Article: Marco died: he was, you know, a dog. Still, I miss him.

IT WAS, OF COURSE, an execution: death by decree. We killed him, or had him killed, with an overdose of barbiturate suspended in a solution as pink as peppermint, drawn into a syringe the size of a rich man's cigar. The end was apparent at the beginning, when we, Janet and I, saw the nurse clutching the pink syringe in her fist at the door of the room we had been assigned--the tiled and antiseptic room we had been hustled into, carrying our condemned cargo. The nurse was wearing white sneakers and scrub pants and a flowered smock. She had a bow in her hair, and the syringe she prepared was like the gun introduced at the start of act one that must be discharged by the end ...

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