— Anthony, be careful, don’t put pressure on Baikal, — Stas’s voice sounded sharper than he intended.

The three-year-old didn’t respond. He just pressed himself closer to the massive German Shepherd, burying his face in the thick fur. His gray pajama pants with yellow cars had bunched up at the knees, and his tiny hands gripped the dog’s neck like a lifeline.

Baikal didn’t move. Only the tip of his tail thumped rhythmically against the couch — calm, steady, as if he were perfectly at home in the boy’s embrace.

— Same thing again, — Stas sighed, rubbing his temples.

From the kitchen came Ira, her hair in a messy bun, shadows under her eyes from sleepless nights.

— Yelling won’t help, — she said softly. — You’ll only scare him.

— He should be in his bed, Ira. Not clinging to the dog, — Stas snapped.

— Maybe the bed feels empty without Baikal, — she replied. — And without me too.

Stas glanced at his wife but stayed silent.

The living room looked like a battlefield — toys under the table, unwashed dishes, bills and letters on the couch armrest. Ira picked up an envelope, frowned, and put it back.

— Anthony, come to bed, — Stas tried gently.

— No, — the boy mumbled into the dog’s fur. — I’m with Baikal.

Ira sat down beside him, gently touching his shoulder.

— Sweetheart, Dad’s right. Let Baikal lie here, but you sleep in your bed.

— No! Mom said — with Baikal too! — Anthony shouted, clutching tighter.

Baikal didn’t budge. He just closed his eyes, as if agreeing.

— You’ve spoiled him, — Stas said sharply. — He needs to get used to us, not the dog.

— Don’t you dare say that, — Ira snapped. — If it weren’t for Baikal, he wouldn’t sleep at all! Don’t you see how he clings to him, like it’s the last thing he has left of his mother?

The tension thickened. Stas looked away and muttered:

— You’re not his mother, Baikal.

The dog sighed softly and licked the boy’s forehead.

Days and nights passed like this — with arguments, exhaustion, and the unchanging, “I sleep with Baikal.”

— Five more minutes, then to sleep, okay? — Ira coaxed wearily.

— Mom said — protect Baikal, — he answered.

The words hit like a knife. Ira went pale, Stas lowered his head.

— Fine, — he muttered, slamming the bedroom door.

Later, lying in the dark, he whispered almost to himself:

— He chooses the dog, Ira. Not me.

— Maybe because the dog never yells at him, — she replied softly.

Stas had no response.

Two weeks later, a heavy storm hit the city. Wind howled through the vents, rain pounded the windows. In the night, Stas woke to an eerie silence. No rustling, no breathing, no paw steps.

He jumped up and ran to the living room.

Anthony and Baikal lay together — as always. The boy hugged the dog, pressing against his neck. But their chests weren’t moving.

— Anthony?.. — his voice shook.

Silence.

— Ira! — his shout echoed through the house.

His wife ran in, her face pale.

— No… God, no!

Stas shook the boy, then the dog. Nothing.

— Call an ambulance! — he yelled. — He’s not breathing! And the dog either!

Sirens filled the street. Medics rushed into the house.

— Child unconscious! Likely carbon monoxide poisoning! Dog… also affected!

Anthony clung to Baikal, still unconscious, and they had to gently pry his hands off.

— Mask! Quickly! — the medics shouted.

— Pulse! Weak, but present! We’re taking him!

— And the dog?! — Stas cried.

The paramedic just shook his head.

At the hospital, it became clear.

— The boy has severe carbon monoxide poisoning, — the doctor explained. — You had a gas heater by the couch?

Stas nodded, pale.

— There was a leak. They inhaled the gas. It seems the dog lay closer to the source and took the hit himself. Essentially, he shielded the boy.

The words hit like a hammer.

Baikal had died protecting his son.

Later, the doctor quietly said:

— We did everything we could.

Ira covered her face with her hands. Stas went to Baikal, closed his eyes, and whispered:

— He loved you more than I could. And now my son lives because of him.

At dawn, Anthony opened his eyes.

— Where’s Baikal? — he croaked.

Ira sat beside him.

— He saved you, sweetheart. He was the bravest.

— Bring him back… please.

Stas hugged his son, holding back tears.

— He’s in heaven now, Anthony. But he’ll always be with you.

They cried together — for the one who gave his life without hesitation.

Years passed. Anthony grew up, but every drawing he made had a dog in it.

Sometimes, in a storm, he would still look at the corner where the couch once stood and quietly say:

— Baikal wouldn’t be afraid.

Stas kept the old collar in the garage. Sometimes at night he would take it out and whisper:

— Thank you, friend.

They never got another dog. Not because they didn’t want one — but because they knew no one could replace Baikal.

He wasn’t just a pet. He was love, loyalty, and proof that a dog’s heart can be purer than a human’s.

And when someone asked Anthony why he didn’t have a pet, the boy always answered:

—I had the best. He gave me his life. I don’t need another.