When my dad died, his dog Max appeared at my door and seemed like he wanted to go somewhere. I took him to my dad’s grave and sat with him for hours until I realized he was not breathing anymore. I will never forget what I learned that day.
“Carla, are you sure you don’t want to take Max?” my stepmother, Paris, asked, just as I was about to leave her home after my father’s wake, the day after his passing. She was talking about my dad’s dog, a beautiful rescue just as old as my father. He used to joke and make bets on who would die first, and unfortunately, my father died, leaving poor Max to grieve alone.
“I can’t. Max is sleeping on dad’s bed. I think he would prefer to stay with him,” I replied, shaking my head sadly at my stepmother. Read the full story here ▶