He didn’t grasp the words they said, No charts or scans ran through his head. But something shifted in the air— A silence thick, a weight, a prayer.
The morning walks no longer came, The voice he loved was not the same. No laughter danced across the floor, No hand reached down like times before.
So he stayed. Closer than breath, quiet as light, Through the trembling hours, through the night. His eyes held questions he never voiced, But his heart made an unwavering choice.
And then one day, the room was bare, His person gone—just empty air. But he believed, he still held fast, Love doesn’t flinch, it only lasts.
They let him in. A mercy, small. A door ajar. He found the scent, he knew by star And climbed into that sterile space As if it were a sacred place.
No bark, no cry, no restless stir, Just heartbeat next to heartbeat’s blur. And suddenly, the machines grew still, As love did what no drug or skill Could hope to do. The doctors knew— This dog had work that he must do.
He didn’t seek a single treat. No ball, no leash, no praise, no seat. He needed only one command: To stay. To press against a hand.
For sometimes love is not a sound. It’s not a leap, it’s not a bound. It’s presence, steady as a drum— A quiet vow: I will not run.
He stayed. Until the end, until the light Grew soft and dim and slipped to night. And even then, he wouldn’t roam— For where his human lay… was home.
