She doesn’t know yet.
She still believes Max is just “a little extra tired lately”—the explanation I gave her last night when she asked why he didn’t chase her tutu down the hallway like he always did.
Max is thirteen now. That’s old for a golden retriever. Too old, it seems, to stand a chance against the cancer that’s already spread more than we expected. The vet was gentle—soft-spoken, kind eyes—told us we might have two, maybe three weeks. We’re already nearing the end of that window.
But my daughter, Leila, still holds onto him like he’s never going anywhere.
She’s been wearing her ballet costumes again, putting on private performances in the living room just for Max. Says he’s her “most important audience.” And he still watches her—ever loyal, ever loving—even as his body struggles to keep up, even as he fades.
This morning she walked into the kitchen with both arms full of papers, crayon swirls and drawings spilling over the edges. “Look, Mom! I made Max a special ballet program,” she announced proudly. “He’s going to be the star of the show tonight! And you and Dad are the audience!”
I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes. How do you tell a child something that will break her heart? How do you take away her certainty that her best friend will always be there, sitting front and center as she spins in her tutu?
“That’s beautiful, sweetheart,” I said softly, my voice catching as I took the drawing from her. She’d drawn Max in the middle, perched proudly in a chair, watching her dance. The lines were crooked, but the love behind it was flawless. So open. So pure. It made my chest ache.
Max, resting on his favorite rug nearby, lifted his head at the sound of her voice. His tail gave a weak wag. His fur—once bright and golden—had lost its shine, and he moved like every step cost him something. But the light in his eyes still flickered. He wasn’t just a pet. He’d been with her since toddlerhood. Her shadow, her comfort, her world.
And as I watched them, I realized I wasn’t just preparing to say goodbye to our dog. I was also grieving the part of myself that used to shield her from hurt—the part that could fix things, make the monsters go away. That part was fading too.
Later that evening, as we sat around the dinner table, Leila looked up and asked, “Can Max come with us to the park tomorrow? We could have a picnic. I’ll pack extra snacks so he stays strong.”
I paused, willing my voice not to crack. “Honey, Max isn’t feeling too well. We’ll still go, but he might need to stay home and rest this time.”
Her smile faltered. Just for a second.