“Me or the Dog—Well, Guess Who’s Still Here?”

I knew Greg and I were struggling. After learning we couldn’t have kids, the silence in our house felt heavier every day. I suggested getting a dog—**“Something to love,”** I told him.

He agreed, but only if it wasn’t *“some yappy little thing.”*

At the shelter, I saw her—**Maggie.**

A frail, gray-muzzled senior dog curled in the back of her cage. Her tag read:
**12 years old. Hospice adoption only.**

She looked so tired, so **defeated.**

But when I knelt down, her tail gave the weakest little wag. **That was it.**

Greg lost it when I told him.
*”That dog’s halfway to the grave, Clara! If you bring her home, I’m leaving.”*

I brought her home.

Greg was gone before I even walked through the door.

Maggie hobbled inside, looked up at me, and wagged her tail a little **stronger.**
**“It’s okay,”** I whispered, stroking her bony back. **“We’ll figure it out.”**

**Six months later.**

I was leaving a bookstore, coffee in hand, when I bumped straight into Greg.

He smirked, arms crossed. **“Well, well, Clara. Still all alone? Let me guess—your precious dog didn’t last long. Was it worth throwing your life away?”**

Before I could reply, his smirk suddenly dropped.

His face twisted in shock—**then pure rage.**

His eyes locked onto **something behind me.**

**“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!” he screamed.**

I turned—and there she was.

Maggie.

**Not frail. Not weak.**

Her coat was thick and healthy. Her tail wagged with **confidence.** She looked **alive.**

**Thriving.**

Greg’s face went beet red. *“You LIED! That dog was supposed to DIE! She—she should have been dead MONTHS AGO!”*

I just smiled, giving Maggie a pat. **“Guess she didn’t get the memo.”**

Greg sputtered, fists clenching. **”You chose HER over ME!”**

I shrugged. **”Best decision I ever made.”**

Then Maggie and I **walked away.**