I didn’t even know someone had taken it until my sister called me in tears. Said I was “everywhere.” Said people were calling me a hero. Said the photo of me kneeling beside my K9 partner, Finch, hands folded, eyes closed in the dust outside our Humvee—was “beautiful.”
But no one asked why I was praying.
They just saw the uniform, the sunset, the dog with his head bowed like he knew something holy was happening.
Truth is, I wasn’t praying because I’m some noble soldier full of faith.
I was begging.
Begging God not to take Finch.
We’d just cleared a small village compound when the blast went off. Not close enough to hit us directly, but close enough that Finch wouldn’t stop shaking. His left leg was twisted, bleeding. He whimpered once, and then just went quiet, eyes locked on mine like he needed me to be stronger than I was.
There was no medic for him. Just me and a borrowed roll of gauze, my hands trembling as I wrapped him up and whispered promises I didn’t know how to keep.
I dropped to my knees because I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t even know what I said. Probably something stupid. Maybe something selfish.
And then the photo.
It went viral by the next day. People said it gave them hope. That it reminded them of loyalty, of faith, of sacrifice. I wish I could say I felt proud.
But the only thing I felt was terrified—because no one asked if Finch made it.
