After naptime, I found June curled up with Max—her arms wrapped around his chest, his paw resting gently on her back. But Max’s eyes were wide open, fixed on the empty hallway. I’d seen that look before, on my grandmother’s old dog—like they were seeing something we couldn’t.
That night, Max followed June everywhere, never leaving her side. The next day, he barked fiercely at the front door, though no one was there. When June started having nightmares about a faceless woman in a fire, Max stayed close, guarding her.
Desperate, I reached out to a woman named Lesley who understood these things. She said Max was a “watcher,” seeing what others can’t, and the presence was sad, not evil. After some rituals, June’s nightmares stopped.
Then I found an old letter from Eleanor Palmer, my great-aunt, who lost her daughter in a fire decades ago. The letter spoke of a dog trying to save the girl.
I told June about the girl and how Max had helped her feel safe. June smiled, saying the girl was happy now.
Max had always known—protecting both girls, past and present.
