Sarah poured her second cup of coffee. She felt the comforting weight of Max, a three-year-old bully breed rescue mutt, leaning against her legs. His tail gave a slow, rhythmic thump-thump-thump against the kitchen cabinets. Outside, a light rain was falling, ruling out their usual morning walk in the park near their Fort Lauderdale home.
Life with Max was good. Really good. He was everything she’d ever wanted in a dog: goofy, loyal, affectionate, and generally well-behaved. They had their routines: the morning walk (weather permitting); his patient company while she worked from home; enthusiastic games of fetch in the evening. Sarah always looked forward to their cozy couch cuddles before bed.
Max ate well, slept well, and greeted everyone with exuberant, clumsy friendliness. By all accounts, Max was a happy dog, and Sarah felt a deep gratitude for his presence in her life.
But on this particular Tuesday, as she settled onto the couch with her laptop, Sarah noticed a few things that she’d always tuned out. Max’s restless shifts from one corner of the rug to another. His brief whine when a squirrel chattered outside the window.
The way he’d lift his head hopefully every time Sarah moved, as if to ask:
“Is it time yet? Time for… something else?”