I never cried. Not when I took a bullet in the line of duty. Not when my marriage crumbled under the weight of the job. Not even when I lost my father. But tonight, sitting on my couch with Rex’s head resting in my lap, I couldn’t hold back the tears.
His breathing was labored, uneven. The vet had told me it was time—his body was failing, and keeping him here any longer would be selfish. But how was I supposed to say goodbye to the best partner I ever had?
Rex wasn’t just a dog. He had saved my life more times than I could count. He took down suspects twice his size, sniffed out drugs, found lost kids—he was braver than most officers I’d worked with. And now, here he was, curled up against me, his once-powerful body frail and weak, his eyes tired yet still full of trust.
“You did good, buddy,” I murmured, running my hand gently over his fur. “Better than good.”
His tail gave a single, slow thump—his way of comforting me when I was supposed to be the strong one.
I wiped my face, but the ache in my chest wouldn’t stop. The house felt too quiet, as if it already knew he wouldn’t be coming back from the vet tomorrow.
Leaning down, I pressed my forehead against his. “I love you, pal,” I choked out. “I’ll see you on the other side.”
Then, he took his last breath.