🐾 The Last Radio Call — Part 3: “Medals and Memories”
By the next morning, the story had already spread.
Local news vans lined the street like vultures circling a miracle. The Hendersons were out watering their roses, pretending not to stare. A reporter from Channel 5 even knocked on Gerry’s door before 9 a.m., microphone in hand, asking for a statement.
Gerry gave her a polite shake of the head.
“We’re not looking for cameras,” he said. “We’re just trying to breathe.”
She didn’t push.
Rex lay on the living room rug, half-asleep, his breathing slow and labored. Gerry had noticed it during the night—the way the dog’s ribs rose with effort, the stiffness in his front legs. The adrenaline was gone now. What remained was the price.
Twelve years of service.
Twelve years of loyalty.
Twelve years of wear.
Gerry knelt beside him and ran his fingers gently through the shepherd’s fur. “You gave ‘em a hell of a show, partner.”
Rex gave a soft grunt in reply.
Later that afternoon, a black-and-white cruiser pulled up in front of the house. Out stepped Police Chief Melinda Hodge—broad-shouldered, silver-haired, and one of the last people on the force who still remembered when Gerry wore the badge.
She knocked only once.
“I heard,” she said simply.
Gerry stepped aside. “You wanna sit?”
She looked down at Rex, her jaw tight.
Then she knelt.
“Hello, officer,” she whispered, brushing her hand gently along Rex’s ears.
Rex opened one eye, then closed it again.
“He’s tired,” Gerry said. “Real tired.”
“I know.” She stood slowly. “But what he did last night? That wasn’t just instinct. That was duty. That was sacrifice.”
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, worn velvet box.
Gerry blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“It’s unofficial. But hell, after last night, who cares? We don’t have many K9s like him anymore.”
Inside the box was a medal—round, silver, etched with the seal of the department. Above it, a small engraved tag:
“Rex – Service Without End.”
Gerry’s throat tightened.
“I don’t know what to say,” he whispered.
Chief Hodge put a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to say anything. Just let him rest. And bring him by the precinct next week. We’d like to honor him… both of you, really. Maybe give the community a chance to say thanks.”
Gerry nodded, too choked up to speak.
That night, as the sun dipped behind the oaks and fireflies blinked along the fence, Gerry sat out on the porch with Rex beside him, wrapped in a blanket.
“You remember your first bust?” Gerry said, smiling into the warm dusk. “Corner of Ellis and Main. Some punk tried to bolt, and you took him down like a freight train.”
Rex’s tail thumped once.
“We’ve had some damn fine years, haven’t we?”
A pause.
Then softly, “You always knew who the bad guy was. Even when I didn’t.”
The dog didn’t answer.
But Gerry could feel it—in the quiet comfort of that shared silence, in the way Rex leaned slightly against his leg. A presence that didn’t need words.
He looked up at the stars. The same ones he’d patrolled under, back when his radio never stopped buzzing and his boots never stopped moving.
Now it was all quieter. Slower. But something in his chest felt whole again.
Whole, and somehow… ready.
