Even When He Was Mad

**"The Mad Dog and the Man Who Stayed"**

The town had already decided.

"Put him down, Paul," they'd say, grim-faced, avoiding eye contact. "It’s the kind thing to do."

But Paul couldn’t. Not to Max.

Max had been more than a dog. He was Paul’s shadow during the dark years after Lisa died. When his kids moved out and the silence grew thick in the house, it was Max who filled it—tail wagging, tongue lolling, always understanding without needing words.

But something had changed.

Max had started growling at shadows. Barking at nothing. He snapped at the postman, then at the neighbor's boy, who cried and ran. His eyes, once clear and kind, were now wild—glassy and distant, like he saw ghosts no one else could see.

The vet couldn’t explain it.

“No rabies, no infection,” she had said, carefully watching Paul. “It might be neurological. Dementia, maybe. He’s... he’s getting old. It happens.”

Paul had nodded, but deep down, he didn’t believe Max was just old. Max was hurting, yes, but he was still *his* Max.

So while everyone insisted he let Max go, Paul built a fence. Reinforced the walls. Moved the knives off the counters. Made sure no one came close enough to provoke or be harmed.

People whispered. They called Max dangerous. They called Paul foolish. Some even called animal control.

But Paul wouldn’t let them take him.

He remembered nights under the stars when Max lay next to him while he cried. Remembered how Max pawed at his chest the morning Paul’s heart gave a warning thud, leading to the hospital that saved him. Max wasn’t just a dog. He was the last piece of a world Paul once loved.

So he stayed.

Every day, Paul brought Max food in a heavy bowl and placed it gently through a hatch in the back door. He sat by the window, reading aloud as he always had, even though Max now paced restlessly or stared into corners, growling low and slow.

Some nights Max would howl, mournful and long. Paul never slept through them. He’d sit in the hallway, his back against the door, whispering comfort through the wood.

One morning, Max was quiet. Too quiet.

Paul opened the hatch slowly, calling, "Buddy? You alright?"

He heard nothing.

With trembling hands, he unlocked the back door—a risk he hadn’t taken in weeks—and stepped in.

Max was curled in the corner. Breathing, barely.

He didn’t growl. Didn’t snap. Just looked up with tired, confused eyes, and for a brief, precious moment, Paul swore he saw recognition.

Paul knelt, tears falling freely now.

“I’m still here,” he whispered, stroking the thinning fur. “I never left.”

Max whined softly, a sound Paul hadn’t heard in so long. His body shook, and then, slowly, his head settled into Paul’s lap.

That night, Max died.

In the quiet warmth of the man who had chosen to love him, not just when he was loyal and strong, but when he was lost and broken.

The next day, Paul buried Max under the old maple in the backyard. He carved a small stone: *“He loved me, even when I wasn’t easy to love.”*

Neighbors came by in the days after. Some offered quiet condolences. Others still looked at Paul like he was mad himself.

But Paul just smiled sadly and nodded. He knew they’d never understand.

Love, real love, didn’t give up when things got hard. It stayed—even when staying hurt.