We walked home slowly, Ruger limping slightly but otherwise okay. Every step felt heavier than the last, not because I was tired, but because I couldn’t shake the image of him facing down that snake. Back at the house, I checked him over again, making sure there weren’t any hidden bites or scratches. Once I was satisfied he was alright, I collapsed onto the couch with him curled up at my feet.
As I sat there, staring at the ceiling, I realized something: Ruger wasn’t just my dog. He was more than that. He was my partner, my protector, my best friend. No matter how many times I’d told myself dogs are just animals, moments like this reminded me how wrong I was. They’re family. And Ruger? He was the best of the best.
Later that night, as he snored softly beside me, I leaned down and kissed the top of his scruffy head. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” I murmured. “But you’re also the hero of the day.”
And honestly? Those little claw marks on my leg didn’t bother me at all. They were a small price to pay for having a dog who’d risk his life for me without hesitation. Ruger wasn’t perfect—he stole socks, chewed on furniture, and sometimes drove me nuts—but in that moment, he was absolutely flawless.
