My Dog My Soul

I wasn’t looking for a dog. At least, that’s what I told myself when I first walked past the shelter window that rainy November afternoon. I had just lost my father, my job was on shaky ground, and I’d moved into a studio apartment that barely had enough space for me to turn around. A dog, I thought, would be another responsibility I wasn’t ready for.

But there he was—curled up in the corner of his kennel, all bones and sadness, his eyes locked on mine with a gaze that cut right through the noise of my thoughts. I tried to walk past. I made it to the door. Then I turned back.

His name was Max. Border collie mix, six years old, surrendered by a family who "couldn't take him with them." The staff told me he’d stopped eating properly and barely responded to people anymore. Something in me cracked wide open. Without thinking, I signed the papers and took him home that day.

Max didn't bark. He didn't wag his tail. He simply followed me around the apartment, silent and watchful, like he was studying me—like he, too, was trying to figure out if I was worth trusting.

We were two broken things sharing space. I didn't speak much, and he didn’t ask me to. We took slow walks together, at first like strangers forced into the same room, then gradually as companions. A month in, he started waiting at the door for me. Two months later, he put his head on my lap for the first time while I watched TV. I cried that night, quietly, my fingers in his fur, because it felt like the first time someone had reached out to me since my father died.

Max had a soul. I’m convinced of it. He wasn’t just a dog. He knew things. When my anxiety flared up and I couldn't sleep, he'd nudge me with his nose, then curl against my chest until the shaking stopped. When I lost my job, again, and nearly broke down in the middle of the kitchen, he brought me one of his toys—tail wagging, eyes full of a strange, gentle understanding. Like he was saying, we’ll figure it out. Together.

We spent four years that way. Walking through seasons, moving to a better apartment, finding small joys in daily routines. I got a new job. Made a few friends again. Laughed more often. People noticed. "You seem different," they’d say. “Lighter.”

“I have a dog now,” I’d answer. That was the only explanation I needed.

But time doesn’t ask for permission. Max began slowing down. The vet found arthritis, then heart murmurs. Medications followed. He didn’t complain. He never did. He just looked at me with those same deep eyes, as if to say, I’m still here. I still love you.

 Winter was hard. He slept more. His legs gave out sometimes. I carried him up the stairs when he couldn’t manage them. Every time he rested his head in my lap, I memorized the weight, the warmth, the way his breath rose and fell.

The day he passed was quiet. He went to sleep, curled up on the old blanket I’d brought home from the shelter years ago. The vet said it was peaceful. I held him for hours, not caring about the tears or the silence. It felt like losing a part of my own body—like I’d buried a piece of my soul with him.

People say “he was just a dog.” But they didn’t see how he looked at me when I was falling apart. They didn’t know how he stayed beside me when the nights felt endless, or how he reminded me to get up every morning when all I wanted was to disappear.

Max wasn’t “just” anything. He was love in its purest form. No judgment. No expectations. Just presence. Just loyalty.

It’s been a year now. His leash still hangs by the door. I haven’t had the heart to take it down. Sometimes, when I’m out walking, I swear I feel him beside me. And maybe that’s not imagination. Maybe when someone loves you that deeply, they never really leave.

I haven't gotten another dog. I don’t know if I ever will. Max wasn’t just a pet. He was a mirror, a healer, my quiet little shadow through the darkest and brightest parts of my life.

He was my dog. My soul.

And I’ll carry him with me—always.