After a brutal accident, my dog Max became my lifeline. Loyal, calming, and always by my side, he carried me through recovery when even my girlfriend Camille couldn’t. But when she left me for her ex and tried to take Max, I fought back—with one move she never saw coming.
It started with the accident. One moment I was driving home, humming along to a pop song, the next I woke in a hospital bed, tubes everywhere. Doctors said “compound fracture” and “extensive rehab.” Translation: my life was upside down.
Camille visited daily, filming short clips of me recovering, posting photos. But even then, I felt alone. When I finally made it home, Max was waiting.
We’d adopted him from a shelter—a black and white poodle mix. The second he saw me, he exploded with joy. From then on, he never left my side. When pain hit at night, he pressed against me, warm and steady. When nightmares came, he nudged me awake. Max wasn’t just a dog. He was my anchor.
Camille tried to help at first—soup, pillows, small talk—but her patience wore thin. “Do you really need Max in the bed?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “I can’t sleep with all this dog hair.”
I looked at Max’s head on my chest. “Yeah. I really do.”
Three months later, when I was finally walking again, Camille broke it off. “I need to find myself,” she said. Translation: she was going back to her ex.
Then she looked at Max. “I’ll take him with me.”
I laughed. She’d always complained about him—his smell, his presence, his hair. She never walked him, fed him, or cleaned up after him. Now she wanted him for Instagram clout.
“Max isn’t a prop,” I snapped. “Take your stuff, but Max stays.”
Her face went cold. “We’ll see about that.”
A week later, she lured Max from my yard. My cameras caught her voice: “Come here, baby boy! Let’s go home with Mommy!”
I called the cops. They shrugged: “Civil issue.”
So I drove to her parents’ house. Max barked like mad when he saw me. Camille’s mom slammed the door in my face.
Fine. If she wanted war, I knew where to strike.
We still had a joint savings account. I’d contributed most of the money, but she insisted on half “because that’s what adults do.” Now she’d stolen Max. Time to play dirty.
I drained the account into a crypto wallet. Didn’t spend a dime—just moved it where she couldn’t touch it.
Two days later, Camille texted: “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?! Where’s my money?”
“I invested it,” I replied. “Return Max, or never see that money again.”
Her furious messages flew in—threats, curses, even French insults. But the next day, she showed up at my gate. Sunglasses on, leash in hand. She handed Max over like a library book.
“You’re unhinged,” she hissed. “It’s just a dog.”
I smirked. “Yeah? And you’re just my ex. But I don’t go stealing you back.”
Max nearly knocked me over, tail wagging, whimpering with joy. He was home.
A few days later, I texted her: “Oops. Market crashed. Guess I’m bad with stress-finances.” The apology was fake, but the loss was real.
Petty? Absolutely. Worth it? Ask Max, curled up beside me now, head on my lap. Loyalty and love aren’t things you can steal—they’re earned.
Camille lost hers the moment she treated Max like an Instagram accessory. The money will recover. Trust never will.
