Greater Love Hath No One...

CW: Gun violence

Bad guy! Gun! Must protect!

I charged. Flash—BANG!

The acrid smell of gunpowder stung my nose, the sound—sharper and more terrifying than any bad guy’s fear. A searing pain ripped through my side. I stumbled, a strange weakness flooding my legs.

My John’s face, a familiar landscape of love and command, twisted in horror. "DUKE!" He screamed, "NOOOOO!"

My John scared. Panicked. Not good.

He ran to me, dropped to his knees, his strong hands pressing against my wound. Warmth spread, not the good kind. My vision swam. The sounds of shouting humans faded into a muffled hum. All I could focus on was my John’s face, etched with a pain I had never seen before.

My John hurting. Scared. Still not good.

He was talking, his voice thick and broken, but the words didn't make sense. He kept saying my name. "Duke! Duke, stay with me! Please!" His hand trembled on my fur. "Stay with me!"

Stay. Good. I like stay.

But a strange lightness was pulling at me. The pain was still there, a dull throb now, but it felt distant, like a bad dream fading away. A soft, gentle feeling was growing, like the warmth of the sun on a spring morning.

Tired. So tired. Need sleep.

I looked at my John again. Tears streamed down his face, blurring his features. My heart, what was left of it, ached for him.

It's okay. Don’t cry. Must comfort.

I wanted to lick his hand, to reassure him like I always did when he was troubled. But my body wouldn't obey. It felt heavy, anchored to the ground, yet also strangely detached.

Can’t reach. Sorry, my John.

But in my mind, I could feel his hand, the familiar scratch behind my ears. I remembered the first time he did that, the day he became my human. I was a clumsy pup then, all legs and boundless energy, chewing on everything I could reach. He was patient, his voice firm but kind.

New smell. John smell. Good smell.

We learned together. The commands, the scents, the silent language that flowed between us. He taught me to find, to track, to protect. Every success, every bad guy brought to justice, was a shared victory. My tail would thump against his leg, a happy drumbeat celebrating our partnership.

Find. Found them. We did good.

I remembered the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline pumping as we pursued a fleeing suspect. My John’s voice, “Get ‘em, Duke!”, was what I lived for. And then the satisfaction of the capture, the knowledge that we had made things a little safer, a little better.

Fast. So fast. Caught bad guys.

There were quiet moments too. Long patrols in the silent night, the city lights twinkling like fallen stars. My John would talk to me sometimes, his voice low and thoughtful, sharing his worries and his hopes. I wouldn’t understand the words, but I understood the tone, the trust.

Quiet time. My John talks. I listen.

And the fun. The endless games of fetch and tug-of-war in the park, my body leaping and bounding with pure joy. The way my John would laugh when I brought him the muddiest, most slobber-covered ball or my worn and frayed "Tug."

Ball. "Tug." Fun. My John happy. Good.

Even the bad times held a strange kind of closeness. The fear when a suspect turned violent, my John’s hand always there, ready to protect me. By his side, I was always ready to protect him. The relief when the danger passed, the unspoken understanding in our eyes.

Scary. Both safe. Good.

That day in the woods, when the little human was lost and scared. The frantic search, the overwhelming scent of fear and despair. And then, the moment I found her, huddled and trembling, but alive. The relief on my John’s face, the proud scratch behind my ears.

Found her. Little one safe. My John proud.

And the Dum Dums. Grape was our favorite. He always offered me a lick after a long day. The sweet, fruity taste was a reward, a symbol of our bond.

Sweet. Grape. My John shares.

Now, the world was fading. The sounds were getting softer, the light dimmer. But the gentle feeling, the peace, was growing stronger. The pain was almost gone.

My John safe. Good. Sleep now.

I looked at my John, his face buried deep in my fur, his body wracked with grief as he hugged me tight. My John. The pain I felt was not my own, but his. A sorrow so deep it was a physical weight.

I wanted him to know it was okay. That I was happy. That I had lived a good life. I had done my job. I had been a good boy.

And then I saw them, lying in the grass at the edge of the meadow. A mud-covered, slobber-stained tennis ball, the one he always laughed about. And next to it, a knotted rope, frayed and worn from countless games of tug-of-war, my "Tug." I always won. They were perfect symbols of our time together. The games of fetch, the pulling, the shared joy, the love.

I nudged them with my nose, a gentle, familiar motion. I would wait—for him. I would wait with my ball and my "Tug," ready for the next game. Ready for him to throw it, for me to chase it, or grab it and pull with all my might, with the boundless energy I felt now.

Let my human win? Nope.

I looked back at the fading world one last time, at the sad, heartbroken human who was my best friend. The scent of him, the love we shared, would be with me forever. He had given me a purpose, a life, love, and I had given him everything I had.

Wait for my John. He's a good human.

I lay down near my toys, my spirit calm, my heart full. The sun was warm, the grass was soft. The other dogs waited patiently for their humans. I will wait here for my John, my human, too.

Right here—across the Rainbow Bridge.