“Please don’t leave me,” the paralyzed dog cried, his eyes wide and pleading as his owner turned and walked away.
The old pickup truck kicked up dust as it rolled down the gravel road, its red taillights shrinking in the distance. Max, a once-lively golden retriever, lay motionless in the tall grass by the roadside, his hind legs limp, his fur matted with dirt and dried leaves. He had been injured weeks ago—hit by a car, the vet said. The treatment was too expensive. The choice, his owner decided, was too hard.
Max whined, a sound more heartbroken than painful. He didn’t understand why he was alone now. He didn’t understand why the man he trusted most wouldn’t look back. The leash had been left beside him, coiled neatly like an afterthought. His bowl of water was already warm in the sun.
He remembered the days when they used to play in the backyard—when he could chase sticks and roll in the grass. He remembered curling up on the porch in the evenings, his head resting on his owner’s boot. But now, the silence hurt more than his body did.
A butterfly danced near his nose, but he didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. He only watched it with dull eyes, wondering why the world felt so big and he felt so small.
Hours passed. A bird chirped. A cloud drifted. Max lay there, still hoping. Still waiting.
