I never cried—until tonight. Sitting with Rex’s head in my lap, I couldn’t hold back the tears. The vet said it was time; his body was giving out. But how could I let go of the best partner I ever had?
Rex wasn’t just a dog. He saved my life countless times, took down suspects, found missing kids, and was braver than most officers I worked with. Now, his once-powerful frame was weak, but he still trusted me.
“You did good, buddy,” I whispered, stroking his fur. “Better than good.” His tail thumped once—his way of comforting me.
The next day, I took him to the vet. Millie, a retired sergeant, showed up to support me. Inside, the vet did what needed to be done, and Rex slipped away in my arms.
Afterward, Millie gave me a card from my old squad, and a photo from a boy Rex had saved. The kid had gone on to start a mentorship program, inspired by Rex’s heroism.
I had Rex cremated, and though his absence felt unbearable, the little box on my mantle reminded me that his spirit lived on in every memory.
A week later, I hiked to a spot where Rex and I used to go, with his leash wrapped around my wrist. I decided to volunteer at the mentorship program the boy started, to honor Rex’s legacy by helping others.
A few days later, I visited the community center, where the kids were excited to hear about Rex. I left with a renewed sense of purpose, ready to carry on Rex’s spirit by helping those in need.
Loss doesn’t mean forgetting. It means passing on the love and strength we received. That’s how I’ll keep Rex’s memory alive—through every good deed I do in his name.