No collar circles its neck. No menace inhabits its eyes. Through dark moist lips, a pale tongue hangs, panting. Its breath is warm, pungent, unpleasant. No one here knows its name.

The pound's officers call it "the black German Shepherd mix," or simply, "Boy."

The cage door opens and a leash tightens around the dog's neck. Happy to be out of its cage, it smiles a lopsided dog smile and wags its tail, yielding to the leash.

No one knows its age either, but this dog has decidedly outgrown its puppy stage. Still, it is clumsy and struggles to keep up with Senior Officer Bill Waugh, who moves through the kennel ahead of the mutt with a solid cowboy-booted stride. As always, he is dressed in brown Wranglers and a neatly ironed shirt tucked in at the waist. Bifocals rest on the bridge of his nondescript nose; behind them, Waugh's clear, gray eyes are tired.

As they walk the gauntlet of animal cages, dogs snarl and bark, whine, whimper and howl. The stench—dog food, feces and urine mixed with cleaning detergent—lingers in the air. Waugh's strides lead them out of the kennel and through a bleak room filled with empty green cages to a door at the opposite end. Waugh opens it and leads the dog through.

The dog can't see the animals in the trash can, but it can smell them.

Officer Ted Carlson waits inside. He's a gentle man with a thick neck, broad back and powerful arms. He has a tiny earring in his left ear and a neatly trimmed goatee. His warm eyes acknowledge the animal, but he offers nothing more.

Waugh shuts the door. An oppressive silence settles over the room. Unperturbed, the dog gently nudges its moist nose against Waugh's fingers. He retracts his hand—not fearfully, but with a calloused indifference. For fourteen years, he has walked dogs out of their cages, through the kennel and into this room. He knows better than to befriend animals such as this one.

Undaunted, the dog approaches Carlson, who stands next to a small table with a syringe in his hand. He, too, ignores the animal. Carlson has been working at the pound for a decade and once adopted out twelve animals in four hours. He also knows not to attach himself to any dog led here.

Inside this closet-sized room, the Lane County Animal Regulation Authority does its work. Last fiscal year, 3,696 animals came to the pound; only 988 were adopted out. Every day unadopted dogs are euthanized—four today, ten tomorrow, six the day after tomorrow. Death counts vary month to month: February's was 124; March's, 142; and April's, 164. Every year the death count in this room rises.

Busy with their prep work, the men ignore the dog. It happily explores the room; the experience seems more of an adventure than a prelude to dying. The click-clack of its nails echoes in the small space. Sniffing loudly, it runs its nose over the naked walls, concrete floor and three empty cages and then back to the floor again. The dog's ears prick up as it follows an invisible trail to a gray plastic, jumbo-sized trash can two feet away. The mutt looks up at the can's mouth, then back at Waugh. Inside, two dead dogs lay one atop the other. It can't see them, but it can smell them. They, too, were led to this room by Waugh and met by Carlson.

"Sit," Waugh says, pulling at the leash. The dog, licking its lips and nose, obeys, still panting steadily. It wags its disheveled tail and offers Waugh its paw. Unheeded, the limb hangs in the air. Waugh hunkers down and lightly taps the top of the examining table, which—lowered after the previous procedure—sits inches from the ground.

"Here boy," he beckons. Obediently the dog boards the stainless steel table.

"Now turn around," Waugh orders. "Turn around."

The dog immediately obeys, willing to please.

"There's nothing wrong with this dog," Waugh declares.

Carlson nods.

For pound officials, it's easier to kill a vicious dog—one that is a menace to society, or an old sick dog—one that is suffering. But it's hard to kill a happy-go-lucky adoptable animal like this one. Regardless, Waugh and Carlson must constantly remind themselves that, even though they're burdened with the killing of animals, they didn't fail them. The owners did.

The men work methodically—almost mechanically—through the procedure. Fast, but not hastily.

Carlson steps on the foot switch under the table. As it begins to rise, the dog's muscles contract. Its panting ceases. Carlson playfully scratches the dog behind the ears but it is wary now, its tail motionless, its wolf-like ears up and alert. The table stops rising five feet above the floor.

The dog's eyes dart from one man to the other. Carlson, who once trained dogs for the U. S. Army, talks to it, tousling its shiny healthy mane. His voice, deep and authoritative, soothes. The fear abandons the dog's eyes. The tail-wagging and panting resume.

Without warning, Waugh wraps the leash twice around the dog's snout. It whines, stepping back, trying to escape. Useless. Trembling, it pulls—head up, down, back.

"It's alright. It's alright, boy," Waugh says, as he has countless times before. His right hand tightens the leash to distract the dog and prevent it from biting. He could use one of the muzzles on the shelf, but a muzzle raises an animal's anxiety and a tense animal is harder to kill. Waugh embraces the dog's body with his left arm. The dog whimpers.

The execution begins.

At the core, these men are animal lovers. They celebrate when animals are adopted, returned to their owners, or transferred to humane societies. But they are also professionals. Killing stray, abandoned, or unclaimed animals is just another duty done between cleaning the kennel and feeding the impounded animals.

Day after day and dog after dog, these men have trained themselves to avoid emotions that could overexcite their victims or impair their own ability to carry out the community's will. Yes, they could quit tomorrow, but quitting would not stop the killings; someone would fill their positions. So they rationalize: if the killings must be done, the enforcer might as well be someone who understands the responsibility, who performs with compassion and who's flawless in the execution.

Carlson grabs an old Oster two-speed razor and, with a couple of strokes, shears a patch of fur off the dog's forepaw. The sound, more than the shave, frightens the animal and it whimpers, rolling its eyes and trying to pull back its paw.

"It's alright. It's alright, boy," Waugh says. "It'll be al-right."

It's easier to kill a vicious dog—one that is a menace to society.

Syringe in hand, Carlson taps the exposed skin, which looks soft and pink—like a baby's.

Tap.
Pause.
Tap.
Pause.
No vein appears.
He taps again.
He waits.
A tiny greenish vein surfaces.
"Ready?" Carlson asks.
Waugh nods and holds the dog a little tighter.
The dog whimpers.

The needle breaks the skin, and sodium pentobarbital—the cerulean-colored liquid that kills animals like this all across America—pushes into the dog's bloodstream.

Before the needle is out of the vein, the dog's brain shuts down. Its body weakens and its eyes roll up white. Waugh lays the unconscious dog on its side. A minute later he listens for a heartbeat, grabs the dog by its limbs and drops it into the barrel.

Add this one to the roughly three million dogs euthanized yearly in America.

"Who's next?" Waugh asks.