The decision came slowly, painfully—like a crack spreading through glass. Max, our old golden retriever, had been with us for fourteen years. Through muddy hikes, lazy Sundays, and every broken heart I’d ever had, Max had been there. Loyal. Constant. Quietly loving.
But age had caught up with him. His eyes grew cloudy, his steps unsteady. He no longer barked at the doorbell or wagged his tail with the same excitement. The vet confirmed what we feared: there was no more comfort to offer, only pain to prevent.
I didn’t want to face it.
The thought of watching him go broke something in me. The grief was already heavy—and he hadn’t even left yet. I told myself I couldn’t handle it, that it would be better to let the vet take care of things while I waited outside.
But then I read something that changed my heart.
A post by someone named Jessi Dietrich. She wrote about how 90% of pets are alone when they’re euthanized. Her vet said they look for their people with desperate eyes, wondering why they’ve been left behind in the scariest moment of their lives. That stayed with me. It haunted me.
I thought of Max—how he used to wait at the door for me to come home. How he followed me from room to room just to be near. And I knew.
I had to be there.
The clinic was quiet that day. The vet, kind and soft-spoken, explained everything gently. Max was tired, his breathing shallow. I sat beside him on the floor, holding his paw, whispering how much I loved him. He looked up at me—not scared, not confused—just… trusting.
And as he took his final breath, I was there. My hand on his fur. My voice in his ear.
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I will never regret it.
Because he was there for me every day of his life. The least I could do was be there for his last.
