I'm probably blowing confidentiality all to hell, but this Rottweiler is a reasonable facsimile of Rok, a Rottweiler I sat with this morning as he died. Diagnosed with lymphoma just last week, he was lying in one of our big runs this morning when I got to the hospital. The door of his run was open, and he was urinating on himself, and breathing with effort.

While I was trying to find out if he was an oncology or ortho patient so that I could ask permission to change out his pee-pee pad, I found that he was slated for euthanasia later. As I changed the pad, I gave him a good scritching.

But before he was euthanized, the oncology techs put him on oxygen, and we found out that they were trying to keep him alive long enough for the son of the family to get to the hospital. Slowly, we began to get physically closer to him. It was weird--it was like we were drawn to him, and we all did whatever work needed to be done a little more closely to him.

Rok had plans of his own, though. I had heard of but never seen agonal breathing. Suddenly we were all there, and Dr. H was on the phone to the owners telling them that he didn't think the dog would make it, and that he thought the best course of action was to go ahead and euthanize right then. Even as he hung up the phone, the syringe was waiting to go, and Rok was sent on his way.

I saw a new side to some techs who I had thought of as aloof and standoffish, and actually felt pretty honored to be there at his side as he went. We made ourselves feel better by saying that at least he went with five ladies around him, he wasn't alone.

Later, as I stood in a very chill wind waiting for a cocker spaniel with a perianal cancer to poop, I didn't care that I was freezing, and I didn't care that I wasn't at home, and I didn't care that I wasn't making any money.

I think finally, FINALLY, I have found where I'm supposed to be. And that's a cool feeling.