I don’t know why I’m writing this.
I don’t know if it’ll help or if it’ll just make it worse.
But last night, my best friend took his last breath in my arms.
And I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t ready at all.
Kane has been my partner for the last six years.
My shadow. My backup. My ride-or-die.
He’s pulled me out of situations that should’ve ended me.
He’s run into places no human would dare go without hesitation.
He’s taken down threats twice his size.
And every single day, he did it with that same look in his eyes.
The look that said: “I’ve got you.”
And I never doubted that. Not once.
Because Kane was different. He wasn’t just good at his job—he was the job.
But he was more than that, too.
After every shift, after all the chaos, the sirens, the adrenaline—he was the one thing that made it all feel okay again.
When you work this job, it changes you. You see things you can’t unsee. You carry things you can’t put into words.
And sometimes, the only thing keeping you from completely unraveling is the one who’s sitting in the passenger seat beside you.
Kane was that for me.
And now… he’s gone.
Yesterday started like any other.
He was fine.
He was fine.
I keep telling myself that. Because he was.
The night before, he was running around the house, tail wagging, bringing me his favorite toy like always.
Yesterday morning, he was at the door before I was, practically vibrating with excitement to get to work.
Nothing seemed off.
Nothing seemed wrong.
But then, halfway through our shift, I noticed his breathing.
It was just… different.
Not labored, not panicked. Just off.
I figured maybe he was just hot. Maybe he needed some water. Maybe I was overthinking it.
Because that’s the thing with dogs like Kane—they don’t show weakness.
They don’t let you know when something is wrong.
And Kane, stubborn as ever, kept pushing forward like nothing was happening.
Like he didn’t want me to worry.
So I let it go.
I wish to God I hadn’t.
By the time we got home, he was tired.
I thought, “Okay, he’s just worn out. A long day. He just needs to rest.”
I let him lay down next to me. I scratched his ears, told him what a good boy he was, the same way I always did.
And then, just like that…
His breathing slowed.
Too slow.
I called his name.
No response.
I shook him, gently at first.
Then harder.
And then I felt it.
That moment.
That single, frozen moment where I knew.
I knew before it even fully happened.
I knew before his chest stopped moving.
Before his body went still.
Before the world crashed down around me in a way I still don’t know how to describe.
Kane was dying in my arms.
And I couldn’t stop it.
I was yelling his name, but my voice sounded far away, like it wasn’t even coming from me.
I kept telling him to hold on.
To stay with me.
I begged. I pleaded.
But I could feel him slipping.
And then…
Then he was gone.
I don’t know how long I sat there.
I don’t know when the yelling stopped.
I just know that one second he was here, and the next…
He wasn’t.
Just like that.
No warning. No time to prepare.
One minute, he was fine.
The next, he was gone.
And I can’t stop replaying it in my head.
Over and over and over.
The way he looked at me before it happened.
The way I held him, knowing I couldn’t fix it.
The way he just… went still.
I’ve seen death before. More times than I want to admit.
But this?
This was different.
This wasn’t just a partner.
This wasn’t just a dog.
This was Kane.
My Kane.
The one who saved my life.
And I couldn’t save his.
This morning, I woke up and instinctively looked for him.
And for a second, just a second, I forgot.
I forgot that the house would be quiet.
I forgot that there wouldn’t be paws tapping on the floor.
I forgot that I wouldn’t hear him huffing, waiting for me to let him outside like every other morning.
And then it all hit me again.
Like a punch straight to the chest.
I don’t know how to do this without him.
I don’t know how to get in the car and see that empty seat.
I don’t know how to go into work and not have him by my side.
I don’t know how to come home and not be greeted by that goofy, happy, always-excited face.
I don’t know how to say goodbye to the best damn partner I ever had.
But here’s what I do know.
Kane didn’t live a small life.
He didn’t live quietly, or cautiously, or hesitantly.
He lived fully.
Loyal. Brave. Fearless.
Every single day, he showed up.
Every single day, he gave me everything he had.
And if he were here now, if he could somehow see me breaking like this…
He’d probably nudge my hand, give me that look, the one that says, “Come on, let’s go,” like he always did.
Because that’s who he was.
And I owe it to him to be the same.
So I won’t say goodbye. Not yet.
Instead, I’ll just say this:
Thank you, Kane.
For everything.
For every shift.
For every time you had my back.
For every second you spent by my side.
You were my partner.
You were my best friend.
And you were so, so loved.
I hope you know that.
I hope you knew it all along.