The world was a symphony of smells – freshly cut grass, Mom's warm apple pie cooling on the windowsill, and most importantly, the comforting musk that was Prescott. My human, my best friend, my everything.

Prescott, with his mop of unruly brown hair and eyes the color of summer skies, was eight when he found me, a scrawny ball of fur lost and shivering under the neighbor's porch. From that moment, we were inseparable. We chased squirrels in the park, built forts out of crumpled blankets, and shared secrets whispered under the covers.

"Max," he'd say, scratching behind my ears, "we'll be best friends forever, won't we?"

"Woof!" I'd reply, licking his face with a sloppy affection that always made him giggle.

Life was a constant adventure with Prescott. We explored the woods behind our house, his small hand clutching my fur as we navigated fallen logs and trickling streams. I was his protector, his confidante, and his furry shadow.

One crisp autumn afternoon, however, the symphony began to falter. A frantic energy replaced Prescott's usual laughter. Men in shiny suits filled the house, their voices buzzing with urgency. My human, usually full of boundless energy, seemed to shrink under their gaze.

"Max," Prescott whispered, his voice tight. He knelt and clipped my favorite red collar off my neck. It was the one with a silver tag engraved with "Max." Tears welled in his eyes, shimmering like dewdrops on grass.

"I promise, boy," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion, "I'll be back for you. Soon."

But the world outside the window turned an angry red that night. A deafening roar filled the air, shaking the very foundation of our home. Prescott never returned.

The men in suits left the next morning, taking a piece of my heart with them. I waited by the window for days, my whines echoing unanswered in the empty house. Hunger gnawed at my belly, but the ache in my heart was far worse.

One day, a strange scent filled the air – metallic and cold. Fear pricked at my fur. Following the trail, I found myself on a vast field, a monstrous metal bird pointed towards the blood-red sky. Prescott's scent, faint but unmistakable, clung to its base.

He was gone. My human, my best friend, had left me behind to chase a dream in the stars.

Grief gnawed at me for weeks, turning my brown fur a dull gray. The playful pup named Max was gone, replaced by a hardened shell. I wandered the streets, scavenging for scraps, the name Prescott a constant echo in the empty chambers of my heart.

Then, one day, a gruff voice startled me from a dumpster dive. It was a Rottweiler, his scarred face etched with a similar pain.

"You look lost, kid," he rumbled.

I looked up, my tail tucked between my legs, the red collar heavy in my memory.

"Lost everything," I mumbled, the word "everything" tasting bitter on my tongue.

The Rottweiler studied me for a moment, then a flicker of understanding crossed his eyes.

"Lost your name, too, haven't you?" he said gently.

I nodded, a lump forming in my throat.

He nudged me with his broad chest. "Come on, kid. You need a new name, a new start. Call yourself Rex. A name strong enough to carry you through anything."

And so, Rex I became, a name that held the weight of loss and the embers of hope. The playful pup was gone, but in his place stood a survivor, a leader who would one day guide others who, like me, had been left behind. The stars might have taken Prescott, but they wouldn't take our future. We, the dogs, would claim our own destiny, even if it meant reaching for the stars ourselves.