My partner was dying. He’d saved my life, and now the only thing standing between him and a grave was a five-figure surgery bill that the department just couldn’t cover.
Max wasn’t just a “K9 unit.” He was family.
He was the 80-pound German Shepherd who’d whine softly from the back of the cruiser until I’d turn the classic rock station on. He was the warm head that would rest on my lap after a 12-hour shift, his quiet breathing the only thing that could un-jangle my nerves.
On the street, he was a professional. At home, he was a goofball who was terrified of thunderstorms. He was my partner. And in this line of work, your partner is everything.
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