The warden tugs at the choke collar wrapped around Fido’s neck.

He knew his days were numbered…5…4…3…2…1…

The stone walls echo the howls of his comrades as he is lugged farther down the corridor.

Fido fights for his life, playing his last game of tug of war.

He was always a “good boy”; wouldn’t harm a fly.

Baring teeth that have never punctured flesh, he is ready for his first taste of blood.

BAM!

One hit to the temple sends Fido to the concrete floor.

A trail of warm scarlet fluid begins where the footprints end as Fido is hoisted behind the steel door.

Fido comes to, only to inhale a scent he has never smelled before; a wretched scent that would be his last.

The carcass of Fido is carried out in a black bag baring a holocaust number, another statistic. 

His piece of unmarked hallowed ground is company only to the thousands of unmarked graves nearby.

The Warden collects his $7.00 per hour paycheck and leaves, the smell of a fresh gash lingering in the car. 

His arm is bandaged from the battle wound he takes home from the pound tonight; one of many.

His own Fido greets him at the door with a faceful of wet kisses.

The Warden showers, dresses his wound, and then heads to bed.

His feather down comforter warms the chills running down his spine as he spends another night trying to drown out the echoed howls with a cheesy Kid Rock song.

He dreams of the corridor, of the steel door, of the fresh kill tonight, and of its predecessors.

He dreams about Spot, whose time is up tomorrow, and Rover, who still has two days left.

Another day, another dollar, another dog…