Max was a golden retriever who had been by my side for twelve years. In his final two years, he suffered from joint degeneration. He could no longer walk, so I pushed him around in a custom cart every day.
People would laugh and say, “This dog lives better than most people.”
I’d always smile and reply, “He used to run with me every morning. Now it’s my turn to walk for him.”
One early morning, during our usual route, Max shifted in the cart. I stopped and knelt.
“What is it, Max?”
He struggled to his feet—slowly, shakily—and took a few wobbly steps. Then he turned around, looked at me with that soft, quiet gaze, and lay down beside my feet.
He rested his head on my shoes and closed his eyes.
I held his head, tears rolling down my face.
“Thank you for twelve beautiful years.”
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