I’ve arrested people without flinching. Talked a man down from jumping off a bridge. I’ve been shot at twice.

But nothing—nothing—prepared me for handing over Titan’s leash for the last time.

He wagged his tail like it was just another day. Like we weren’t standing in a sterile training facility, surrounded by strangers who’d never run into a burning warehouse with him, never crouched in silence with him while we waited for backup.

Titan wasn’t just my K9. He was my shadow. My partner. My sanity on the worst days of this job. And now, because of a budget cut buried in a line item no one in the city council would ever lose sleep over, I had to turn him in.

They said he’d be “reassigned.” That was the word they used. Cold. Clean. Like it wasn’t going to break him. Like it wasn’t breaking me.

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He looked up at me, eyes full of trust. Still expecting we’d go home together, that I’d toss him his battered tennis ball, heat up leftovers, fall asleep on the couch with his head on my lap.

I crouched down and tried to keep my voice steady. “Good boy, Titan.” My hands shook when I unclipped my badge from his collar.

He licked my face, clueless.

That’s what wrecked me. He didn’t understand. He never would.

When the new handler took the leash, Titan didn’t resist. He just turned once to look back at me, and in that one second, I swear… he knew something was wrong.

I broke.

Right there in front of everyone.

And as I walked to my car, I realized I’d left something behind—his tennis ball. Still in my jacket pocket.

But when I turned around… the new handler—Officer Lyndon, I think his name was—was kneeling beside Titan, holding the ball.

He looked up at me. “This his?” he asked, almost sheepish.

I nodded, tears threatening again. “Yeah… he sleeps with it.”

Lyndon hesitated. “You wanna give it to him yourself?”

I froze. My legs carried me back before I even had time to decide.

Titan perked up when he saw me. Tail wagging. Ears up. Hope in his eyes like he thought maybe—just maybe—I’d changed my mind.

I crouched and held out the ball. “You hang on to this, okay?” My voice cracked. “It’s still yours.”

He took it gently from my hand. No barking. No whining. Just this quiet acceptance that somehow made it hurt worse.

I stood up. Lyndon gave me a long look, then said, “I’ll take care of him. I promise.”

I nodded, but inside I hated him for it.

Weeks passed.

The silence in my apartment felt like a punishment. I didn’t realize how many habits I’d built around Titan. Leaving the front door cracked so he could nudge it open. Skipping the onion in my omelets because he always wanted a bite. Sleeping with one foot hanging off the bed because he’d always lie pressed up against it.

I told myself I needed to move on. But I couldn’t.

Then one Thursday night, I got a call from dispatch.

“There’s a situation. Former K9 Titan. His new handler’s in the hospital. Gunshot wound. Non-fatal.”

My heart jumped into my throat. “Where’s Titan?”

“Animal control has him. He… he wouldn’t let the paramedics near Lyndon. Protected him until backup arrived.”

Of course he did. That’s who he was.

I didn’t even think. I just drove.

When I got there, Titan was in the back of a squad SUV. Tail down. Eyes alert but uncertain.

I walked up, and when he saw me—God—he let out this sound I’d never heard from him. Half whine, half bark. Like a sob.

They let me open the door. He leapt into my arms like we’d never been apart. And in that moment, I realized something:

He still thought I was his person.

I sat in that parking lot with him, sobbing like a child, while he nuzzled his tennis ball between us.

Lyndon recovered. When he was discharged, he requested to transfer to the mounted unit—horses, not dogs. Said the bond between Titan and me was “too damn strong to mess with.”

Two months later, I was allowed to adopt Titan officially.

The city still wouldn’t reinstate our K9 unit, but Titan? He didn’t care. He didn’t need the badge.

All he wanted was me.

Now, he’s curled up at my feet while I write this. Still chews that same battered tennis ball. Still gives me side-eye when I’m late with breakfast. But mostly, he just… stays. Quiet. Steady. Home.