The hallway smells of bleach and a heavy, quiet finality. Today, the echoes of barking have softened into a rhythmic, hollow thrum.

The Good Boy’s Last Walk: The leash clicks. My tail gives a reflexive thump against the concrete. For a second, the old hope flares up—is this the car ride? The park? The “forever” they whispered about when I first arrived?

I look at the human holding the lead. Their eyes are red, diverted. They aren’t carrying a ball or a treat; they are carrying the weight of a clock that just ran out. I’m not sick. My coat is shiny, and my heart is strong. But I am a “Large Breed” in a full building, a “Long-Stay” in a world that moved on.

We turn left, away from the grass and toward the room with the silver table. I smell the ghosts of the ones who went before me. My hackles rise, but I lick the human’s shaking hand anyway. That is my nature. I was a “Best Friend” on a couch three months ago. I was a “Good Boy” when my family moved into an apartment that didn’t allow my kind.

Now, I am “Space.” As the needle slides in, I wonder if they know I would have waited forever. I lean my head against the human’s chest, forgiving them for a system they didn’t build, but couldn’t stop. The lights go soft. I am finally going for a walk where the fences don’t exist.

The Final Shadow: I have lived in a metal box for ninety days. I’ve watched the sun move across the floor, an inch of freedom I could never reach. I purred for every stranger, rubbed my face against the bars until my fur thinned, trying to be adoptable. But I am “just a cat” in a season of too many.

The human picks me up. They are crying, the salt of their tears falling onto my ears. It is the most affection I have felt since I was a kitten. I want to tell them it’s okay—that I know I am a victim of math, not malice.

They lay me on the cold table. I close my eyes and imagine the hum of a refrigerator, the crinkle of a bag, the weight of a warm lap. I pretend I’m being tucked into bed. I’m not a “stray” anymore; I’m not “intake #402.” For these last few seconds, I am seen.

The plunger goes down. The noise of the shelter fades into a deep, velvet silence. I am no longer waiting.

Millions of dogs and cats are euthanized annually in U.S. shelters,