🐾 The Last Radio Call — Part 4: “The Honor Ride”
The next week moved slowly, like time itself was pausing out of respect.
Each morning, Gerry brewed a fresh pot of black coffee and sat beside Rex on the porch, the leash never far from reach. Rex wasn’t eating much anymore. The vet had warned about that—”End-stage fatigue,” she’d called it. His joints were swollen. His breaths came shallow. But he still wagged his tail when Gerry talked to him.
Still watched the world with a glimmer of alertness.
Still tried to stand when the mail truck arrived.
Gerry saw it all, and it tore at him in ways he hadn’t felt since the funeral for his wife.
“This isn’t just a dog,” he’d once told the rookie at roll call, years ago. “This is my partner. He’d take a bullet before I could draw my sidearm. And you better believe I’d do the same for him.”
Now, that partner was dying.
And yet—there was still one thing left to do.
The following Saturday was warm and bright, with a slow southern breeze blowing through the Chattanooga trees. At exactly 10 a.m., a patrol cruiser pulled into Gerry’s driveway. Two officers stepped out—Arlo and Shelton again, this time in full dress blues.
Behind them, a long black SUV idled, polished to a mirror shine.
The door opened.
“Mr. McCready,” Shelton said, his voice gentler than usual, “we’re ready when you are.”
Gerry nodded, his hands trembling slightly as he clipped Rex’s leash for the last time.
The old shepherd stood with effort, but proudly, his ears pricked and chest out like he was back on duty.
“I’ll ride with him,” Gerry said. “He doesn’t go alone.”
“No, sir,” Arlo replied. “He never has.”
The SUV was for them. A soft blanket covered the seat, and a folded American flag lay across the backrest.
Neighbors lined the sidewalks as the small convoy pulled away. No one cheered. No one clapped. They just stood quietly—some with hats over their hearts, others with tears in their eyes—as the car carrying Gerry and Rex drove past.
Lisa Green was among them, her wrist still bandaged. She gave a soft wave, mouthing, Thank you.
The ride to the precinct took less than fifteen minutes. But for Gerry, it felt like years passing in slow motion.
As they turned onto the department’s front drive, Gerry saw the crowd—uniforms, families, city council members, even kids with little paper signs that said “Thank You, Rex!” in messy crayon.
A podium stood at the steps. And above it, the American flag rippled in the breeze.
Rex didn’t bark. He didn’t strain on the leash. He just looked out the window and let the sunlight warm his face.
Gerry helped him out, one hand under his chest, the other bracing his back legs.
The applause started soft.
Then grew.
A rolling wave of respect—not for a man or a badge, but for a dog who had given everything he had.
Gerry led Rex up the steps. The chief met them halfway, saluting.
“This,” she said into the microphone, “is Officer Rex. Badge number K9-47. Twelve years of service. Thirty-two arrests. Eight missing persons recovered. Two lives saved.”
She turned toward Gerry. “And the man who trained him, trusted him, and walked every mile by his side—Officer Gerald McCready.”
The crowd erupted.
But Gerry didn’t hear much of it.
He was kneeling beside Rex, whispering into his ear.
“You made it, buddy. You made it to the last call.”
Rex licked his cheek, then rested his head on Gerry’s knee.
The ceremony ended with a final radio call—broadcasted on the department’s channel, loud enough for the crowd to hear.
“This is the final call for K9 Officer Rex, badge K9-47. After twelve years of devoted service, he has completed his tour of duty. He is now retired with honor. May he rest easy. We’ve got it from here.”
A silence fell over the crowd like a prayer.
Gerry closed his eyes.
Rex’s tail thumped once against the floor.
