I took my beloved Mack for a walk to Waverton Park late one night. As was our ritual, I let him off the lead the moment we hit the grass, letting him bound into the darkness. But the weather turned quickly; a sudden rain began to slick the paths, and we started to make a run for home.
Before I could clip his lead back on, Mack caught a scent or a spark of excitement and bolted toward the road. My heart stopped. A car was approaching, its headlights cutting through the drizzle, just as Mack stepped into its path.
All I could think was, "No, Mack."
Without a second of calculation, I charged into the road. My plan was to scoop him up and carry him to safety, but the wet bitumen had other ideas. My feet went out from under me, and I fell headlong onto the road, sliding directly into the path of the oncoming car. Mack, nimble as ever, skipped out of the way to safety.
The car came to a bone-shaking, screeching halt just inches from where I lay.
The driver was absolutely enraged—and rightfully so. He jumped out of the car, his voice shaking with adrenaline. "Are you crazy!" he screamed. "How can you throw your life away like that for a dog!"
I picked myself up, dripping and bruised, and looked across at Mack. He was standing on the pavement, tail wagging, completely oblivious to the fact that I had just attempted a clumsy martyrdom on his behalf.
In that moment, the driver's logic meant nothing to me. I wasn't thinking about my own safety; I was thinking about how much I loved that dog. I imagined the impossible task of going home to tell Liza, Mack’s co-owner, that he was gone. She was so beyond besotted with him that the news would have been world-ending.
I apologized profusely to the driver, standing there in the rain as he vented his shock. Then, Mack and I turned and walked on into the night. I was wet, sore, and had been thoroughly told off, but as I looked at that dog trotting beside me, I knew I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
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