Do they know what they’re lining up for, every morning, first thing, whatever the weather, always the same, as many as twenty deep, winding through the parking lot, tails wagging, tongues flapping, barking at each other, like any other day?
When do they figure it out?
When their owners, bleary-eyed and indifferent, checking cell phones, clutching leashes and coffee travel mugs, lead them inside once their number’s called? Is it not until they step into the sterile operating room, jump onto the table, right before they go under?
The Snip Clinic looms on my right. I clench my thighs in empathy.