After my accident, recovery was brutal — physically and emotionally. Camille, my girlfriend, stayed through the hospital visits, but it was Max, our adopted poodle mix, who truly helped me heal. He was there through the pain, lying beside me when I couldn’t sleep, waking me from nightmares, guarding me through every rough night. Camille, on the other hand, grew impatient. She complained about dog hair and Max being in the bed.

Three months later, just as I began walking again, Camille broke up with me — calmly, like she was canceling a dinner plan. Then she said, “I’ll take Max with me.” I laughed. She never liked Max — barely cared for him. But she stormed off, furious. A week later, I returned from therapy to an empty house. Max was gone.

I checked the cameras. She had slipped through the blind spots, but the audio was clear: “Come here, baby boy! Let’s go home with Mommy!” I called the cops — they said it was a “civil matter.” Max, my dog, my companion — reduced to a property dispute.

So I fought back. Camille and I had a shared savings account. I drained it into a crypto wallet she couldn’t touch. She exploded. I offered a deal: return Max, or kiss the money goodbye. The next day, she returned him in silence.

As Max pressed against my legs, trembling with joy, Camille muttered, “It’s just a dog.” I smiled. “And you’re just my ex.” Loyalty can’t be faked. Max earned his place. She lost hers.