabs the tissue box and rubber gloves. When you return, the tears say it all. You ask what they want to do anyway, because it isn't really you that's killing the cat, it's them, and you want them to know that. The husband assents and the wife just nods and loses whatever she was holding back, pouring it into the cat with a hug. You explain the procedure and ask if there are any questions. There aren't any that you can answer. You slide the blue needle in. To numb. Then the red one. To nod her off. The cat blinks at the couple one last time. Slowly. Eyes freeze half-open. The couple frowns in an unfathomable way. You just nod and clench your teeth and balance your objective features against your empathetic eyes. When you withdraw the needle, blood leaks out in a way that only a dead body leaks it. You cover this up with cotton, but they see it. Finally, you express your sympathies by reciting a Hallmark and then let the assistants explain the disposal and billing options. As you return to your desk you realize that you've still got the red needle in your grip. There's still a little liquid unplunged, like hope. Not enough to save. § § § Michael A. Arnzen has appeared recently in Vestal Review, Minima, 42opus, and Insolent Rudder. His poetry book, "Freakcidents: A Surrealist Sideshow,"is forthcoming from DarkVesper Publishing. Arnzen teaches writing and popular fiction at Seton Hill University. He was awarded the Bram Stoker Award for his first horror novel, "Grave Markings," in 1995. Visitors are welcome at his home page: www.gorelets.com. He can be reached at arnzen@gorelets.com. Send the URL for this work to a friend! GO TO NEXT PAGE