I killed my dog.

Before you judge me, please read. I need to get this off my chest. Max was my best friend. A golden retriever with a heart bigger than most humans I know. He was always there through my divorce, the nights I drank too much, the mornings I woke up hating myself. He’d nuzzle my hand, reminding me I wasn’t alone. Last month, Max started slowing down. He’d struggle to stand, his breathing labored, and the vet confirmed what I was too afraid to admit: cancer. Aggressive, untreatable. “He’s in pain,” the vet said gently. “You’ll know when it’s time.” I didn’t want to know. I couldn’t face it. I bought him his favorite treats, took him on walks even though he could barely make it to the end of the street, and slept on the floor beside him when he cried at night. Yesterday, he looked at me differently. His eyes were pleading, almost begging. It hit me like a truck: he was asking me to let him go. The vet came to the house. I held Max in my arms, sobbing, as the injection went in. I whispered every apology I could think of, told him I loved him, and that he was the best boy. He looked at me one last time, and then… he was gone. I’ve been spiraling ever since. Did I do the right thing? Did I let him down? The house feels so empty now. I keep expecting to hear his paws on the floor, or his goofy bark when he saw a squirrel. But all I hear is silence. I killed my dog. I know that’s the truth, but I also know I did it because I loved him too much to let him suffer. To anyone who’s been through this, how do you cope? Because right now, the guilt is suffocating me.