The Last Bull Market

The coaxial cable behind the TV hadn't worked properly since the recession, leaving the screen a grainy mess of static and broken promises. Sarah adjusted it anyway, watching the ticker tape crawl across the bottom of CNBC. Her father's bull—the massive bronze statue that had dominated his trading floor for three decades—had been auctioned off last week. Three million dollars. Enough to cover the margin call, but not enough to save him from himself.

Max, their Golden Retriever, nudged her hand with his wet nose. He was older now, hips stiff, eyes clouding with the same milky haze that had claimed her mother's vision. The dog had been her father's only consistent companion through two divorces, three bankruptcies, and the kind of alcohol-fueled benders that ended in emergency rooms rather than boardrooms.

"He's not coming back, is he?" Sarah's voice sounded foreign to her own ears.

The hospice nurse had left an hour ago. Morphine drip running low. Her father—the man who'd ridden bull markets to fortune and bear markets to ruin—had spent his final days ranting about cable television signals and government conspiracies. The bull that had once symbolized his unstoppable rise had become, in the end, just another heavy thing he couldn't carry.

Max whined, resting his chin on her knee. The dog's loyalty had outlasted every broker, every analyst, every wife. There was something almost insulting about it—that this animal's unconditional love had cost her father nothing, while his humanity had cost him everything.

Outside, a car horn blared. The city was waking up. Markets opening in Tokyo. Another day of bulls and bears, winners and losers. Sarah scratched Max behind the ears, watching the static on the screen reshape itself into possibilities she couldn't quite name.

"Come on, boy," she said, standing up slowly. "Let's go for a walk."

The cable television flickered behind them, another trading day beginning without them.