When Ilya was at home but already too weak to play or even lift his head, Max would curl up on the floor by his crib. He would rest his heavy head on the bottom edge, as if personally protecting the baby from all the troubles of the world.
But when the ambulance arrived that last night, painting the street with red and white lights, Max was not allowed to follow. He chased after it, running as fast as he could down the street until the vehicle turned a corner and disappeared.
Then he came to the hospital and sat by the automatic glass doors for three long days. He waited.
No one could convince him to leave his post. Not the security guards, not the nurses who brought him water. Rain fell, the wind blew, cars came and went, but Max remained. His eyes were fixed on those doors, hoping they would finally open for him.
And finally, they did.
Ilya’s mother, Anna, begged the doctor.
“Please,” she asked in a hoarse voice, “just one last time. He’s waiting for him. He knows.”
Dr. Petrenko, after a long pause, sighed heavily and nodded slowly.
“Alright,” he said. “Let him in.”
Now, in this quiet room, the moment Max had been waiting for had arrived.
Max lifted a large paw and gently placed it on the edge of Ilya’s blanket. His ears twitched, and his dark eyes seemed to warm. He let out a quiet, low whine, so full of love and grief that it broke the heart of everyone in the room.
And then something incredible happened.
The heart monitor, which for hours had been registering a slowing, weakening rhythm, suddenly stabilized. The faint beep became louder, clearer.
A nurse, staring at the screen, whispered in disbelief:
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