She Never Cried Through Bullets or Divorce —Until Saying Goodbye to Her Dog (2 of 2)

Now, he could barely lift his head.

I stroked the patch of fur just behind his ears, the place that always made his tail thump like a drumline when he was younger. This time, it gave only a faint tap against the couch cushion, weak but full of meaning. He was reassuring me, even now, when I was supposed to be the strong one.

The house was unbearably quiet, except for his ragged breathing and my shaky sobs. The silence pressed against the walls like it already knew he wouldn’t be returning from the vet tomorrow. His leash still hung by the door. His bowl was in the kitchen, water untouched. The sight of those ordinary things made me crumble all over again.

“You did good, buddy,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “More than good.”

He opened his eyes just enough to look at me, and for a second, it was as if we were back in the patrol car, two partners ready for whatever the shift threw at us. Only now, there would be no next call, no next chase.

I leaned down until my forehead pressed against his, our breaths mingling one last time. “I love you, pal,” I choked out, tears soaking into his fur. “See you on the other side.”

His chest rose, fell, and then rose again—slow, steady, but fragile. I stayed like that, holding onto him, memorizing the feel of his warmth, refusing to let go until the very last moment.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid to cry. Because this wasn’t just loss. This was love in its rawest form—messy, painful, and real.