Animal Euthanasia - Mercy or Murder?

I signed a death warrant today. My first. She was barely a month old.

She was the feeblest of the six siblings born in my office premises. For the past few days, I’d been feeding her milk and bread. The results had been encouraging. Her bulging, big black eyes no more threatened to pop out of their socket. She had grown increasingly competitive against the siblings for her mother’s milk. Her gait had progressed from tottering to walking on the cobble path where she was born. In short, she’d gone from looking like a genetically-altered mouse gone wrong, to a real puppy. The increased pace of walking meant I had to often run after her to protect her from the vehicles passing by. I didn’t mind doing it, though; those tiny paws never took her far and her lighter-than-feather, mud-stained white body fitted in the length of my palm. The wagging of the thin, short tail whenever I picked her up was an added incentive.

Today I found her on the cobble path - prostrate on her right side, shaking uncontrollably. Her big eyes were shut tight and there were yellow white stains on the mouth, probably from dried up vomit and froth. A guy sitting nearby said nonchalantly that he’d been observing her in that state for over half an hour – “kisi ne gaadi chadha di hogi.” But I knew she hadn’t been run over. She wasn’t squealing at all and there were no injury marks.

In the car, she kept sneaking underneath the seat where I sat. At the hospital I had to drag her out by the tail when the lure of biscuits and a pat on the head proved futile. This time, though, the tail didn’t wag as she remained motionless in my arms. Once inside the hospital, her movements were completely incoherent – she was crouching, darting backwards more than forwards, and falling over repeatedly. The only moment of sanity was when she snuck into the V made by my shoes while I was standing, speaking to the doctor. I have a picture of the moment, but I will avoid putting it here.

The doctor said she didn’t have more than a week to live. It would be a gruesome death. Uncontrollable seizures, incoherent actions, and frothing at the mouth were symptoms of the last stage of distemper – a brutal canine killer.

The doctor and I agreed that euthanasia was the best option. Taking her back would infect the entire family. Leaving her anywhere else would mean death, either from the disease, or from causes ranging from starvation to a mauling by other dogs.

As a last ditch attempt to keep her alive, I took her to a dog-friendly NGO. But they refused to keep her because she would infect every other dog they had. Had she been human she’d have felt pretty unwanted right about then. Maybe she felt it anyway.

They brought a piece of paper with the words “PTS” scribbled on it, and asked for my consent, so that she could be Put To Sleep. That’s when I signed her death warrant.

To be honest, it turned out far easier for me than I imagined. Her condition checked all the boxes that justify euthanasia. Immeasurable suffering – check; imminent death – check; absence of caretakers – check.

In retrospect, it wasn’t. If it were, I’d have held her in my arms till her very last moment, making her feel wanted – to the extent possible – as humans killed her without her knowledge. I would have been there to calm her down as she flinched for the last time at the feeling of something sharp poking her. I didn’t do that. Instead, I left her to her fate after signing her death warrant. Being by her side would have been too much to bear, though I did stress upon them, twice, that she be given a painless death.

That humans treat non-humans as inferior comes as no surprise, but to think human euthanasia is allowed in very few jurisdictions - strictly with prior consent of the patient, except in the rarest of rare cases - while animal euthanasia is rampant in every corner of the world must be disturbing at least to some. The reasoning is that since animals, or their families, can’t give consent – at least not in the form humans would understand – we should choose on their behalf given our higher intelligence.

The above reasoning is on morally shaky ground, for it neglects the fact that animals can’t consent because they simply won’t consent - for lack of intelligence or otherwise – to being killed. They would much rather rot to death than kill themselves. This is apparent from the fact that animals never commit suicide, or kill one of their own in deep suffering. Whatever little evidence exists in favour of this is far from conclusive. Humans, on the other hand, commit suicide by the lakhs every year. So, while humans might want to end their lives under certain circumstances, animals simply don’t.

Let’s think of some humans who would never want to kill themselves, no matter how wretched their lives – mentally challenged? babies? Hmm, we don’t call putting them to sleep ‘euthanasia’. We call it murder. Humans murder uncountable animals for entertainment, food, money, and sometimes because they’re ugly or boring, so why shy away from calling this particular act, murder?

The reason has to do with keeping our conscience clear. Some humans are kinder than others - just enough to not be able to live with an animal’s blood on their hands, but not enough to care for it when it’s terminally-ill. In the context of animals, PTS/euthanasia are clever terms invented by this class of humans.

I, of course, am one of them. Given that distemper doesn’t affect humans, it was perfectly possible for me to take the puppy back to my place and care for her till her last day. But that would have taken time away from writing this piece, or reading a book, or a morning run. To avoid the trouble, I chose to murder, oops, euthanize her, and convinced myself that I chose the best for her, not for myself. My not holding her tight while she died confirms this self-deception – doing so would have made the murder all too real. Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that euthanasia and euphemism share the first two letters.

Though I supported Aruna Shanbaug’s euthanasia back when the case was being heard, I am now glad that the SC didn’t buckle down. The woman was comatose and couldn’t have consented. If in future we do euthanize someone without their consent, let’s all just accept that we were too bored with taking care of them, or with spending our money/taxes on them.

I went back to the office after murdering her. The mother was sniffing around, probably looking for her daughter who was whisked away and later murdered by a group of conspiring humans, without her knowledge. The siblings were running after the mother to catch hold of her dangling breasts, blithely delighted that there was now one less competitor.

When sons grow up, and fathers grow old

Growing up, the only good thing about papa’s fondness for पैर दबवाना was the sound of his snoring as soon as I lay my hands upon his feet. If the loud announcement, चलो बेटा पैर दबाओ, of his arrival home from office was the death knell, the snoring was the sound of freedom.

When I was a kid, every time Papa came back from office - ebullient as ever, his face lit up with a smile at the sight of his nuclear family – he would deliver the death knell, without fail, in his characteristic baritone voice that echoed all around the house till it reached my hiding spot and demanded that I appear before him. 

As per ritual, he would quickly change into his shorts, lie down on the bed, and shake his feet vigorously while looking up at the ceiling, the smile getting broader in anticipation. Sometimes he would croon आओ आओ बेटा पैर दबाओ repeatedly while his head bobbled sideways in an eerily Indian fashion, in rhythm with his feet. That was the ultimate signal. Firmly glued to the chair by the bedside, I knew the good old अरे पापा…. in a pleading tone was my last resort. Those two words always worked. Without letting his smile flicker, he would do my job of completing the sentence by inserting a lame excuse at the end – something like अरे बेटा पढ़ाई भी तो करनी हैI Far more rarely he would guilt-trip me into leaving the chair by following up his request with अरे बेटा बाप के पैर दबाने से आशिर्वाद मिलता हैI in a singsong, jovial tone. Persuasion was never his intention, and I always went back to my chair after पैर दबाना for a few seconds, maybe minutes on a bad day. Soon, he would be snoring regardless of my actions.

As I sit on the same chair today, I notice the plaster on the walls is chipping off; plans of whitewashing never did materialize. The once-dazzling copper vessel from which papa still drinks water now has streaks of black; he says it’s good for health. The ceiling has dark patches I’d never noticed before, though the fan looks stainless from the daily wiping. The CD music system which was once brought into the house with much fanfare now lies covered with a white cloth; I like that about my house, we don’t throw things out. We bury them with honour, in plain sight.

Papa’s return from office today is not marked not by his loud, baritone voice. There is no voice at all, except of the door knob turning in his hand as he enters the room while I sit on the chair inside. He catches me off guard. It strikes me that it’s a ploy to catch me before I can find a hiding place. For a moment I think of rushing to my favourite hiding spot out the back door. But there’s no need. This isn’t a ploy. The death knell died a long time back, somehow it’s the first time I notice it.

The smile is still there, as heartfelt as ever, only less wide. The ritual begins – he changes into his shorts and lies down on the bed – but doesn’t conclude with the old crooning and shaking of the feet. It concludes in stillness and silence.

I don’t quite know why, but I leave the chair and offer पैर दबानाI The intent is honest, though I speak the words hesitantly. I should know the offer is one he can’t refuse, but it’s a first for both of us, so there’s that awkwardness off the bat. Papa doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me. Maybe he thinks this is a joke, or I have turned into one of those children who demand disproportionate favours in return for meagre ones. Whatever he thinks, within three seconds he says हाँ हाँ बेटाI The feet shake again, and the smile broadens.

It’s been years since I did पैर दबानाI This time I fail to clutch his feet in the usual circumference of my hands I have grown so used to; I have to reduce it - maybe my hands have grown bigger, but his feet sure look thinner. The moment I increase the pressure, he asks me to slow down; maybe I have grown stronger, but he sure has grown weaker. As my hands move down his long legs, the skin on them feels much looser than before. It’s hard for a son to accept any ugliness about his father, but the wrinkled skin around his toes doesn’t give me a choice. Years ago, I used to lightly pull at the jet black hair on his legs during पैर दबानाI. He liked it. Now, I have to look hard for jet black hair to pull at. The wristwatch Papa is wearing slips down his left arm far more easily than it did as he raises the arm to put it behind his head; legs, arms – he’s shrinking. The decade-old thing he still wears to bed is now the youngest thing permanently attached to his body.

I hear a faint बहुत अच्छा बेटा, खूब आशीर्वाद मिलेगा before it trails off into a snore. It’s still the best thing about पैर दबाना , but this time I don’t run away.