Drowsy, I was watching yet another late-night documentary on television about the senseless slaughter of animals, and I thought, "My gosh, I can't stand to watch this. It's too gruesome, too explicit. It's shocking my senses when what I crave is soothing for my soul. Where's a bedtime story?"

But before my subconscious changed channels, an animal's eyes on the screen locked onto mine. Startled, I looked deep into the image before me and thought, "Wait, this is REALLY happening!" It's something that needs to be told so that we never forget what happens when we turn a blind eye to horror. It's good, I thought, for things to shock our consciousness sometimes so that we are galvanized into action.

It started me thinking back to the horror occurring in this country, where an estimated 6 million pets die each year for a crime no worse than being unwanted. Instantly, I thought back to graduation from veterinary school, my volunteering at the local shelter, and coming into personal contact with the destruction of these unfortunate pets.

V-1277. My Idaho veterinary registration number gave me the right to end lives. I reluctantly grabbed the bottle of "blue juice." That was the nickname of a blue liquid called T-61 that we veterinarians were using to put animals to sleep.

Put to sleep. What a cruel misnomer, I thought, as I looked at the little puppies napping on the stainless steel table at the local shelter in Twin Falls, Idaho. I was going to have to wake them up to put them to sleep.

Lying around them in a protective crescent was mom, a Heinz 57 mixed breed with no name, no home, no hope. She was horrifically malnourished, ate little or no food, and eight hungry puppies were eating her body away. She was dying so that her puppies could live.

In a way she was lucky to be here. By chance, a witness saw her dumped out of a moving pickup truck followed by her little puppies tied inside a burlap potato sack. Like living garbage, they were left to die in the remote area of our county.

The kind rancher brought the puppies to the local shelter where they joined dozens of other cuties and uglies pressing against the front of the cages hoping to catch the eye of someone who had a heart and home big enough to share with them.

The problem was there were too many homeless pets and not enough homes. Day after day for a week the bouncing puppies and the lethargic mother waited. And waited, their wagging tails marking the time.

But on this day, their time was up. No one had adopted them; they were too big, too small, too hairy, too young, too old. Without enough cages to hold them all, we were prepared to at least end their lives quickly and without suffering. "Better than starving to death in the country," I said, finding little solace in the words.

I was a veterinarian. Inspired to enter this profession because of a deep love for animals, mentored by one of the greatest proponents of the human-animal bond, co-founder of the Delta Society and my veterinary school Dean, Dr. Leo Bustad. I had only recently graduated from veterinary school, exquisitely trained and entrusted to save lives and prevent pain and suffering. Yet there I was, needle in hand, about to end the lives of eight innocent puppies and their mother. I hated this part of the job, but at least this was better than before I came to volunteer at the shelter, I thought; previously they were gassing dogs to death with carbon monoxide - internal suffocation - a terrible way to die.

As the assistant held the first puppy, I guided the needle into its heart and injected a teaspoon of "blue juice". She let out but a slight whimper and went limp in my hands. One down, I thought, and a little bit of me died, too.

As I grabbed the next puppy, the mother's tail beat a sad rhythm on the hard steel table. And mom began to lick my hand. I looked into her eyes and saw deep into her soul: total trust, unconditional love, and to-die-for loyalty. I choked back my emotions. One-by-one I killed the puppies. She licked my hand between the injections.

Finally, it was mom's turn. All alone on the table, she wiggled her gaunt frame with delight when I gave her some soothing words and patted her head. The tempo of her tail picked up and she locked onto my eyes again. This time I could only see a reflection of the tragedy that was taking place. God's precious creatures, representing the kindest virtues on the planet, being killed for the crime of not being wanted. She held out her leg for me to inject and licked my hand. She was ready. I wasn't.

I collapsed on the dog and held her tight as I bathed her with tears. Never, ever would I do a convenience euthanasia again. Sure, I'd euthanize a pet if it was suffering terribly, or had an incurable disease, but never again because of an uncaring owner's mere request or because of the pet not having a home.

I took the dog back to my veterinary practice and named her G.H. - short for Good Home. I'd observed over the years that people who raised litters of puppies or kittens always said, "I just want to find them a 'good home'."

I soon entrusted G.H. to a loving client who had a heart and home big enough to welcome yet another four-legged family member.

The life of G.H. became a catalyst for me, igniting a series of actions over the years that would include donating resources of time, money and energy to help find homes for homeless pets; traveling the globe extolling the virtues of responsible pet ownership and celebrating the special gifts we receive from sharing our lives with our pets. It culminated with my co-authors and myself joining Petopia in the Million Pet Mercy Mission, by bringing awareness to the needs of pets in our books and by donating a half-million dollars to charities that benefit pets.

Now, whenever I look into the dancing liquid eyes of a pet, brimming with love, I realize that looks can save. It did me.