It was barely past dawn when I wheeled my small carry-on through the crowded terminal of O’Hare International Airport, clutching the handle with one hand while the other gently steadied the soft carrier strapped across my chest. Inside was Max, my golden retriever mix, his warm brown eyes peeking out through the mesh flap as if he, too, understood the stress of navigating an airport.
Max wasn’t just a pet. He was my service dog. After an accident two years ago that left me with a nerve disorder and recurring panic attacks, Max had become my lifeline. He was trained to alert me when an episode was coming, to help me ground myself, and even fetch things when my body refused to cooperate. To most people, he looked like a gentle dog with an easy smile and wagging tail, but to me, he was the difference between independence and being trapped inside my own body.
