It was supposed to be an ordinary flight.
I was heading back to Seattle after a long weekend in Phoenix—too hot, too dry, and full of reminders of a conference I hadn’t felt prepared to speak at. Thankfully, I had Max with me. My golden mix—steady, sensitive, and trained as a service dog for my anxiety and panic disorder. Max wasn’t just my comfort; he was my early warning system. He could pick up on shifts in energy before I could. On flights, he was the reason I could even walk down the jet bridge.
We found our usual spot in the bulkhead row—me by the window, Max curled at my feet, head resting on my boots, eyes quietly scanning every movement with his usual, grounded focus. I put on my headphones, browsed through the screen’s menu, and tried not to replay the awkward moment with my boss earlier. He’d said “Good job,” but everything in his eyes told a different story.
The man in the aisle seat didn’t acknowledge me.
He looked to be in his mid-sixties. Slim, tall, dressed in khakis and a navy windbreaker—the kind worn when someone didn’t feel like bringing a proper coat. He didn’t make eye contact, just gave a polite nod as he sat. He had that weathered look some older men carry—classic features etched deep by time. His phone was already in his hand, endlessly scrolling, maybe reading, maybe not.
I didn’t give it much thought. After all, people on planes usually fall into two groups—talkers or silent types. He was clearly the latter.
Then Max did something unexpected.
He stood up. Slowly. Deliberately.
That’s not typical—not unless a baby’s wailing or something loud drops nearby. But this time, he rose with purpose and turned toward the man. No bark, no tail wag, not even a sound. Just stillness. Just watching him.
The man looked down, puzzled at first. Then very still.
Max stepped forward, gently nudged his head into the man’s knee, and sat beside him. Calm. Solid. Present.
I moved halfway out of my seat, hand on Max’s harness. “Max,” I said quietly, “come here, buddy.”
But the man’s hand was already reaching out. Slightly shaking, it hovered a second above Max’s head, then slowly rested there. He exhaled softly, like he’d been holding his breath all day.
“Golden Retriever?” he asked, voice rough.
“Mostly,” I replied. “Some Great Pyrenees too.”
He gave a small nod, his eyes never leaving Max. His hand kept moving, slower now—like the motion itself was a memory.
We sat in silence for a while.
Then he said, “I had one like him once. Lost her last winter.”
Max pressed into him, leaning his weight gently against the man’s leg like he knew exactly what to do.