They said the dog hadn’t eaten since it happened.
Four days.
Four days of pacing, whining, refusing every hand that tried to guide him away from the front door. Until this morning, when they finally let him ride in the patrol car one last time.
He jumped in like he knew where they were going.
The ceremony was quiet, respectful. Badges polished, flags folded just right. I stood back, near the last row, not really part of the crowd but not able to stay away either. I’d seen them together so many times—officer and dog, working like one mind in two bodies. Everyone said the K9 was trained, sharp, all protocol. But I’d seen it—the loyalty. The way he’d stare at his handler like the whole world could end and he wouldn’t budge until told.
And now, here he was.
Front paws up on the casket. Nose pressed to the wood.
Not barking. Not growling.
Just… sniffing. Slow and steady, like he was trying to make sense of something that didn’t.
The officer holding the leash looked like he was barely holding it together. His knuckles were white. The dog didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he didn’t care. Maybe this was his way of checking the facts for himself.
Because here’s the thing no one wanted to talk about—
His partner wasn’t supposed to be on duty that night.
And the case they were called to? No record of that call exists.
And whoever made that last radio transmission—it didn’t sound like him.
The K9 finally let out a low, sharp whine.
And that’s when I saw the tiny piece of folded fabric wedged behind the casket’s base. A shred of uniform.
But it wasn’t his.⬇️
(continue reading in the first cᴑmment)
