“He’s probably afraid of heights,” I said, though something in his eyes unsettled me. “Dogs do that.”
It was the simplest explanation I could find. The most rational. The least frightening.
But Ranger looked at me differently then. He really did. As if he was trying to convey something I didn’t want to hear.
Then he barked sharply, loudly, echoing off the ravine walls. Then he turned and lurched toward the path behind us.
He wasn’t just trying to get away.
He was trying to get us out of there.
Time Pressure and a Decision We Later Regretted
“Mark, get the leash,” I said, feeling the stress of the fading light building inside me. “We can’t turn back now. If we take the long way, it’ll be dark by the time we get to the car.”
Mark reached for the leash from Caleb. He was a strong man and a good handler of Ranger. But when he pulled, Ranger did something he’d never done before.
He growled.
Not aggressively. Not furiously. It wasn’t the sound of a dog about to attack. It was the sound of desperation. A deep, trembling warning that vibrated in his chest.
Mark didn’t relent. Ranger then twisted violently, and the metal clasp on his collar broke with a distinct click. The dog broke free of the leash and lurched backward.
He ran about ten meters up the trail, turned, and began barking in panic, pacing back and forth.
“Okay!” Mark spread his hands. “As you wish. He’ll follow us when he sees we’re safe. He hates being left behind.”
“Mark, maybe we should—” Caleb began, looking at the dog.
“It’s okay, Caleb. Just walk in the middle. Don’t look down.”
And so, despite the warning, despite the dog’s behavior, despite the instincts that were screaming somewhere inside me, we took our first steps on the wood.
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