It all started on a regular Tuesday.
I was working from home, juggling emails and deadlines, when I realized I hadn’t eaten anything but coffee and hope. So I did what any responsible adult would do—I ordered a large pepperoni pizza.
Now, Max, my 3-year-old golden retriever, lives for pizza delivery day. Not to eat it (usually), but to bark like he’s auditioning for a canine version of Die Hard.
The doorbell rang, chaos erupted, and as I rushed to calm Max, I didn’t notice that the pizza box was teetering on the edge of the kitchen counter.
Crash.
In slow motion, I turned to see the entire pizza face-down on the floor. Sauce everywhere. Cheese tragedy. I actually gasped. Max looked at me. I looked at him. And in a rare moment of restraint, he didn’t lunge for it.
Instead, he walked up, sat down beside me, and put one paw gently on my knee.
I swear he was saying, “It’s okay. We’ll get through this.”
Cue the waterworks. Not from the pizza loss, but from the realization that this furry goofball had become my best friend in the loneliest time of my life.
Later that day, I ordered another pizza (for me), and Max got a slice of his favorite [grain-free dog treat] as a reward for being the goodest boy.
And from that day forward, I always make sure the pizza is placed safely in the [non-slip elevated counter tray] — just in case.
Because some dogs chase food.
But Max? He saved my heart.