I’m 14. My 5-year-old Akita was my whole world—my best friend, my protector, my shadow. She loved me like no one else did. But my family never saw her the way I did.

“She’s too big. Too scary. We need a smaller dog.” My mom’s mind was made up. I had no say.

A week later, a stranger came to take her away. My chest tightened as I led my dog to the car, her trusting eyes searching mine. She didn’t know. She thought we were going on an adventure.

While my mom and the lady talked inside, I climbed into the backseat, holding onto the last moments I had. I fed her boiled chicken, her favorite. My hands shook as I stroked her soft fur through the crate bars, whispering, “It’s okay. You’re a good girl. The best girl.”

Her tail wagged. She still trusted me. Then, the door shut. The engine started. And she was gone.

I stood there, frozen, as her silhouette faded down the street. The house felt emptier. My arms felt lighter. My heart felt broken.

MAYBE I COULD HAVE PREVENTED THIS?!

That thought haunted me. Maybe if I had argued harder. Maybe if I had hidden her. Maybe if I had run away with her. But none of those thoughts changed the reality—I had lost my best friend.

For days, I barely ate. I barely spoke. The house was too quiet. No paws tapping on the floor. No wet nose nudging me when I woke up. No warm body curled beside me when I was sad.

Then, one afternoon, I found an old tennis ball under my bed. Her favorite. I held it, remembering the way she’d bounce excitedly whenever I threw it. The way her tongue would loll out, panting, as she waited for me to toss it again. A lump formed in my throat.

I had to see her.

I knew where the woman lived—she had mentioned it when she came over. It wasn’t far. Just a few blocks away. I grabbed my bike and pedaled as fast as I could, my heart pounding in my chest.

When I reached the house, I hesitated. What if she wasn’t happy here? What if she didn’t remember me? But before I could turn away, I heard a familiar bark.

I ran to the fence. And there she was.

Her ears perked up. Her tail wagged furiously. I barely had time to react before she jumped against the gate, trying to reach me. I reached through the bars, my fingers finding her fur, and for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. Like she was still mine.

But then, a voice called out.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

The woman stepped outside, frowning. My heart pounded. “I—I used to be her owner.”

Her face softened. “Oh… You must be the boy. She’s been a little sad since she got here. But she’s adjusting.”

Adjusting. The word felt like a slap. Because she shouldn’t have had to adjust at all. She should have been home.

“Please,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Can I just spend a little time with her?”

She hesitated. Then, she sighed. “Alright. But just for a little while.”

She opened the gate. And my dog—my best friend—rushed into my arms, licking my face, whining, pushing against me like she was trying to melt into me. I buried my face in her fur, breathing her in, holding onto her like I could stop time.

For the first time in a week, I felt whole again.

But it wouldn’t last.

After a while, the woman gently touched my shoulder. “I’m sorry, but she has to stay.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. I wanted to fight. I wanted to scream. But what good would it do?

Instead, I knelt down, cupping her face. “I love you, girl. Always.”

She licked my hand, as if to say she understood. As if to say she loved me too.

I left that day with tears streaming down my face. But I also left with something else—a promise. I would come back. As often as she would let me. I wouldn’t let my best friend forget me.

Maybe I couldn’t stop what happened. Maybe I couldn’t bring her home. But I could still love her. And that had to be enough.

Or did it?

If you were me, would you have fought harder to get her back?