This is a thank you to one of the animal control officers who came that April afternoon to take my dog away.
Before they drove off, one of the officers extended his hand to me. On his right wrist was a black KIA band, just like the one I wear, a constant reminder of brothers lost and promises kept. In that moment, the uniform fell away. We were simply two men - part of the same brotherhood - who carried the same kind of weight.
He leaned in slightly, his voice low so only I could hear.
“Fight for her,” he said, his eyes meeting mine with a flicker of something raw. “Don’t give up. Get her back.”
There was weariness in his face, the look of a man who had been sent on too many calls that didn’t need to happen. His heart clearly wasn’t in taking her. I could feel it in his grip and hear it in his voice.
Those words stayed with me long after the trucks disappeared down the road. They became a spark I carried through the darkest days that followed. In a moment when it would have been easy to feel completely alone, a stranger in uniform reminded me that I still had a fight worth fighting.
I’ve tried to find out who he was so I could thank him properly, but no one at the department that I have talked to seemed to know. My description didn’t ring any bells.
He may have been Heaven-sent.
If you’re reading this, brother: thank you. You have no idea how much those few lowly spoken words meant to me when I needed them most.