I focused on the charging dog, calculating angles and impact points.

“Should I take the leash, take Lupin?” The wife asked.


I later learned she thought my plan was to pick up the Husky and hold him safely out of harm’s way. Our daughter was slowly stepping back.

The cannon ball dog was quickly closing the distance. I still had plenty of time to imagine the veterinary office and E.R. explanation and a confrontation with the dog’s owner and the sight of blood on the white fur of my dog’s neck.

The Pit was about ten feet away when the wife took two steps forward and yelled, “NO!” Just once, loud and direct, the command echoed up the sides of the canyon. The Pit skidded to a complete stop, looked up at the wife.

“Go back, go home,” she directed, calmly, confidently.

That dog turned around and trotted up the hill, made the turn at the driveway and disappeared.

“Good,” I said.

“Dad, I think the trail is over there,” said the daughter pointing under a bridge.

“Guess that dog was helping us get on the right path,” I mused.

“Sure,” said the wife.

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