Post-sedation,
Stephen and his adopted adult son
bend over their Leo
unfolded on the exam table
like a black and white rug.

(Every appointment, before the red truck pulled in
you’d hear that dog— 5 miles away—
his huge, slobbering voice,
brawnybumped-upboisterous
his mutt’s body so strong it took two men
and a vet’s assistant to hold him on leash—
his tail a savage whip, vertebra
like knots that left bruises on my shins.)

The exam room smells like Peace & Calm Essential Oil Blend.
Stephen and his adopted son in purple plastic chairs—
cushioned for comfort
easy to clean.
Stephen’s son yells over and over:
Does Leo know what’s happening? Is he asleep yet?
Can he hear us?
Can he hear us?
Can he hear us?

Stephen has red eyes, a portable oxygen concentrator
between his feet on the yellow floor.
He claws off the nasal cannula to cry.

I occlude the dog’s medial saphenous vein
The vet tells me: whatever you do, don’t let go

the men can’t let go, I can’t let go
of the vein
I have to hold the vein
the men have to hold Leo
and Leo has to let go—

two guardians, each in his purple chair
plastic-cushioned, easy to clean
comfortable.

The catheter in
Two men’s desperate chorus
I love you I love you I love you
the chant so loud they miss their pup’s
last breath—

We have to tell them.

Leo’s pink lids still open;
afternoon sun licks one back paw.

The old man can’t breathe on his own;
his adult son jumps up and down, holding
his own hands behind his back,
too-loud voice over and over
something about Rainbow Bridge—
Did Leo get over?
Is it even real?
The Vet talks over him, talks them down.

Makes them drive home.

The exam table is still wet—
we use hydrogen peroxide
and essential oils on paper towels:
eucalyptus, rosemary, clove.
After, it gleams
a brilliant square of light.

sudden silence
the dog’s spirit—
a plume
in slow-motion lift.

My forearm hairs stiffen.
My boss doesn’t see.
She’s in the bathroom with the door open washing her hands;
outside clouds broil in eggplant stacks.
I go wait at my desk
for the wind chime ringer on the office phone to clang.

Leo’s spirit
has left on an ebbing tide of light.

Do you want coffee?
—my boss crying—
I say yes
so she can go,

her silver car withdraws from the parking lot —
             reverse lightning!
I feel that motion of wheels under metal: anger under armor.

My phone beeps
what do you want?
this boss knows I only ever get one thing—
a doubleshothotsixteenounceoatmilklatte—
I feel sick and ignore the question.

What do I want?

I visit the dog
still warm in his trash bag
by the back door
with the empty treat boxes and unopened 3 ml syringes.

office phone wind chime ringer clangs, I should answer.

instead,
I write
on a green post-it note:

                                                   the wet exam table
                                                   gleaming so bright it blinds me.
                                                   Heaven was there
                                                   one tear falls.

---

Dylan Tulk is a rebellious Australian-born writer of uncanny poems and
haunting songs. His work can be found in a handful of journals,
including Streetcake, Fifth Wheel Press, Eber & Wein’s Best Poets of
2025, and multiple volumes of Centripetal, the journal of the English
Department at Plymouth State University. In his free time, Dylan enjoys
working as a Veterinary Nurse, listening to The Beatles, and building
IKEA furniture.