Bruja

Adopted April 1975 in Tulsa – euthanized 22 December 1975 in Tulsa

Nothing would be the same for me. I had killed before by commission every time I ate flesh, used leather… by ignorance, e.g., when I entrusted teenage boys to find a home for a newborn kitten my mother wouldn’t let me keep… and by omission whenever I could have stopped others but didn’t. Regarding Bruja … it was murder.

It was springtime and every morning there was a box or a bucket full of pups or kittens at Dr. McCall’s Plaza 3 Veterinary Clinic in Tulsa (1).  That particular morning, as I arrived to open the clinic, the dog pound truck was pulling out of our parking lot with two puppies –a Red Bone and a Blue Tick (2). They were in plain view, because the precursor of hermetic A/C dog-catcher trucks was an open cage wrapped in wire mesh through which not even the smallest kitten could go through; and yes, stray dogs and cats were transported together too frightened to bother each other under the circumstances. I waved the driver, a TPD officer, to stop. Since the dogs had been dumped at the door of the veterinary clinic I worked for, I would take them to spare them from a gruesome death at the “animal shelter.” No deal.

Hard to remember the ensuing debate, but he did threaten to cuff me, so I backed off. Could I please adopt them? No … I would have to go to the pound and pay the adoption fee if they were still alive. It was a losing battle… when he suddenly blurted out “pick one.” I instinctively closed my eyes, reached in the cage, and pulled out the one I touched. It was all over; he drove away. The Blue Tick pup alone in the cage was headed for a gas chamber crammed with other dogs and cats – that’s the way it used to be in Tulsa. At least the red bag of bones wiggling in my arms would live.

She was mine even before I opened the clinic. “Bruja” was barely two months old. She was wormed and vaccinated, and I took her home at the end of my shift. The household dogs, Majo and Xuska, accepted her; Bob-X (X for ex-husband) didn’t want three dogs.

The months that followed were difficult. It began on May 4^th: In the wee hours we adopted a newborn kitten, “Miniman” (blog bio 2 JUL 2012)); a little later that morning I found a garter snake in the kitchen, which I placed in a glass jar to be released in a field on my way to work … The snake got loose in the car and I hit the gas pedal instead of the breaks. Two weeks later I was released from the hospital, voiceless and in casts. Bob-X had kept the kitten and the pup alive; now I was in charge, but incapable of it without voice and in a wheelchair. There were potty accidents, chewing of rugs and siding ... Bob suggested finding another home for Bruja or, he threatened, he’d take her to the country and let her go.

Fear of snakes caused my near-fatal car wreck. Fear of unreasonable threats had fatal consequences.

Innocent of the brewing drama, Bruja and Miniman, played and played. When he fell asleep exhausted, she found something else to chew on. Meanwhile, I was moving about better with the help of crutches and my voice had suddenly returned  thanks, according to the physician, to my frequent vocal exertions trying to stop Bruja from doing mischief.  So things might have been looking up, but then, we bought a new rug ….The springboard of tragedy is often a dull human mind. A new rug and a teething pup … really?

Bob was at work when I discovered the rug remnants. Just the previous day she had ripped a four-foot section of siding from the patio wall. Now her sentence was signed: Headed for a country road and a frightful slow death. Cowed before mere assumptions, unable or unwilling to stand up for my dog, I drove her to our veterinarian.

Dr. Lanning listened – my motives nebulous, my mental state dark, my tone hysterical. He and his nurse tried to dissuade me with logical arguments, offering alternatives. Bruja acted as if it was all great fun – wagging tail, eager look – just waiting to go home. My only thought was to kill her humanely, quickly, before Bob discovered the rug. I was not even afraid of the man, nor did I have reasons to be. Also, I had friends who would have taken Bruja and me in until cooler heads prevailed. To this day I don’t know what possessed me, but clearly, I was like possessed.

Two full vials of sodium pentobarbital in her veins, enough to kill a horse, and Bruja was still alive. The vet reloaded with a third vial. The yelps of terror …  “stop, stop!” I was crying all along too late …  Bruja’s eyes affixed on mine as she fought to live … The nadir of my life. I would cheerfully enter eternal Hell right now if I could undo my crime, but no such cosmic justice. Bruja finally expired. And so did the concept I had of myself.

Guilt is futile, unhealthy, according to modern “feel-good” mentality. Religions also – “Jesus died for our sins,” “Mektoub” (it is written), and other convenient mantras – liberate the faithful from guilt. Ethics doesn’t.  Bruja was exhumed in 2008; her bones moved to Houston and cremated with Farhaan’s body when he died in 2011. Some people have “crosses to bear;” I bear her ashes with my guilt, forever. It hurts every day, as it damn well should.

(1)     It’s the same old story 37 years later at veterinary clinics in America – and getting worse with the rapid influx of cultures with little regard for animal welfare.

(2)    Two quintessential Deep South breeds that red necks abuse to vandalize Nature.